Winding down streets she’d never needed to travel on foot, Isabelle squeezed between chatting women carrying baskets from the market and past shopkeepers sweeping the steps of their open doors. The thudding of a cart’s wheels filled the air, along with the cries from merchants and the calls from the docks.
Quickening her strides, as she didn’t have time to gawk and dawdle, she worked to match the frenetic pace of the thoroughfare named for its locale, alive with commerce. Not like Bond Street, where well-heeled gentiles lingered and socialized while gazing at pretty trinkets, avoiding her and her grandmother’s eye. No, Aldgate was different. Even the breeze was filled with alacrity, with aim, with purpose.
She stepped through the throng, crossing toward the Great Synagogue with its plethora of arches when—whoosh—the clatter of horse hooves heralded a wagon from seemingly nowhere, sailing over the cobblestones as onlookers scrambled to get out of its path. Isabelle scurried back, only for the heel of her slipper to catch on the curb. She flailed and fell backward, curling her arms to her chest even as she braced for impact.
And then . . . nothing.
Well, not nothing. Large hands gripped her elbows, crushing her against a firm chest. Panting, she spun around and stared into the face of the man she’d come looking for, still clasped in his arms. No need to scour the synagogue now. His dark waves flopped over his brow.
“What are you doing here?” The custodian stared at her, his lips a thin, rather disapproving line.
Not that she’d expected a warm reception, but still, after the way they’d left things, one would’ve thought he’d give her at least a smile. Apparently not. Isabelle straightened her skirt. She’d sought his attention, so it was time to make the best of it, despite her less than graceful entrance. “I came to see you.”
“I told you the other day, I’m not the kind of man you should seek out.” Releasing her, he turned and started back to the synagogue, muttering curses.
Not an invitation, but not exactly a send-off—good enough for her. Lifting her skirts, Isabelle picked her way through the street, avoiding the muck and mud, as he rounded the side of the building. Unlatching a door, he ducked through.
“We are steps away from two synagogues and a church. No one would hurt me here.” Fast as she could, she caught the door and maneuvered inside before he could shut her out. “At least not intentionally.” She swallowed as the hinges creaked and a bolt clicked, plunging them both into darkness.
“You have a lot more faith in strangers than you should.” She heard his garments rustling, then the snick of flint. The light of the candle bobbed as she took in the scant furnishings of the room—a table, a chair, and a narrow desk with a basin on it. Not even a mirror or a window. In the far corner a stack of discarded papers and books sat beside dingy linens draping a narrow wooden frame that could be called a bed, if one was charitable.
Well, she needn’t worry about her future anymore. It was going to be rather short, as her grandmother would surely murder her if her presence here was discovered.
Ignoring the horror on her face, he continued, “Or you have too much faith in your own power.” He landed on the bed with a rather graceful flop for someone his height. Reclining against the wall, he folded his hands behind his head. “Did it ever occur to you that wealth is a magnet for thieves as well as obsequiousness?”
Isabelle blinked at him. Apparently the alleged “bit player” was taking a stab at villainy. A little late for believability, though considering her intended purpose for him, practicing his acting skills would serve him well.
Besides, he wasn’t half bad. Not exactly intimidating, but more confident. Dashing, even. All right, not quite dashing, but at least slightly naughty. She ignored the thrill that sent through her, working to focus on her new plan and its accomplishment.
“It’s the middle of the day.” She turned up her nose in her most imperious manner before pulling out her dagger from the sheath buried in her skirts. It was the first weapon her father and Pena—well, mostly Pena—had trained her on and the weapon with which she was most comfortable. “I was perfectly safe.”
He gave it a rather unimpressed glance before she tucked it away.
“Were you?” He stretched further, cocking his head, a smirk forming on his full lips. “A half-decent cutpurse doesn’t need darkness and knows how to avoid knives.”
“Good thing I don’t carry a purse.” She plucked a pouch of coins from the hidden pocket inside her sleeve and held it aloft, reveling in the surprise that spread over his features.Take that, Mr. Villain.Or in his case, Mr. Harmless. Sneaking into a few gentile businesses for warmth did not exactly make one a true wolf lurking in the night, or whatever he was playing at now. At least according to her research.
She had visited the community midwife Dorothea Adler and her daughter Rebecca that morning to great success. They were her sole connections to the Ashkenazi side of the community: Mrs. Adler had helped care for Isabelle as an infant after her mother’s death, and Rebecca had grown from childhood companion to her closest female confidant. Though Rebecca’s opinion of Mr. Aaron Ellenberg had been less than flattering.He’s a complete draikopt, she’d scoffed before asking what in the world Isabelle could want with him.
When Isabelle had asked her to explain, stumbling only slightly over the Yiddish descriptor, Rebecca had chronicled Aaron as neither an earner nor a learner, nor clever enough to survive without the community’s largesse. And then proceeded to tell her quite the tale of the man’s background.
The man who still, apparently, thought he could fool her, of all people.
“A good confidence man doesn’t require darkness either.” He slid off the bed with a catlike ease and brushed past her. “A good con can sweet-talk you into an alley or cellar with just a few words, make you drop your guard. After which, he’ll take everything you have.” Rooting around the basin, he leaned over, his shirt straining over the defined muscles of his back. Did he ever wear a jacket?
Isabelle almost suggested he wear a touch more garments—she was his guest, invited or not—but he wasn’t finished.
“And you’ll give it to him. More, you’ll thank him, and he’ll be long gone before you even realize what occurred.” He turned back around and tossed a small bag—herbag—in her direction, causing her to scramble lest it hit the floor.
“That seems very unlikely.” She tucked the small sack back inside her sleeve as she straightened once more, flushing a little when he dipped his head in approval. “I can’t imagine giving all my coin to a stranger.” She sniffed. She was sheltered but not naïve.
“No?” He folded his long arms, biceps flexing. How laborious was a custodian’s job? “How about if they were injured?”
“Injured?”
He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Bleeding after being punched in the nose, saving a beggar from a ruffian, but instead of thanking the rotter, the woman disappears to leave him in the street.” He sidestepped her so he could come from behind and lean right against her ear.
Likely yet another attempt to make her believe him a villain. Though . . . perhaps he was more adept an actor than she’d previously thought. Her skin prickled at his nearness, his warmth sending tingles up and down her body and making her want to do a million ridiculous things, like arch her back and rub against him.
