West End Earl by Bethany Bennett

Chapter Six

To hear Calvin and his set describe it, Shoreditch housed criminal masterminds, petty thieves, and the lowest dregs of society. While those kinds of people absolutely lived in her neighborhood, similar personalities lived in Mayfair. They just wore better coats in Grosvenor Square. Or in Emma’s case, petticoats.

The nerve of the girl, trying to strong-arm Phee into lying for her.

In reality, the residents of Phee’s neighborhood were like her—desperately trying to survive and play the hand dealt to them. Obviously, Phee’s circumstances were more favorable than most. With connections to the ton and secondhand clothes to appear respectable, she had a more comfortable life than others.

But who knew when that tenuous connection to the aristocracy would disappear? Cal had hired her on a whim and could fire her as easily. Sure, they’d become friends. And no, Calvin wasn’t a fickle man. But eventually, something would happen—like Emma convincing him dear old Adam kissed his unwilling sister—and who knew what her income or circumstances would be then. That meager nest egg of squirreled-away pay and pawned silver buttons meant security. Independence.

So she did her best to live within the means allotted by Uncle Milton. Referring to those as means was a bit of an overstatement. In actuality, she suspected his severe restriction of funds under the guise of a living allowance was his way of trying to keep her—or rather, Adam—home and under his thumb. As ploys went, that one hadn’t worked so well.

The hackney pulled to a stop. “King Street. Cart’s blocking the road, so you’ll get out here, lad.”

The cramped buildings piled one on top of another, and the lack of streetlamps didn’t make her neighborhood look inviting. As the temperatures increased in June, so did the danger in these tight streets. Only a fool would lounge about on street corners in the dead of winter. Now the underbelly came out to play.

A warning ripple of unease slithered along her spine. She shook it off. Such a ninny. The door to her lodgings stood only four buildings away. Besides, the landlady, Mrs. Carver, appreciated that Adam Hardwick paid his rent on time, so she ran interference when the local lads were on the prowl for new marks. Almost two years living on this street, and she’d had only minor encounters with the riffraff. Phee kept her nose out of everyone’s business and avoided trouble.

The local crime syndicate, led by Joseph Merceron, didn’t care for peons like her. Merceron craved bigger fish to fry—like lords who rode around in fancy carriages. And Cal wondered why his friend Adam refused to accept rides home in a carriage with the shiny Carlyle crest on the door. No, sir, hacks were good enough for her. Yet another thing Cal didn’t understand about the world outside Mayfair. He was at ease beyond Mayfair, but he lacked the street sense to truly blend in elsewhere.

Phee dug in her pocket for the fare before hopping from the hackney, then tipped her hat at the coachman’s mumbled thanks. A breeze whistled along the street, blowing air redolent of hot refuse and cabbage soup. Sidestepping to avoid a puddle with unknown but likely foul contents turned out to be a wasted effort. The same hack she’d just left rumbled by, hitting the puddle and splashing the water—and God only knew what else—onto her trousers.

“Blast.” She shook her foot, attempting to leave the water on the street rather than her evening shoes. Thankfully, the doorway to her building was only a few yards ahead. Changing clothes as soon as possible was vital in order to salvage these trousers prior to the nasty water setting in.

Before she could reach the door, a cudgel behind her knees brought Phee to the cobblestones, followed by a blow to her head that made the light in her sight flicker.

Shaking off the blow with a pained groan, Phee attempted to rise. It had been years since she’d taken a hit like that in school. Those scuffles had been more about establishing the hierarchy than true intent to harm. The two situations were truly incomparable.

Her attackers outnumbered her. Hands reached into pockets, tearing seams. Buttons gave way to greedy fingers, grabbing all the money she’d carried for the night out—which thankfully wasn’t much.

Blood dripped, metallic and thick on her tongue. Someone rolled her over like a limp doll, removing her coat, while someone else slipped her free from her waistcoat. Rough tugs at her feet left her lying in the street wearing nothing but torn trousers, a filthy lawn shirt, and a single glove. Blinking to focus, she attempted to identify her attackers. With this big of a group, it might be some of Merceron’s men after all.

“Takes a hit better than expected, eh? Who’d have thunk it from such a skinny rat,” said a gravelly voice. Another knock to the head threatened to take her under. A nervous chuckle made her force one eyelid open and narrow her gaze through the murky shadows crowding her vision.

“Nelson?”

