The Merchant and the Rogue by Sarah M. Eden

Brogan cut through Hyde Park after making a delivery for the print shop. ’Twas faster than going the long way ’round, besides being a fine opportunity for strolling along the Serpentine on an unusually mild winter day.

The fashionable hour hadn’t arrived, but the park was far from empty. Half its inhabitants were dogs, truth be told. And a good number of those dogs were being followed by children known throughout London as “pure finders.” They collected droppings that they then sold to tanners. The work was unpleasant and, at times, dangerous. But Brogan knew all too well that poor street children did what they could to survive.

Two very rough-looking men, their clothes stained and worn, their hair and beards unkempt, caught Brogan’s notice as he went by. They eyed every person who passed, including him. ’Twasn’t a rough area of Town; the two were entirely out of place.

Brogan stopped under an obliging tree and pulled a penny dreadful—Mr. King’s—from his coat pocket, pretending to read it. He watched the ruffians, paying particular attention to which of the park’s occupants caught their attention.

One of them nudged the other with his elbow, then motioned toward a girl following the path of a large, thick-coated dog. She was likely about twelve or thirteen years old. Her hair was startlingly black and, in the spots where the sun hit it just right, the tiniest bit blue. She had a very striking look about her, and that was a very dangerous thing for young girls living on the merciless streets of London.

Bold rescues of children were Fletcher Walker’s specialty, but Fletcher wasn’t there just then. Brogan refused to leave the child in danger, no matter that he was ill-suited to the roll of knight on a white charger.

He pushed away from the tree and moved toward the girl, keeping one eye on the roughs and one eye on the girl, all while trying to formulate a means of helping the child without frightening her.

She spotted him as he approached and quickly slipped from the path and a bit out of reach.

“I’m not looking to do you any harm, lass,” he said softly. “I only hoped to warn you.”

“Something a body’d say to put me off the scent.” The glance she tossed him was hard and untrusting. He didn’t blame her.

“I’ll not come any closer to you, and I’ll keep m’hands where you can see them.” He held them up for good measure, palms to her so his brawl-scarred knuckles didn’t cause her alarm. He’d caught Vera staring at them more than once, and not as if she liked what she saw. “I truly wish only to warn you. There’s two men back a pace who I’d peg as bullyboys, either seeking out their own enjoyment or working for a madame.”

“Them rorty blokes back there?” She motioned to the two roughnecks.

Brogan nodded. “And I think you know why they’re keeping so close an eye on you.”

Without flinching she said simply, “I’m at the age when girls start disappearing. We all know what happens to them.”

He hated how true that was. “You’re not safe on the streets.”

“I’m always on the streets,” she said. “Urchins ain’t got fine homes to run off to.”

“I know it.”

She eyed him up and down. “You’re a bit big for an urchin.”

He shrugged. “I grew out of it.”

“Fortunate for you,” she grumbled.

“It is, indeed.” Far too many didn’t survive their early years. “Any chance you could find work that didn’t put you in the open like this?”

“None,” she said firmly. “And I ain’t no one’s burden.” She turned in the direction of a dog being walked by what appeared to be a maid.

The bullyboys would snatch her up in an instant, if not today then tomorrow.

“Would you consider at least tucking yourself away for the day?” Brogan asked. “Give those fellas the shake for now?”

For now. There would be others. There were always others.

“You know somewhere I could hide myself?”

“A shop in Soho. And I’d wager m’ eyeteeth the shopkeeper’d give you bit to do today, let you earn a coin or two.” He’d pay her his wages for the day if need be. He couldn’t simply leave her here.

She watched him warily. “Eyeteeth’d fetch a fair bit.”

He nodded. “For sure.”

Her eyes darted to the approaching bullyboys.

“Let’s go see if I’m keeping m’teeth, lass.” Brogan tried to hide his growing concern behind a tone of teasing.

“If you’re wrong, I’ll miss all the best dogs.”

“I’ll repay any losses,” he said. “My word of honor.”

“What’s your name?” she asked.

He’d only just given his word on the matter of her income, and here he was about to lie to her about his own name. “Ganor O’Donnell. What’s yours?”

“Licorice.”

The street children had interesting names, no one’d argue otherwise. Hers, he’d wager, had been given her on account of her unique hair.

