The Merchant and the Rogue by Sarah M. Eden

London, 1865

If laughter truly were the best medicine, Brogan Donnelly would have been the healthiest Irishman in all of England. Jests came as easy to him as breathing, and that was more-or-less all anyone knew of him. He preferred it that way.

On one particularly dreary early-winter afternoon, he jaunted with his usual air of revelry down the streets of London, headed for his home-away-from-home-away-from-home. Dublin would’ve been his first choice, but if he had to be in London, he much preferred enduring Town in his favorite corner of it.

Brogan walked the pavement near Covent Garden, spinning his pocket watch on its leather strap, whistling “Whiskey in the Jar,” and pretending he had no determined destination. He’d been summoned by a fellow member of the Dread Penny Society, a group of vigilante do-gooding authors most of London had heard whispers of but no one outside their ranks could actually identify. He was known in this area—a man with hair the color of burning embers could hardly go unnoticed—but he’d made such a point of appearing devil-may-care that few wondered what he was about, and fewer still cared enough to sort the mystery.

As he approached King Street, he tucked his watch in his fob pocket. He slipped up to the blue door. It was a destination no one was meant to take note of. Secrecy required he not draw attention to it, and he was blasted good at secrecy.

Brogan slipped inside. He set an engraved penny on a nearby table. The coins were tokens that granted members entrance to their society’s headquarters. There were no other pennies present, meaning Brogan had arrived first for his meeting.

“Much obliged, Nolan,” he said to the sleeping butler, slouched in a chair by the door.

The butler, eyes still closed, head hung low in a posture of sleeping, lifted his hand just enough to wave in acknowledgment. He didn’t say a word. He very seldom did.

As there was no formal meeting of the entire membership called that day, Brogan continued onward, past the usual meeting room and to the front staircase.

The unassuming town house boasted a great many odd rooms: a small-scale House of Commons, a boxing saloon, a room filled with wardrobes containing a variety of disguises. Many gentlemen’s clubs contained coffee rooms or dining rooms, and most afforded members the opportunity to purchase and be served spirits, but as far as Brogan knew, only the Dread Penny Society, in all its secretive oddity, had built for itself an actual pub.

It was small—only three tables and the bar with its bottles and barrels—and ’twas of the serve-yourself variety, but every consideration had been given to making the room cozy and comfortable. The dark wood paneling put one in mind of a centuries-old neighborhood watering hole. A fireplace adorned one wall. Curtained windows filled another. They’d even hung a shingle declaring it “The Quill and Ink.”

Brogan lit a fire, poured himself a glass of Guinness, and sat at a table to wait. His summons had come from none other than Fletcher Walker, a legend on the streets of London and the acting head of the Dread Penny Society. He’d never before asked Brogan to meet with him personally and alone. Truth be told, Brogan was more than a touch nervous.

Mere moments later, Fletcher slipped inside. “Brogan,” he greeted as he made his way to the tap.

“Can’t tell you how pleased I am to have converted you to the superiority of Guinness,” he said, noting what Fletcher had chosen to pour himself.

Fletcher sat in a chair at the round table Brogan had chosen. “What’s the scandal broth, mate?”

Brogan spun his glass slowly, almost mindlessly. “You summoned me. Best be asking your own self what’s what.”

“Fair enough.” Fletcher took a quick pull from his glass. “Last meeting we had, you made quite a speech about the sister organization you’ve been puffing up to us.”

“I did, yeah.” Too many of the Dreadfuls had families, and growing ones at that, and keeping their work a secret from the very people who shared their lives was proving harder and harder.

“And you still think it a plumb idea?”

Brogan nodded. “The ice is thin enough already. It’ll take no more than the tiniest crack to crumble the entire thing. Without a means of giving our loved ones an explanation that ain’t an entire fabrication, that crack’ll come sooner than later.”

“Supposing, once we get a gathering of the membership large enough to vote on the matter, it don’t carry?” Fletcher’s gaze turned more pointed, more studying. “What’ll you do?”

