The Merchant and the Rogue by Sarah M. Eden

Móirín cleaned buildings in a few different areas of London, but Brogan hadn’t known her to do so in Drury Lane. Yet, that was where she was headed this time. And in the evening, which was odd. She generally did her cleaning during the day. Brogan walked with her part of the way since it was on his way to the print shop.

“Did one of your other jobs fall through?” he asked her.

She shook her head.

“Then why this new arrangement?”

“I’m wanting a little extra change in m’pocket. Is that so terrible a thing?”

“We ain’t hurting for funds now that I’ve an extra spot of work.”

“You aren’t the only one of us who can add to the coffers.” He recognized that unyielding tone from years of experience with it. Móirín was about to saddle her high horse and go for a bruising ride. “We’re living in a comfortable corner of London with enough for our needs, which I won’t risk undermining. And we’re helping the poor of this dirty old town, which I won’t stop doing. So if we’re to have enough for setting up our own homes, living independent like we’ve talked of, we both need to bring in more.”

He was grateful he’d settled on that explanation for taking up the job at the shop. It wasn’t entirely untrue, and he was heartily tired of lying to his sister. “You do know I’ve no wish to toss you out. I simply thought we’d both like having an option.”

“I know it,” she said. “And I think ’tis high time we cut these apron strings.”

He laughed. “I don’t consider m’self tied to your apron springs, Móirín.”

“’Tisn’t my apron strings I’m hoping to sever.”

“Are you calling me a mother hen?” he asked with a laugh.

“For not the first time.”

She had made similar accusations before.

“I made a vow to our parents,” he said. “I’ll not break it.”

“We made that vow, Brog. Only you have taken it to extremes.” She hooked her arm through his, something she didn’t often do. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am to have you in m’life. And I’m not unaware of all you’ve done—and do—for me.”

“But you’ve complaints to make?” He tucked his free hand in his coat pocket and didn’t look at her as they walked. He didn’t like the idea of having disappointed his sister. “I’ve not been neglectful.”

“Of me,” she said. “Before we left Dublin, you used to talk about having a family of your own someday, and a home that was yours. You never mention that now.”

He had once rambled a great deal about such things. “I’ve too much on my mind for fretting over that.”

“And I mean to see to it that I am not one of those things on your mind.”

“You always will be, Móirín. We’ve been through far too much together.”

She squeezed his arm. “We have at that. But maybe, Brogan, it’s time you started spending as many worries on your own welfare as you’re always spending on others.”

“You’re trying to wrangle me into being selfish?” He shook his head in disagreement with her notion.

“Reclaiming some dreams isn’t selfish,” she said. “Making your life what you want it to be isn’t selfish.”

“Do you have dreams you’re hoping to recapture?” he asked.

“My dreams are of returning to Dublin,” she said. “But we both know that can’t happen.”

“I wish it could,” he said.

“So do I.”

Móirín tossed him a light, quick smile. She always grew more somber when they spoke of home. They both missed it, but neither of them could return. There was no life for them in a city where they weren’t likely to remain free, perhaps even alive, for a single day after their arrival.

They went their separate ways, but her words continued to weigh on him. “Maybe it’s time you started spending as many worries on your own welfare as you’re always spending on others.” Looking out for people, caring about them, supporting them—these weren’t bad things. He found a lot of fulfillment from those efforts. It was his favorite thing about being part of the Dread Penny Society, with his friendships there being a close second.

Why, then, did her criticism hit too close to the mark?

Perhaps because his efforts with the DPS had left him even more alone than he’d been before.

Perhaps because his current efforts were placing him in the uncomfortable position of investigating a woman he was coming to like more and more. A woman who, if she realized he was one of the dishonest writers she so despised, would want nothing to do with him.

Perhaps because there was part of him that hadn’t entirely given up on the hope of building his own life, of settling somewhere, having a family of his own. He still wanted that future, but he’d not allowed himself to dream of it in years. Friendship and doing good for as many people as possible, especially his sister, had plastered over that emptiness.

“Reclaiming some dreams isn’t selfish.” Móirín might’ve been quite sure of that, but he wasn’t. He could’ve turned down the Dread Master’s request that he leave the society in order to investigate a mystery, but that would’ve left the Russian ambassador vulnerable. He could’ve saved the time and money he and his sister spent helping the poor of London and gained the house and future he’d dreamed of, but that would’ve left far too many people suffering without any relief. He could’ve ignored Móirín’s troubles in Dublin and remained there in his homeland instead of living as a fugitive in London, but she’d’ve been left in a horrific situation.

