In Bed with the Earl Page 2

Malcom stopped; his gaze zeroed in on a brick that jutted out, the difference between it and the others so slight it might have been an optical illusion. And yet there were no illusions in these parts. Just harsh realities.

  Unsheathing the crude dagger he’d found in another tunnel when he’d first begun as a tosher, he did a sweep of the darkened space and then started forward, lifting his legs and lengthening his strides to minimize the echo left by his splash.

  Sticking the weapon between his teeth, Malcom pressed his back against the wall so he could search for the foes who lurked everywhere.

  Because for all the uncertainty that met a man in East London daily, there was only one fact which held true: there was always someone waiting in the hopes of usurping from a person his power.

  Malcom always remained one step ahead of those trying to take his territory. It was why he was here even now.

  Reaching behind him, his fingers immediately found the brick jutting out no more than a quarter of an inch. When he was a boy, digging in these spots had proven a simple, effortless task.

  The brick immediately slipped into his hand. Setting it aside, Malcom probed the surrounding stones. He immediately loosed four bricks until a two-foot-wide opening gaped in the sewer wall. Angling sideways so he could both maintain a watch on the tunnels and assess that opening, Malcom stretched a hand inside . . . and immediately found it.

  His fingers collided with a familiar, heavily patched burlap sack. Malcom yanked it out and fished around.

  Empty.

  The bloody bastard.

  Swallowing a curse, Malcom pushed the bricks back in, and shoving his hat back into place, he rested a shoulder against the wall.

  And waited. Waited with anticipation singing in his veins until he heard sloppy footfalls draw closer.

  The figure, several inches smaller and two stones heavier, came crashing through the opening of the tunnel and then stopped. His gaze landed on Malcom North, and a burlap sack slipped from the other man’s fingers. It fell with a noisy splash and then disappeared under the grimy water. “North?” the man croaked.

  “Alders,” Malcom called out, almost pleasantly. Cheerful, even. So jaunty that one who didn’t know him might have taken it for a pleasant greeting.

  “W-wasn’t expecting you.”

  No, he hadn’t been. Fury whipped through Malcom, but he’d become a master of reining in his emotions.

  “N-not what it l-looks loike, N-North,” the man stammered.

  Malcom took a perverse glee in the way the trembling bastard’s eyes bulged as they landed on the weapon he held. “Oh.” He stretched that syllable out slowly, layering it with a silken steel warning. “And how is that?” He dusted the tip of the blade back and forth over his callused palm.

  Even with the dark set to the tunnels, Malcom caught—and relished—the paling of the other man’s skin. “W-wasn’t . . . w-wasn’t . . .” Alders’s voice emerged garbled as he choked on that guttural Cockney, unable to bring forth the lie he no doubt sought. “These tunnels, th-they’ve been empty. Fair game, they w—”

  Malcom stopped that deliberate glide of his dagger upon his palm. He took a slow step forward.

  Whimpering, the other man hunched, covering his head protectively.

  “Oh, come, Alders,” Malcom murmured, continuing his path toward the quaking man. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Alders peeked out from between his arms. Fear spilled from his bloodshot eyes. “Y-ya ain’t?”

  “It is not as though you are stealing from someone you shouldn’t be . . . You know the rules of this place.” Every tosher grew up with them ingrained in his soul.

  “Don’t t-touch another man’s t-tunnels,” Alders stammered.

  Aye, they all knew the rules. Except all rules were forgotten when toshers grew desperate and started to poach the lesser-used areas—territories belonging to older, less adroit toshers.

  “Does the name Fowler mean anything to you?” Malcom murmured.

  If it was possible, the bastard’s skin paled all the more at the mention of one of the ancient toshers who searched these sewers.

  “Ah, I see that it does. You don’t happen to know anything about the latest men who’ve come after him, do you?” Malcom dangled the question as a threat and a lure.

  The man trembled with a force that had the water slapping around his sizable legs.

  Deliberately drawing on the moment, and stretching the man’s terror along with it, Malcom scoffed. “You wouldn’t ever do anything of the sort . . . unless perhaps you wanted to face me?”