What would he do? He’d avoided requiring an answer of himself. He was too torn, truth be told. His membership in the DPS had given him a purpose in London, a sense of belonging, his only real friends in the entire city—the entire country, really. But it took a toll. It risked his connection to the only family he had left. If he lost that, he didn’t know how he’d recover.

He rubbed at the back of his neck, tense and worried, but trying to tuck that away as usual. “I can’t keep lying to m’sister.”

A grin tugged at Fletcher’s mouth. “Afraid of her, are you?”

“Anyone with sense is afraid of Móirín.” Brogan was only half kidding. “But that’s not m’reason for needing to add some honesty to this charade. Móirín’s no simpleton. She’s likely already suspicious about what I get up to with you lot. She’ll sort this eventually. Secrecy keeps the Dread Penny Society safe and able to do our work. If I can’t keep this a secret, and if I can’t do it without spinning an unending tale . . .” He swallowed back the rest of the sentence. He’d feared for some time that, without the ability to tell Móirín something real and honest, he’d have to give up the only connection he had besides her.

“Would you leave the DPS?” Fletcher pressed.

Brogan rose and paced away. He knew the truthful answer, but saying it out loud felt too final, too severing. “I’d hope it wouldn’t come to that, but . . . I’m not sure what else I could do.”

“That’s what I’d hoped you’d say.”

He turned back to look at Fletcher. “You’d hoped to be rid of me?”

“Hardly.” Fletcher pulled a folded and sealed letter from the inside pocket of his jacket. “If leaving was your answer, I was told to give you this.” He held the missive out to Brogan. “From the Dread Master.”

Brogan’s mouth dropped open. After a bit of sputtering, he managed to mutter, “The Dread Master?”

Fletcher was the acting head of the DPS. The Dread Master was the one running it all. No one other than Fletcher had any idea who he was, though theories ran rampant. Some believed he was one of the members, posing as no one terribly important. Some insisted it was Fletcher himself. Some theorized the Dread Master was someone none of them knew or had met. No matter the man’s identity, his authority could not be questioned, neither could his judgment.

Brogan lowered himself back into his chair. The Dread Master had sent him a note? Him? Brogan was good in a pinch; he’d give himself credit for that. And he made a good team member during missions. But nothing about him would’ve warranted the direct notice of someone as important and secretive and authoritative as the Dread Master.

He took the letter but didn’t open it immediately. “Do you know what this is about?”

Fletcher took a swallow of amber liquid. “I’ve an inkling.”

“Is he tossing me out?” Brogan had rather expected that from almost the moment he’d joined up. “I know I’m not the asset you are. Or Stone or Hollis or Doc. Dominique. Kumar. Martin.”

Fletcher shook his head in amused annoyance. “Just open the note and read it before you end up listing the entire membership.”

He could have. Brogan worked hard on behalf of the society and their mission, but he wasn’t the leader any of the others were.

No use putting off the inevitable.

Brogan broke the seal and unfolded the stiff parchment.

Donnelly,

Whispers are coming from the Russian embassy that Ambassador von Brunnow has been asking for additional security and protective measures. My source there does not know why.

What did this have to do with him? He looked to Fletcher, but the man was making quite a show of paying him not the least attention.

The ambassador has taken to watching the street and pacing about, anxious and restless. He was visited recently by someone whose business proved upsetting, though the identity of this visitor is not known.

This would be no concern of ours except the ambassador has been overheard muttering about a man with four fingers.

“Four-Finger Mike,” Brogan whispered. The Dread Penny Society had had a string of run-ins with that gutter dweller and the notorious criminal he worked for known as “The Mastiff,” but the slippery snake always managed to wriggle away. It seemed he was slithering after more exalted prey now.

We have failed to stop Four-Finger Mike and the Mastiff. If the ambassador is being targeted by them now, we need to know. But a mission involving someone of his standing is too great a risk. Should our efforts be discovered, it would destroy the DPS and endanger everyone connected to us.

“Why is he telling me all this?” Brogan looked to Fletcher, completely flummoxed.

“Dread Master don’t tell me everything, mate.”

We need information, and you are our best hope of managing it.