Sometimes dreams had to be sacrificed. Sometimes keeping hold of them was absolutely selfish. And selfish was one thing he refused to be.

The print shop was only open half the day on Monday. Vera’s heart-wrenching admission, “I can’t remember the last time I had a friend,” had sat as a painful weight on his heart. She said she’d found friendship in the characters she read about. She enjoyed discussing them, but worried about doing so too much while her father was nearby.

An idea had occurred to Brogan, and he’d not been able to empty his mind of it.

He knocked at the locked shop door, his excitement growing as he waited for her to answer. Not only did he sincerely believe she’d enjoy what he’d come to propose, but if she agreed to it, he’d be granted an entire afternoon of her company. He would treasure that.

Vera opened the door. The surprise in her expression was delightful. “Ganor. This isn’t one of your work days. We ain’t even open.”

“I know.” He was well aware his grin was unrepentant. “I’ve come to suggest an outing.”

“Of what sort?”

He leaned a shoulder against the door frame, hooking one boot around the other. “I know how much you enjoy discussing the penny dreadfuls but doing so here is something of a walk in a snake pit.”

She smiled a bit crookedly. “Are you calling my papa a snake?”

“It isn’t the pit I’m calling him.”

She laughed almost silently but with every indication of sincerity.

A couple stepped up behind him.

Vera shifted her attention. “May I help you?”

“You are a print shop, yes?” To Brogan’s untrained ear, the man sounded Russian.

“We are, yeah,” Vera said. “But we’re closed just now.”

The two looked inarguably disappointed.

“We’ll be open first thing in the morning,” Vera said. “You’re welcome to—”

“Let them in, kotik.” Mr. Sorokin had arrived at some point.

Vera stepped aside and motioned the new arrivals in. Mr. Sorokin showed them to the table near the back where he discussed printing jobs with customers. He did so fairly often, though the shop was still struggling. He likely wasn’t taking on terribly profitable jobs.

For a moment, Brogan was distracted watching the couple. The man kept an arm about his wife, keeping her tucked up tenderly beside him. She glanced up at her husband, and not a soul seeing her expression would doubt the love that existed between them.

Móirín’s voice echoed in his thoughts. “Reclaiming some dreams isn’t selfish.”

But dreams were a distraction, especially ones that were out of reach. He’d do far better to keep his feet planted firmly on the ground.

“I thought you didn’t have a lot of connections with the Russian community.” Brogan motioned to the couple.

“We don’t,” Vera said, “though we do have customers who’re Russian.”

Ah.

“What is it that brought you to the shop today? You mentioned an outing of some sort?” she asked.

“I know an older gentleman, lonely but sharp as a freshly made nail, who reads the penny dreadfuls as faithfully as you do,” Brogan said. “He longs for company, but doesn’t ever leave his home, so he has little of it. You’d get to discuss the stories you love while doing a world of good for a very lonely man.”

“Truly?” She stood taller, her attention fully captured. Her lips parted in small circle of interest.

“He has a daughter about your age, though I don’t know if she’ll be there. And he has a soon-to-be son-in-law who is there now and then. But it might land as only the two of us visiting with him.”

Her expression was both compassionate and intrigued. “I would like that.”

“I’d hoped you would.”

A quick moment later, she had the shop locked up, and they were walking down Old Compton Street side-by-side.

“Where does this man live?” Vera asked.

She’d agreed to go with him without knowing their destination. ’Twas a fine thing being trusted that much.

“Warwick Square,” he said.

Vera looked abruptly at him. “Warwick Square? That’s a rum-bung area of Town.”

“Rum-bung?” He laughed. “I thought I knew London cant. Then I met you and found I don’t understand a word of it.”

“You might know London,” she said. “That don’t mean you know South London.”

“’Tis that different, is it?”

Her smile remained. “Likely not, actually. But my papa is convinced I speak a language other than English.”

“You mean Russian?”

“I don’t speak Russian as well as he does.” She hooked her arm through his. He liked that far more than he probably should. “It frustrates Papa. He mentions now and then how unRussian I am. But I’ve not had much connection to Russia growing up here. I only know a bit of the language because, when my mum still lived with us, the two of them spoke it. We don’t spend time with many others from our home country, not even with the few who stop by the shop.”

“Does he not have friends from his homeland here?” Their conversation had veered directly into the topic he needed to cover: Mr. Sorokin’s connection to Russians in London. She’d mentioned it vaguely before, but he needed a few details.