  The blubbering, pathetic mess of a man looked at Malcom and frantically shook his head, knocking loose his wool cap and exposing his shiny, bald pate. “I wouldn’t—”

  “Because,” Malcom interrupted, “the only stupider, more dangerous thing a man could do than lie to me would be to come after that which isn’t theirs.”

  Alders immediately clamped his fleshy lips tight. A damp splotch marred the front of his wool trousers.

  Malcom glanced pointedly at the stain. “Ah, well, that is telling.”

  “I—I was s-sure these tunnels were free. Fowler is old—”

  “Tsk. Tsk.” Malcom lifted his dagger blade up. “Wrong answer.”

  Alders blubbered; tears spilled down his cheeks.

  Where they lived, there was every danger in showing weakness. Exposing oneself in any way saw a person with their neck sliced, and a blade in their belly for emphasis. “Another wrong answer.” He closed the remaining distance, and Alders scrambled to escape. Angling his stick, Malcom caught the other man’s left foot and sent him toppling into the running water.

  “Please,” Alders cried, shielding his head once more. “P-please.”

  Blade in hand, Malcom leaned down, relishing in the way the attempted usurper shrank from him. “The rest of it, Alders.”

  Alders slowly let his arms down and glanced at Malcom with befuddlement stamped in his fleshy features.

  “Surely,” Malcom exclaimed, dropping his palms on his waist as he placed himself so that he was deliberately towering over Alders, who had to strain his neck back to meet Malcom’s gaze. “Surely you don’t think I’m going to turn the other cheek while you steal things that aren’t yours?”

  “I . . . I . . .” Tears filled Alders’s eyes, and he hugged his arms around his knees and rocked. “Please. Please, don’t.”

  Using the tip of his dagger, Malcom flipped open the front of the man’s jacket. As one, his and Alders’s eyes went to the pair of watches dangling from two clever linings sewn into the article. Malcom slipped his blade into the thread, instantly severing it. With his spare hand, he caught the gleaming gold piece and stuffed it inside his jacket. Keeping his blade aloft, he motioned to the silver piece. “Now the other.”

  The directive hadn’t even left him before Alders was scrambling to relieve himself of the damning item.

  The findings, however, didn’t belong to this man, but another. “Now the bag.” Malcom turned those three words into an order. When Alders remained shaking in his spot, he leaned down and whispered, “Now.”

  Squeaking, the burly man scrambled around Malcom, crawling on his knees through the water. “I’ve got i-it. Somewhere,” he cried, talking to himself as he searched. A moment later, he surged upright, whipping the bag from the water, sending drops flying. “’ere it is.”

  Malcom peered quickly inside the sack. Even in the dark tunnels, the familiar spoils one could always expect to find gleamed back: watch fobs, miscellaneous gemstones that had come loose from whatever settings they’d once adorned. Grime-covered sovereigns. A veritable treasure existed underground, fair game for the taking, and one was able to sell them without a penalty of thievery.

  “Now . . . What. Are. The. Rules?” Malcom asked, flinging the bag over his shoulder.

  “Don’ttakewhat’snotmine,” the man said in a rush, his words rolling together and barely intelligible.

  “From what?” Pointing his knife to h
is ear, Malcom shook his head. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “These tunnels—”

  “Sewers,” Malcom corrected. “Let us not make them more than they are,” he taunted.

  After contemplating Alders for a long moment, with his dagger he motioned the man forward. “Come, come.”

  Alders hesitated; tears sprang to his eyes once more, and with all the joy of a man having been summoned for his walk to the gallows, he joined Malcom.

  “What else, Alders?” he asked coolly.

  “I’m so sorry,” the older man said through tears.

  “And you won’t do it again, now, will you?”

  “No!” Alders cried. “N-never. My girl. She be the one who thought . . . said—”

  Malcom lifted a single finger, instantly silencing the man. “In these sewers, my word is law. Are we clear?” When the other man hesitated, he stuck his face close and whispered, “Are we clear?”

  The old tosher gave another shaky nod.

  Malcom grinned. “Off with you, then,” he said with his earlier false cheer.