The butcher’s son met her gaze for only a split second before shuffling back a few steps. “Sorry, Mr. Hardwick,” Nelson mumbled.

The last thought before she lost consciousness was that the butcher would hear about this tomorrow.

*  *  *

When she came to, considerably gentler hands were picking her up under the arms, carrying her inside. Mrs. Carver fretted in high, sharp tones somewhere nearby.

Not everything translated through the haze of throbbing pain, but Phee caught “Lad works for a fancy man. Take a message to Hill Street, by Berkeley Square. Lord Carlyle.”

Damn. She’d never hear the end of it from Cal. The man worried like a mother hen already, feeding her and clothing her in carefully curated donations of perfectly fine castoffs.

“No,” she tried to say. But her voice came out thready and feeble, too quiet to be heard over the din.

The shouted inquiries from her fellow building residents made her brain rattle in her skull, but their concern was sweet in a way. In some houses, everyone would have slammed their door shut, hoping to block the bad luck from rubbing off on them. Mrs. Carver ran a friendlier ship. People in this building tried to help one another with their resources or talents. Phee leaned heavily on one of the hands holding her, then lurched to her feet, using a wall for support when her body tried to tip the opposite direction.

“’M fine.”

“Ye sure, lad?” Ah, the helping hand belonged to Barry from downstairs.

Phee nodded, then immediately regretted it when it felt like her brain sloshed against the inside of her forehead. “Just need to sleep. Thank you for your help. Oh, and Barry? Did your brother write back yet?” Several residents of the building came to Phee to dictate letters to their sweethearts or family and have the replies read aloud. Barry’s brother usually replied within a month. She searched her aching head, trying to think of anything other than how much she bloody hurt. It had been six weeks since Barry’s last letter.

“This afternoon. Thank ye for asking after it in your condition. I’ll come around in a day or two if’n ye don’ mind.” Barry helped her unlock the door to her room when her hand scraped the key over the keyhole without sliding it in. “Here, lad. Ye rest now.”

Throwing the lock behind her, she swayed, then caught herself against the wall. Out of habit, even in her injured state, she made a cursory sweep of the room to make sure everything was as she’d left it. A bed, four walls, and a plain but sturdy wood chair with a mismatched tufted footstool by the fire composed the living space.

Adam Hardwick was a simple man living a simple life on a very strict budget. But only for a little while longer.

After pulling the drapes closed, Phee slumped in the chair. A few pokes in the fireplace brought heat blazing to life, and the warmth hit her body like a shock. She reached to remove her hat and came away empty. That was right. Her lovely new hat either topped someone from the gang or had rolled into the gutter. What a waste. With slow, deliberate motions, Phee removed her single glove finger by finger so as not to ruin the fine leather more than it already was. Then she stared at it. What the hell would she do with one glove?

The trousers fell into a pile by the fire. They’d have to wait for their cleaning, because her head was threatening to fall off. One ear hadn’t stopped ringing since the first blow. The shirt joined the trousers, leaving her in smalls and the linen wrap around her chest. Any other night loosening the linen would be a priority.

Not tonight. Tonight, her pillow held far more appeal than unbinding her breasts. If it weren’t for distinctly plump nipples that made their presence known through thin shirts, she could have gotten away without binding altogether. Pulling a blanket over her shoulders, Phee fell into oblivion.

*  *  *

“Damned little fool.” The words were rough, but the hands accompanying them were gentle as he smoothed her hair back from the place she’d been hit.

Cracking one eye open, Phee winced to see Cal standing over her. Mrs. Carver must have let him in, but there was no sign of her landlady now. The privileges of aristos, entering private homes by nothing more than the power of their names. Cal turned around and retrieved a lantern. Lighting the wick, he lowered the light to her face.

She slammed her eyes closed. “Bloody hell, Cal. Get that away from me.”

“You need a doctor,” he said.

Oh God, not a doctor. People on the street might not look past a skinny frame and male clothing, but an actual examination of her body would mean the end of everything. The end of Adam. “No doctor.”

Cool air brushed her shoulders as Cal pulled the covers back, then paused.

Blast. The binding. Panic punched past the pain and the fog of sleep. Phee clutched at the blanket, trying to cover herself. Her head protested the movement.

“Already wrapped the ribs,” she mumbled. “I’ll be fine. Need to sleep. You didn’t have to come out here.”

“At least you managed that much,” he grumbled. “Where else did they hit you? Any stab wounds? Cuts or bullet holes?”