“I suppose I could go see this shop in Soho,” Licorice said.

Thank the heavens. He motioned her onward, relief filling him from his toes to the top of his head.

She walked alongside him—head high, eyes wary—away from the park. He didn’t for a moment think she actually trusted him. More likely than not, she was merely leaving before the ruffians got too close.

As he’d promised, he kept a distance between them and made certain she could see him at all times. She had ample reason to be wary of anyone and everyone. He didn’t want to scare her beyond what was avoidable, while still getting her to safety.

Not more than a half-dozen steps from Hyde Park, Brogan took note of one of the men he’d been watching following them.

If Brogan took Licorice directly back to the shop, these roughs would know where to find her. They might simply wait and follow her to wherever she laid her head at night. He wasn’t about to let that happen. Móirín wasn’t home, so he didn’t particularly want to take Licorice to their flat. DPS Headquarters was entirely out of the question—the Dreadfuls would never turn their back on a child in danger, but revealing the location was a violation of the oath they took when they joined. Besides, he wasn’t considered one of them any longer.

He could hail a hansom cab and be out of sight of the bullyboy in no time, but that’d only delay the danger if the driver happened to know the man following them.

“How do we mean to shake ’im?” Licorice, of course, had noticed. Nothing got past the urchins.

“I don’t think we can, lass.”

She didn’t look shaken or afraid, but there was no doubt her every sense was on alert. “So what comes next?”

He rolled his neck a little. “What comes next is you learning a bit more about me than I’d figured you’d learn.” Brogan stopped on the spot. “You make certain I am always between you and that man; move about, run if you’re needing to.”

“What’re you gonna do, Mr. O’Donnell?”

“I’ll be offering the man a ‘Liberties greeting.’” The Liberties was the area of Dublin he’d called home. A lad growing up there learned to wield fists of diplomacy and wield them well.

Brogan turned about, his eyes meeting those of their pursuer.

He must’ve been able to tell Brogan hadn’t turned to him in a gesture of goodwill. “Don’t ruffle up, mate. We can share.”

Brogan didn’t wait, didn’t hold back. With a quickness and precision borne of far too many street altercations, he delivered a fist to the scoundrel’s gut just below the ribs. The man bent forward with the impact. Brogan took a half step back, cocked his fist once more and landed it solidly on the man’s nose. He grabbed his neckcloth and twisted so it pulled tight around the would-be-assailant’s neck, then pulled him up close.

“This wee one’s protected,” Brogan growled. “You leave her be. Understand?”

The man made a motion that likely would have been a nod if not for his quickly swelling nose and Brogan’s grip on his neckcloth.

“Say it,” Brogan growled out. “Convince me you mean it.”

“She’s protected.” The strangled whisper emerged nearly as broken as the man’s nose.

“And?” Brogan pressed.

“I’ll leave her be.”

“Not just you.” Brogan pulled the neckcloth tighter. “You get the word out.”

Another jerking and graceless nod.

“And, just to make certain you don’t forget . . .” Brogan slammed his knee into the man’s groin, sending him crumpled to the ground.

Then, calm as a saint in church, he turned about, wiping imaginary dirt from his hands as well as a very real trickle of blood from one knuckle. “Shall we, then?” He motioned Licorice forward.

“Where’d you learn to fight like that, Mr. O’Donnell?”

“Like what?”

“Like a criminal.”

He likely ought to have been offended, but he found himself laughing. “I was taught to fight bya criminal.”

“Were you a criminal?”

“I’ve been poor and desperate, and there’s bits of m’ past that don’t bear scrutiny,” he said.

“Seems you and I ain’t that different,” Licorice said.

“I think most of us are more alike than we realize.”

She hadn’t much to say as they walked; Brogan kept a bit closer to her than he might’ve otherwise but still let her have space enough to feel safe. They reached Sorokin’s Print Shop and he still hadn’t the first idea how she felt about much of anything.

He led the way inside. It was busy, as it often was.

Vera looked over as he stepped inside and, to his amused delight, looked immediately curious. He liked that she seemed pulled in by mysteries, no doubt from having read so many penny dreadfuls.

“Miss Vera,” he said, dipping at the waist.