  Alders hesitated, as if he recognized a trap and had to pick his way out of it. Then he took off racing, splashing noisily through the water, the echo of his footfalls growing increasingly distant and then fading entirely.

  The old tosher forgotten, Malcom flung his things over his shoulder, grabbed his pole, and followed a different tunnel away, this one narrower.

  Darker.

  The dark.

  And there it was . . . Despite his infallibility over the years, that child’s weakness mocked him. Attempted to drive back logic and replace it with only fear.

  Malcom kept his gaze forward and forced himself not to look sideways and note the cramped walls, walls that were closing in around him.

  Refusing to give in to that irrational fear, he hummed a song in near silence.

  Roome for a lusty lively Lad,

  dery dery downe, That will shew himselfe blyth be he ne’re so sad,

  dery dery downe . . .

  The corridor widened, and some of the tension eased from his frame. Malcom strode quickly forward and didn’t stop until he reached the familiar grate. Setting his belongings down, he pulled himself up and scoured the space through the slat in the grate. Waiting. Waiting. His ears attuned to every slightest sound—the distant drunken revelry, the rattle of a lone carriage.

  He pushed the covering off and shoved it aside. Dropping once more to the ground, he tossed his stick out first. Clamping his knife between his teeth once more, he grabbed the brown bag, shoved it through the opening, and then climbed out fast behind it.

  The moment his feet found purchase on the East London cobblestones, a faint click sounded just behind him. “Ya’ve gotten careless in your old age,” the low, rough voice containing a trace of Cockney taunted. His palms up, Malcom inched slowly around and then, with a swift move, swept his leg out, capturing the other, broader figure, taking his feet out from under him.

  Cursing, the man went down hard. His pistol clattered just once before Malcom had it in hand and turned on the man knocked clean on his arse. “And you’ve gotten sloppy in yours, Giles.”

  Dark eyes glared up at him, and then a reluctant grin curved those scarred lips. “Bloody hell, Malcom,” he cursed, and yet, there was a thread of admiration as Malcom stretched a palm out.

  With his only hand, the other man, Malcom’s associate, took the offering and made to wrench him forward.

  Anticipating that movement, Malcom compensated, angling his weight back, and then drove Giles back onto the ground.

  “Oh, fuck yourself,” Giles muttered, and this time, a scowl replaced his earlier smile as he ignored Malcom’s hand and jumped up with an impressive agility for a man of his powerful size. “Damned smug, you’ve always—” The other man’s words cut off as his gaze went to the bag Malcom hefted over his shoulder. Giles whistled slowly. “You caught him.”

  “Aye.”

  “He’s had his sights set on these tunnels since Fowler began to slow,” Giles said, speaking of the old tosher who’d trained Malcom years earlier.

  Ever since, Malcom had been defending his own territories—and his livelihood—from potential usurpers such as Alders . . . people who’d try to take from him. If a tosher didn’t keep those people out, if he didn’t take back what had been stolen, one lost one’s operation and people starved because of it.

  “Did you take care of him?” Giles asked as they fell into step, as casual asking that question as if he’d asked whether Malcom had invited his nemesis for an ale at a tavern.

  “I handled him.”

  “Someone’s looking for you.”

  So that’s why Giles had searched him out.

  It wasn’t uncommon for a man to be hunted in St. Giles. This, however, had been eerily different. A persistence that didn’t fit with constables looking to cart a guttersnipe to Newgate to ease the worries of some fancy toff. Someone had begun asking the other toshers and street waifs who hung ’round these parts about Malcom. As such, Malcom had stayed low, keeping to the shadows even when he embarked on his work.

  “Fowler sent me to bring you back immediately.” That briefly gave Malcom pause. “He said there’s a fancy-talking blighter who’s come ’round.”

  Malcom’s place was a lair, built amongst the rot, an unsuspecting kingdom hidden by a shattered facade and dirtied windows. The key, not only to survival but also to thriving in these places, was remaining hidden. And now, someone had found him. Through his frustrated fury he managed a single word: “Who?”

  “The man’s a detective.” Giles gave him a look. “Connor Steele.”