“Just a cudgel. Knees to take me down. The head is the real problem. Falling off my shoulders might be a mercy. Move the light, will you?”

“For an injured man, you’re awfully opinionated,” Cal said.

“Calvin, move that bloody light out of my face. I’m alive. Now leave me alone and let me sleep.”

“You can’t mean to stay here?” His incredulous tone held so much horror, she almost laughed.

“Stay here. You mean, in my home?”

“This isn’t a home, Puppy—it’s a hovel. A single room where before now, you slept in relative safety.”

“I am not going to argue our socioeconomic differences when it’s the middle of the night and I feel like shit. Either go away or make yourself useful and stoke the fire.”

A few moments later a flare of heat testified to Cal building the fire, but his silence told her he was pouting about it.

“What am I going to do with you, Puppy?” Cal thumped the chair down next to her bed, which made Phee close her eyes for a second as the noise reverberated through her skull.

“Judging by your tone, I’m guessing that leaving me to sleep is out of the question.” The firelight made Cal’s hair glow. Lady Amesbury’s tipsy confession earlier had been an understatement. He wasn’t pretty. He was beautiful. The halo effect was rather angelic, although his dark eyes under the heavy brows made her question if Cal’s angel status was of the fallen variety.

With a sigh, Cal rested his face in his hands. “Fine. Sleep. I’m staying to make sure you wake tomorrow.” Settling into the chair, Cal loosened his cravat and crossed his arms over his chest. Phee rolled her eyes, then winced. Damn, her head hurt.

Phee turned her head toward the wall, away from the light of the fire. Within moments, sleep claimed her, providing an escape from that dark gaze.

*  *  *

Cal kept his head cradled in his hands and stared at the shiny black toes of his boots until Adam’s breath settled into the easy, heavy cadence of sleep. That he’d woken grumpy and mouthy was a relief. The thieves had beaten him but not broken that scrappy spirit.

Adam’s pale complexion matched the linen covering his pillow, gone gray from too many washings. Even his freckles seemed pasty. The shock of red hair was the only color left to him except for the flickers of gold where firelight caught the tips of his eyelashes.

The wooden chair Cal sat in was unforgivingly uncomfortable. Numbness set in almost immediately. Shifting his weight helped, so he stretched his legs to prop his feet on the bed frame. Crossing his arms, Cal prepared for a long night, because no way in hell would he leave his friend alone in this room.

The intention to sleep didn’t last. He kept replaying that moment when the scruffy boy had arrived. Higgins had answered the door as usual, but the lad’s frantic message had echoed from the hall to where Cal had been relaxing after the night out. Mr. Hardwick is hurt. Come quick! His heart had stopped. He’d swear it.

All those missions and errands where he’d sent Puppy into dangerous areas of London tallied in his mind like a stack of tarot cards depicting a series of awful outcomes. This could have happened so much sooner. For all he knew, tonight’s attack was the result of one of tonight’s fact-gathering missions for the Wilhelmina.

His tailbone fell asleep, which was a new sensation. Who knew a tailbone could tingle like that? This chair was an atrocity. Shifting again, Cal hoped to find a miraculously comfortable position.

If Puppy had known Cal sat here worrying over him, he’d have had strong words to share. God knew he was chock-full of opinions. But if Ethan had lain in this bed, Cal would have worried too. Maybe not as much, because Ethan was built like a brick wall. Adam was finely built. Nearly delicate, really. In the flickering light, Cal stared at the bruises blooming over Adam’s slim shoulders and angled brow. Delicate was the right word, and he felt protective, like he should be fighting off someone, but the attackers had already done their damage and scurried back to their hidey-holes.

Which left him with restless energy that wouldn’t let him settle in for the night. Glancing around, Cal searched for something to do.

Like most tiny spaces, if one thing was out of place, the room looked ransacked. Trousers and hose lay in a crumpled heap before the hearth. One dirty glove rested on top, what remained of the pair he’d purchased earlier on Bond Street.

Cal lumbered out of the chair and gathered the discarded clothing. The hose were filthy but not torn. With a thorough laundering, they might be salvageable. He folded them neatly, then placed them on the footstool. The shirt could be mended but might still be destined for the scrap pile. The trousers were probably a loss. A seam on the side had given way, and he wrinkled his nose at the unidentifiable filth covering them. God only knew what he’d just gotten on his hands.

