How the man had helped him to his feet and said, “I’m Alexander. If you like, you can call me Ward.”
Kane and Fletcher had spent the rest of the previous evening trying to learn where precisely the cargo from the docks had been moved. The ship from Ireland had definitely been empty—once the coast was clear, they’d peered through the portholes to confirm the boy’s story—which meant the Waterhouse exhibit must have been taken to the Crystal Palace directly, just as Kane had feared.
Stealing the necklace would be complicated. The palace would be packed with patrons, and while Kane planned to use that to their advantage, the reality was that the building was made ofglass. What they needed, he reasoned—as he racked his brain for the plan he’d told Fletcher he already had—was a way to hide from view, if only for a few moments. A way to grab the necklace and make a quick escape. A mere diversion wouldn’t be good enough—not with so many pairs of eyes present. They needed a distraction nobody would recognize as such.
Once, Kane knew, Ward had commissioned a peculiar item from a dark market vendor. It was an explosive of sorts, though it left no damage in its wake. Rather, it had provided a brief cover of opaque smoke just long enough to commit whatever unsavory action Ward had intended it for. Or, at least, so Kane had heard. He hadn’t actuallybeen there to see its effect, but if Ward still possessed such a thing, it could make Kane’s impossible task far less daunting.
Problem was, he didn’t expect the kingpin to be in a good mood today. He knew Ward would inquire after the money he’d been tasked to retrieve, so he figured it was best to pass information along as soon as possible.The place was abandoned, Kane would say, hoping to hell it would be true when Ward inevitably sent someone to confirm the claim.They must have known I was coming.
How strange it was, to be both feared and afraid.
Kane slunk through the slum like a skittish phantom, heading away from the river. It was obvious the moment he entered the area inhabited by the wealthy: People rushed through the gas lamp–lined streets in spotless frock coats and silken dresses, and the sound of stagecoach wheels rattled against the inside of Kane’s skull. Awnings were drawn out over shop fronts, and the architecture shifted to something grander, less uniform. Through the soot-stained windows, he could see all manner of items for sale. There were emporiums of dresses stitched from the finest imported fabrics. There were gleaming swords and pistols, burnished gold and silver vessels, and shelves chock-full of everything from confectioners’ supplies to remedies that promised to cure every imaginable ailment.
At the side of the road, a ruddy-faced man selling sheep’s feet cursed at a barefoot beggar, spittle flying. The beggar ducked his head and disappeared into the bustling crowd, only to be spat back out again when another stagecoach came clacking by. This part of London, Kane thought, was where wealth collided with extreme poverty. It had never been so evident as of late, when an unmistakable air of excitement lay thick over every crowd as the Exhibition neared. The city had always done its best to force the poor to the outskirts, but scarcely had it been quite so obvious. For an event spearheaded bythe prince consort—who was said to be socially conscious—it certainly struck Kane as an odd use of public funds.
He ducked past a group of men with clay pipes between their teeth and rounded the corner. It was quieter down the side street, with rows of magnificent multilevel houses set into the same block. Kane stopped outside a particularly ornate front door, shoving his way through the cast-iron gate enclosing the property. A row of many-paned windows faced him, shrouded by heavy velvet curtains, and he knew as he mounted the tapering steps that he was being watched.
Sure enough, the door opened before he had a chance to knock. This wasn’t a surprise. Regardless of where the kingpin was staying, the alchemological device bracketed to the doorframe detected any movement by the entrance. The high-pitched sound it emitted was soft but earsplittingly metallic, and Kane cringed as a beady-eyed man appeared on the threshold, his fingers occupied with resetting the device.
“Tom,” Kane said when it was blessedly silent once more.
“Durante.” The ginger-haired man flashed a grin. He seemed to stand a little taller, as if expecting Kane to berate him for slouching. That was the way people were around Kane; they behaved as though they thought Ward’s power extended to him. In a way, he supposed, it did. But it didn’t mean Ward treated him any better.
Tom moved aside to grant Kane entry. The entryway was magnificent: The ceilings vaulted high above their heads, and a gleaming staircase curved to the second floor. The walls were heavily papered with some dark, expensive-looking pattern, and an enormous chandelier hung from the ceiling on a chain, crystal pieces tinkling softly in the wind before the door slammed shut. In the adjacent parlor, a small group of men were playing cards, their drunken guffaws carrying through the house.
Overall, it didn’t look like a place Ward would live. It was too… blandly pleasant. Kane wondered how long he would stay here.
“What brings you by, Durante?” Tom asked. Tension edged his voice. It annoyed Kane, who had enough tension of his own.
“Need to speak with Ward,” he grunted, wondering what other reason Tom thought there could possibly be for his presence here. “Is he in?”
“Aye, should be in his office. He expecting you?”
Kane narrowed his eyes. “Does it matter?”
“No.” The man was quick to backtrack. “Just curious.”
Damn it all. Kane was aching for a fight with someone who deserved it.
Tom led Kane toward the stairs, their footsteps echoing in the enormous space. This house wasn’t quite as nice as the last one, but it was certainly nicer than the one before. Ward had a number of places in the city and moved around as he saw fit. Kane supposed that even with a handful of coppers in your pocket, being the dark market’s kingpin wasn’t exactly the safest occupation.
They walked almost the entire length of the second-story mezzanine before Tom jerked his finger in the direction of a door. Kane nodded to show he understood, his tongue dry against the roof of his mouth. He didn’t thank Tom but waved the man away with an impatient flick of his wrist.
Tom thumped back down the stairs, but still Kane didn’t open the door. He took a breath. Stilled his heart. He hadn’t seen Ward in more than a week, and it felt simultaneously like an eternity and no time at all.
He turned the brass handle.
The windowless room he entered was deceivingly large, illuminated by an odorous gas lamp and boasting a mahogany cabinetof curiosities. Alchemological concoctions, tiny skulls, and insects pinned to a board were displayed behind the glass, but Kane hardly spared any of it a glance. He was looking at the man sitting behind the desk in the center of the space. A man with rich brown hair and golden eyes like a fox.
Alexander Ward.
Despite the aura of power that surrounded him, he wasn’t an imposing man. Slim, late thirties, and too handsome to be allowed, Ward looked like someone who ought to be obeyed. His brows were a few shades darker than his slick hair, the eyes beneath them stern and long lashed. He had a cruel mouth that demanded trust and adoration whenever it deigned to smile. Kane was all too familiar with that smile. It had the ability to turn his stomach and was always accompanied by either a blessing or a curse.
“Kane. My boy.” Ward’s voice was smooth and breathy as he tasted the sound of Kane’s name on his tongue. He made the endearment that followed it sound dangerous. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
Kane felt his face twist and fought to reset it. “Well, here I am.”
Ward held out a hand, palm up, indicating the chair facing him. “Sit.”