“Me? Is he mad?”

Fletcher wiped a drop of Guinness from the corner of his mouth. “I’m not actually reading the letter with you, Brog, I’m not certain which part has you so twisted up.”

My proposal to you is this: resign your membership from the Dread Penny Society under the pretense of being unwilling to continue the ruse for the sake of your sister.

Brogan looked at Fletcher. “He’s asking me to quit being a Dreadful.”

“Said he might,” Fletcher muttered.

Being distanced from the Dreadfuls will protect them. As I said, we need information, but you’ll have to work alone to get it.

Alone. Great jumpin’ toads. He’d never taken on a mission alone before. None of the Dreadfuls had, really. And he was the last one among them who ought to be given an assignment like that. Give him a task that’d help someone else’s efforts, and he was bang up. But some people were leaders and some people were . . . him.

The Sorokin Print Shop in Soho is run by a Russian immigrant who has been seen in the area of the ambassador’s home. Discover, without tipping your hand, if he was the one who called on von Brunnow. And learn whatever you can about the situation with the ambassador without giving away your aim.

Fletcher and I alone will know of your activities. Report to him only as absolutely necessary. Your secrecy in this matter is crucial.

Give your answer to this proposed assignment to him then destroy this letter.

DM

Brogan sat a moment, stunned, confused. Why would the Dread Master ask him to do this? Any of the others would’ve done a better job.

“What’s it to be?” Fletcher asked.

“Failure, probably.”

Fletcher did not look the least swayed. “You’re our best option, and if the ambassador is in danger on account of someone we’ve failed to bring in time and again, we can’t simply ignore it.”

“I’m the worst choice to send out on m’own—the rogue elephant, as it were, operating outside the herd.”

“Completely outside the herd?” Fletcher set his empty glass on the table.

“Unable to call on the Dreadfuls if I get myself in a fix.”

Fletcher shook his head slowly. “Likely not.”

Brogan pushed out a tense breath as he began tearing up the note. “You’d be a better choice for something like this. Or Stone. Or Hollis.”

“Don’t go listing the membership again,” Fletcher said. “The Dread Master picked you, on purpose.”

“Because I have an easy excuse to leave the group,” Brogan said.

“I’m certain that ain’t the only reason.”

Brogan wished he felt that confident.

“The lad’s dependable,” his first employer had said when Brogan was still very young. “Give him instructions, and he’ll see them through. Leave him to sort his own instructions . . .” The man had shrugged and laughed a little. “’Tisn’t a thing wrong with being a foot soldier.”

A foot soldier. That’s what he’d always been. But the Dread Master was asking him to be a general in this high-stakes battle.

“What happens if Four-Finger Mike really is causing trouble with the ambassador and we don’t stop him?” Brogan asked.

“Four-Finger Mike works for the Mastiff. If that brute gets hold of any part of the government, then all the good we’ve done for the poor and unfortunate these past years won’t matter a lick.”

“But no pressure on my shoulders, yeah?” A threat that big couldn’t be ignored, but neither could he help thinking the Dread Master had chosen the wrong person. “’Tis a high ask, Fletch.”

His tone as dry as a field in drought, Fletcher said, “So, don’t bungle it.”

Brogan pushed out a smile. Lightness, even if forced, helped cover a great deal of uncertainty. He only wished he could laugh this off entirely. “You’re assuming I’m going to accept the task.”

“Am I wrong?”

The Dread Master’s letter was now in minuscule fragments, but that didn’t change the reality of what had been in it.

“People will be hurt if Four-Finger Mike and the Mastiff are involved with the ambassador and aren’t stopped?” Brogan pressed.

“More than ‘hurt,’” Fletcher said.

What choice was there, then? Brogan didn’t abandon people in need, neither did he wait for them to be hurt before stepping in. But undertaking this alone . . . that was out of character, and, he feared, outside his ability. “The rogue elephant it is, then.”

“The rogue Dreadful, more like.” Fletcher held out a hand to him. “Here’s hoping you’ll not be on your own for long.”

Brogan shook it. “Here’s hoping a whole lot o’ things.”