If these were his clothes, he’d burn them without thinking twice. But that wasn’t his decision. Giving them a shake, he tried to dislodge the top layer of grime. A shower of dirt sprinkled onto his shoe. As he gingerly folded the trousers, a lump in the fabric shifted, then hit the floor, rolling to a stop next to his boot.

Plucking it from where it landed, he went to place the piece of scrap wood on top of the clothes but paused. Approximately four inches long and sanded smooth, the wood had been hollowed all the way through, with a wider fluted opening on one end. He cocked his head, turning it over in his hands, then checked where the object had fallen from.

The trousers revealed a pocket sewn inside the placket, with seams aligning perfectly to disguise the addition. He’d recognize Adam’s tailoring anywhere. Cal slipped it in the pocket, then slid it out again. Sure enough, the wooden…whatever it was…fit snugly into the space Adam had created for it.

It looked like a penis with a wide opening on one end. There wasn’t a better way to describe it. Despite their general filth, Cal held the trousers, slipping the carved wood into the pocket over and over, then held it up to the light from the lantern.

A choked noise from the bed made him glance over.

Adam was awake.

*  *  *

A shudder rippled over her body, whether from dread or pain, she didn’t have time to determine.

“Hand me my shirt.” She tucked the blanket under her arms, covering the chest bindings.

Cal pointed at the pile of clothing, still holding the pizzle she’d whittled last month. “That shirt? No way am I touching that again. It was disgusting enough the first time.”

“Cal, I’m almost naked. Hand me a damn shirt. And put that down unless you want piss on your hands.” Her head ached, it hurt to breathe, and this new development was pushing the evening into worst-nights-of-her-life territory.

Without another word, he set aside the wooden pizzle, then shrugged his coat down his arms and crossed the three steps it took to reach the bed. Gently, he laid the dark-blue garment over her shoulders, managing to avoid touching her as he did so, then took a seat on the chair he’d brought to the bedside.

“You don’t need to say anything if you don’t want to,” he said.

The fabric smelled like him. That peculiar blend of spices that made her crave gingerbread, plus an added warmth from his body. It took everything in her to not indulge in a sniff of the collar as she slipped her arms through the holes and wrapped the coat around her.

She wasn’t prepared to deal with this. Not right now. Not injured. Not while she felt naked and exposed, and he sat there polished and perfect. A jangle of what-ifs played through her head. What if he fired her or, worse, ended their friendship because she was a liar? What if he told everyone and ruined over a decade of struggle toward a better future?

She squeezed her eyes closed, wishing fruitlessly to wake from this nightmare. Through the tangled emotions, her practical nature asserted itself with one question that needed to be asked.

“If I’m fired, please let me know now. Once my wages are paid, you’ll never have to see me again.”

Cal jerked as if she’d slapped him. “Fired? Why the hell would I fire you? You have a position in my house for as long as you want it. No matter what all this means, you are my friend and a valuable employee.”

That was something at least. Still, a large part of her wanted to run before he reconsidered and threw her out like yesterday’s newspaper. After all, she’d lied to him for two years. If he learned this secret, how long would it be before he knew everything? That she’d not only taken her brother’s identity but killed him as well. That it was an accident didn’t matter. Not when the result was losing the person closest to her.

It might be better to run now and let him wonder. Let him think back in a few decades and ponder about whatever became of Adam Hardwick. She was good at running.

It was the overwhelming exhaustion the idea of starting over somewhere else brought that loosed the words.

“My name isn’t Adam Hardwick. I’m a woman. I’m hiding until it’s safe to live as myself again.”

Cal laced his fingers together in front of him and was silent for a moment before saying, “How can I help?”

“You can leave. My head is killing me, and talking makes it worse.” His curiosity wasn’t more important than her need for privacy and a few hours to recover from being beaten in the street. Even though he was being sweet and remarkably Cal-like about the whole situation, she didn’t appreciate having to do this now. Answers to whatever questions he might have could wait for when she felt like telling him more. Friendship or not, she didn’t owe him a full confessional right this instant.

He cocked his head. “Can I stay if I stop talking?”

She was already slumping back down into bed, snuggling beneath the layers of blanket and his coat. “Just be quiet. My whole body hurts.”

Blessed foggy peace was creeping around the edges of her brain when he asked, “What do I call you now?”

“I’m still Puppy.” With the next breath, she drifted away under the cover of sleep, wrapped in the comforting smell of gingerbread.