“So formal?” She laughed a little.

Licorice spoke before Brogan had a chance to reply. “You’re Miss Vera?”

“I am.”

“Olly works for you and your papa sometimes.” Licorice took over the conversation, not needing an invitation. “And Burnt Ricky and Bob’s Your Knuckle.”

Vera motioned to the children in the shop at the moment. “Among a few others.”

Licorice popped her fists on her hips, not a posture of defiance but determination. “I’m needing a spot of work, and I know you hire on urchins like me now and then.”

Brogan blinked at her boldness. What a grand trick the girl had played on him.

“You didn’t tell me you knew Miss Vera when I suggested we come to this shop,” he said.

With a look of impatient superiority, Licorice said, “I ain’t required to tell you everythin’ I know. Besides, you only said a shop in Soho. You never said which one.”

Vera smiled at the girl. “What do they call you, love?”

“Licorice.”

“And do you need the occasional spot of work, or regular employment?” Vera asked.

“I’m a pure finder just now, but I cain’t keep doing that.”

“I can give you a spot,” Vera said. “You’d earn a few coins at the end of the week. Cain’t promise you anything beyond that.”

Licorice nodded firmly. “Maybe I’ll twig something else I can do before the week’s out.”

“Something safer than you’ve been doing,” Brogan requested.

She tossed him a cheeky smile. “I thought ‘this lass is protected.’”

He laughed; he couldn’t help himself. “That’ll offer you some buffer, girl, but pure finding ought to be something in the past for you.”

Licorice set her shoulders and turned back to Vera. “Tell me what you’re wanting from me first.”

Vera pointed behind herself. “Dip into the back room. Wash your hands, then come back out and I’ll give you work to do.”

“Your papa’s back there, is he?” Licorice eyed the door with misgiving.

“Not just now. He’s popped off to the papermill.” Vera motioned her away with a jerk of her head.

After the girl had slipped away, Vera turned to Brogan. Her eyes darted to his hand. “You’re bleeding.”

He couldn’t tell if the observation was disapproving or not. “Had to give a bloke a warning.”

“Something you’ve done before.”

His scars testified to that. He slipped his hands behind himself, not wanting to see disapproval in her eyes. “There’s always someone needing saving. At times that someone’s been me.”

She pulled a dust rag from a low shelf behind the counter. It was still folded, meaning it was clean. Vera held out her hand as if expecting him to give her something. “Your hand, if you will. The bleeding one.”

Hesitantly, he set his injured hand in hers. “It ain’t badly hurt. A little slip skin is all.”

Her small hand all but disappeared under his. Their size might’ve seen them labeled dainty if not for her firm, strong grip, and the callouses that told of a life spent working. Vera bent over his hand, dabbing at the small bit of blood. There was a determination to her efforts, a fierceness, and yet her efforts were also inarguably gentle.

She held herself with confidence and spoke with authority. She ran her shop with precision and a keen mind for business. But she also showed compassion to the urchins who crossed her threshold. She knew their names, their situations, their worries.

She began each day dressed with precision, but always ended it with a dusty apron, a smudge or two on her cheek, and her once-neat knot of hair on the verge of chaotic. The contrasts in her were utterly captivating.

“Why is it Licorice needs to sack off the pure finding?” Vera asked as she dabbed carefully with the cloth.

“She’s starting to draw attention from the town bulls.” Saints, he’d nearly choked on the words as he opened his mouth. Vera had him more than a little upended.

Keep your wits about you, man.

“Well, they’ll not snatch her here.” Something gave Vera pause. “This is Soho, though. We’ve a number of brothels hereabout. She’ll not be in danger from any of them, but the reminder of her thinly escaped net might make her a touch nervous to be in this corner of London.”

“We’ll keep our ears perked for other options should they be needed,” he said.

“We?” she repeated.

“I didn’t figure you’d toss the girl out with nowhere to go and nothing to do.”

“You have me sorted, it seems.”

“More than you realize.” He pulled a small bag from his pocket. “They’re not as hot as they were, but I think you’ll like them just the same.”

She accepted the offering and peeked into the bag. “Roasted chestnuts. You remembered.”

Vera smiled at him, and the sight did odd things to his heart. Very odd indeed.