“She is like a sister…or she is a sister to you?”
At the mild inquiry, heat crawled up the back of Ben’s neck. Of course he thought of Livy as a sister; if he didn’t, he was a damned pervert. A lecher. He had known her since she was a child, for God’s sake. Through the years, she had turned to him as a trusted adult, and God knew she’d been the only one to do so. He had tried his best to guide her through painful formative experiences and to cheer her on during her triumphs.
In return, she had been his stalwart little friend. The one person in his life who always thought the best of him. Who gave him hope that even a bastard like him had something worthy left to give.
He told himself that the kiss had happened because he’d been taken off guard. By Livy’s new buxom figure and his own neglected needs. He hadn’t tupped a woman in weeks.
“I would never hurt Livy,” he said flatly. “She is not for me.”
“You rejected her advances?”
“Of course I did. What kind of man do you take me for? No—don’t answer.” Ben dragged a hand through his hair. “You know me too well for your reply to be flattering.”
“I am not in the business of flattering. I seek the truth.” Chen sipped his tea. “As should you.”
“The truth is that kiss should have never happened. It was my fault that it did. Now I’ve hurt Livy and that…”Infuriates me. Makes me want to punch a wall—better yet, myself. Why am I cursed to hurt anyone who comes near me?“That is unacceptable.”
“What do you intend to do about it?”
What could he do? “I’ll stay away from her, I suppose.”
The idea of avoiding Livy did not sit well with Ben. In the past few months, he had embarked on a secret mission with Chen. The worthwhile cause had taken much of his time, and he’d seen less of his plucky little queen. He’d missed her. Missed bantering with her, listening to her amusing anecdotes, or even just sitting with her in companionable silence. She was the dancing flame in the gloom of his existence.
“It is for the best,” Chen said. “You have other matters that require your concentration.”
The master’s somber tone indicated a shift in the conversation, one that Ben welcomed.
“Do you have news?” Ben asked. “Concerning the body we found in the alleyway?”
Months ago, Chen had spearheaded an ambitious project to keep the streets around the clinic free of opium. He’d done so to reduce temptation to his recovering patients. As the drug was readily available from druggists, tobacconists, and the like, the task had not been easy. Nevertheless, Chen had convinced local merchants that it was in the interest of neighborhood safety to limit sales of the drug.
This victory, unfortunately, had brought other problems. With his efforts to limit opium’s damaging effects, Chen had made no friends in the dark underbelly of the trade. Men who profited from the drug—including opium den owners, moneylenders, thieves, and other cutthroats—viewed Chen as a threat. The healer’s clinic had been vandalized on several occasions, the front step littered with slaughtered rats.
Authorities showed no interest in what they considered fighting among underclass factions. Nor did they take the concerns of a “Chinaman” seriously. Consequently, Chen had taken matters into his own hands. For he was a master of both healing and fighting; the physical exercises he taught his students could be used as powerful tools for defending oneself and defeating opponents.
Chen had set up a night watch composed of volunteers. The initial aim of protecting the clinic and its patients had expanded to include the neighborhood at large. Ben had joined the group, wanting to give back. For the past few months, he’d spent three to four evenings a week keeping watch over the streets; like the other guards, he wore a mask to safeguard his identity.
The work had given him an unexpected sense of purpose. For the first time in his life, he was channeling his energy toward something good. While redemption was too much to hope for, at least he was atoning for some of his sins. He and his fellow guards had protected their territory with success…with two notable exceptions.
A month ago, Ben had come upon Baron Winford, an acquaintance. Since many gentlemen ventured into Whitechapel to sample its sordid pleasures, encountering the young rake had not been surprising. What had shocked Ben had been Winford’s state: the man had been viciously out of control. Winford had seized an innocent bystander, a hapless chestnut hawker, strangling the man half to death. When Ben had intervened, Winford had turned onhimwith eyes crazed and blinded by animal rage.
It had taken Ben and another guard to subdue Winford. Suddenly, the baron had begun to convulse, falling to the ground. His eyes had rolled back in their sockets, saliva frothing, twin trails of blood dripping from his nostrils. Chen had been unable to save Winford, concluding that the man must have been afflicted with some rare illness.
Then, five days ago, another toff had died in the same fashion.
Ben had found this second man attacking a prostitute, the dilated pupils and raging expression eerily familiar. He’d just hauled the man off the woman when the bastard’s knees buckled, his body shaking with paroxysms as he hit the ground.
This time, Chen had managed to revive the man. Searching through the fellow’s pockets, Ben had found a small snuffbox. Made of glazed crimson ceramic, the distinctive round container was trimmed and hinged with bronze. The letters “D” and “B” were painted in gilt on the lid…and it was identical to the one Ben had found on Winford. Inside the box were the same white powdery dregs.
“Is this what made you ill?” Ben had demanded.
The man had stared up at him with glassy eyes. “I had a wager with the Devil…”
“Where did you get this drug?” Chen had asked.
“All gone. But the Devil will be at London’s fanciest masquerade—”
The man’s singsong voice had dissolved into a choking fit. Convulsions seized him, blood leaking from his nose. Despite Chen’s best efforts, the fellow had soon lain lifeless in the dirt.