  “Connor Steele.” Malcom flashed a contemptuous sneer. That illustrious detective known by all. One of the few who’d escaped, Steele had been an impoverished street bastard who’d climbed out and built a respected name for himself—by betraying the men he’d run amongst. Respect in the streets, however, and respect on the side of the law and Polite Society were black to white. Malcom had less time for rats like Steele than he did for the sloppy toshers like Alders. “Where is he?”

  “Fowler’s with him. Bram is on guard outside.”

  Bram. More brute than human, the nearly seven-foot-tall mountain of a man had taken apart—literally and figuratively—opponents who’d crossed him . . . until he’d found himself making a trek to the gallows. Malcom had saved him from a certain hanging on more than one occasion, and because of it, the old man had set himself up as a de facto right hand, whether Malcom wished it or not.

  And the truth would always be . . . the latter. There was no place for friends or family in these parts. Eventually, the streets claimed them all. As such, there was no point in creating dependents if one wasn’t going to be around to take care of them.

  Malcom crossed the street to where a young urchin with a tosher staff in hand was watching his mount and handed over a coin.

  The small child looked up at him with wide, adoring eyes Malcom had never been, nor would ever be, deserving of. “Mr. North, sir.”

  “Billy,” he greeted the girl, and offered a word of thanks. Not more than eight, she didn’t have many options awaiting her. It was a miracle she’d survived as long as she had in her disguise. “Billy’s going to need training,” Malcom said.

  “Girls don’t have any place in the sewers.”

  It was not every day that Malcom met someone more diabolical than himself. “I wasn’t asking. Find her a drain, go over the rules of the sewers, and then train her.”

  “Train her?” the other man protested.

  “She’ll need a tosher pole. Get her one. And then teach her how to use it to get herself underground, and how to navigate the tunnels.” He paused. “And teach her how to use it to defend herself,” he ordered, the matter done.

  A short while later, Malcom rode up to the front of the unassuming structure between Tottenham Court Road and Willow Street. Sandwiched between two businesses, it was cleverly insulated, protected on both sides.<
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  As he dismounted, Malcom patted his horse on the neck and did a sweep of the area, homing in on the street urchin who held the reins of an enormous black mare—horseflesh too expensive to belong to any of the people who dwelled here. Steele was doing well for himself.

  One of Malcom’s men came loping over, his gait slightly uneven, yet nearly indiscernible. “North.”

  Handing his reins off to Dore, one of many toshers who worked for him, Malcom found his way down the narrow alley until he reached the back of his residence. He leapt up the steps and, after inserting the small key, let himself in through the back entrance. His boots slopped water and grime over the rotten wood flooring. Not bothering to discard his jacket, Malcom moved through the narrow hall and quickly found his way to one of the three small rooms on the main floor.

  The door sat open, with Fowler seated in a too-small-for-his-frame wooden chair.

  The moment the old tosher caught sight of Malcom, he struggled to his feet, but Malcom waved the bruised bloke back. His right cheek was still swollen from the beating he’d taken a fortnight back. Fowler peered at the satchel Malcom held.

  “Here.” Malcom tossed the findings over to their rightful owner.

  Fowler caught them against his concave chest. “Ya found it,” the old man whispered, glancing up.

  “Aye.” The moment Fowler had come home bloodied, with a foot broken from a ruthless assault in the sewers, Malcom had resolved to flush out the ones responsible.

  “Never made a mistake like that before,” Fowler said, his throat working. The old man briefly looked into his bag at the contents and then hugged it once more. A glassy sheen misted those pale eyes. “Won’t happen again—”

  Discomfited, Malcom waved off those assurances.

  Fowler coughed into his hand. “It’s me damned eyes, is all,” he defended, wiping at those drops.

  Even a visit from one of London’s most capable detectives was preferable to the old tosher’s tears. To any tears, really. Like his heels were on fire, Malcom entered the makeshift office . . . and immediately found him.

  In fairness, one would have to be blind to miss a tall, ugly brute like Steele. The detective’s face and form bore the marks of his years on the street. And he stood there, his arms clasped behind him, his expression a mask of impassivity as he watched Malcom’s approach. “You’re North,” he said without preamble.