She nodded. “There’re plenty in London who hail from Russia, but he has hardly anything to do with any of them. Adamant about it, in fact.”

So, Russians and writers were on his list of people he intentionally avoided. “I tremble to think what he’d do if he crossed paths with a Russian writer.”

He actually felt her stiffen.

“What do you mean by that?”

Not only had his jest fallen flat, he’d somehow managed to worry her. “I’d meant to be funny. You’ve said he doesn’t like writers, and now you’re saying he doesn’t care to rub elbows with his fellow Russians. I hadn’t meant any insult.”

She nodded. “I’m sensitive about it, I guess. Papa is sad that I’m so much London and so little Russian. But he’s the reason I’m not. It’s a weight I can’t seem to shake off.”

They walked along in silence for a while. He had hit upon something, there was no denying that. Her father’s distance from his homeland community was connected in some way to his distaste for writers. But what, if anything did that have to do with him lingering near the Russian embassy? And why was it such a point of contradiction with his daughter?

“M’sister and I haven’t a great many connections in the Irish community here in London,” Brogan said. “I’d wager your da misses that tie to his homeland as much as we miss ours.”

“He never fails to notice any news about the ambassador or some of the prominent Russians in London, but he talks with only a couple of his countrymen, and even then not often.” There was something of a sigh in her words. “He never speaks of going back, but my mum did almost constantly.”

“Do you long to go back?” he asked.

“I was a tiny child when we came here. Going back there wouldn’t be returning home; it would be leaving the only home I’ve ever known.”

Vera felt no real connection to Russia, but her da had a complicated one and an established interest in the ambassador. Something was odd there. The Dread Master hadn’t been entirely misguided in his suspicions.

Brogan stopped at a roasted nut cart and purchased two bags of hot chestnuts.

Vera bumped him with her shoulder. “You spoil me with these, you know.”

“You deserve a spot of spoiling. Besides that, the Newports aren’t wealthy people, no matter that they’ve an impressive address. I can’t say we’ll be offered anything to eat while we’re there, and I’ve no wish for you to be hungry.”

She accepted the offering with a grateful smile. “Very thoughtful of you.”

He dipped his head in an overdone impersonation of a fine society gentleman. “I am terribly gallant.”

“Or just terribly hungry.”

He laughed as they walked along. Lands, he enjoyed spending time with her. How easily he could imagine them spending every afternoon this way, growing ever more acquainted, ever more fond.

As soon as they finished their nuts, he hailed a hansom cab. It’d take an hour each direction to walk to Pimlico, and while he did enjoy her company, that felt drastic. During the drive, their conversation ranged from penny dreadfuls to pastries to entertaining stories from their childhoods.

How easy it was to forget he was investigating her father’s possible connection to an infamous criminal enterprise.

The Newports’ home was in finer feather than when Brogan had first seen it. He’d come before on DPS business and had assumed a false name—the very name, in fact, he was using at the print shop. Mr. Newport’s daughter knew Brogan’s actual identity, but they’d not told her father. That would only lead to questions that could not be safely answered.

“Mr. O’Donnell, what brings you by?” Mr. Newport greeted him in the humbly furnished sitting room, which had been entirely empty mere weeks earlier. Ana’s engagement to Hollis Darby, Brogan’s colleague at the DPS, had improved their situation.

“I’ve found someone who loves the penny dreadfuls as much as you do.” Brogan motioned to Vera. “Miss Vera Sorokina, this is Mr. Newport. Mr. Newport, Miss Sorokina.”

“A pleasure.”

Vera dipped her head. “Likewise.”

In the length of a breath, they were deep in conversation about the various penny serials and the storylines. Mr. Newport was as excited about the visit as Brogan had hoped. And Vera was as sincerely friendly with the often-lonely man as he’d known she would be.

Brogan sat beside her on the faded settee, adding to the conversation as needed, but mostly enjoying watching her eyes dance with excitement. Her entire face lit when she was enthusiastic about something. And that something, more often than not, was characters and stories and tales of adventure.

Her father’s opposition to her interests robbed her of that. Why such a deeply ingrained distrust of writers, one so solidified that he’d deny his own daughter such obvious happiness? Vera had indicated she, too, shared his misgivings.

Thank the heavens neither of them knew Brogan’s actual vocation.

Or the real reason he’d come to their shop.

Or the way he was evaluating everything he learned about them.

As the weight of that settled on his mind, his heart grew heavy with it. He was being shockingly dishonest with them. He, who had made so many speeches at DPS meetings about wanting to be a more honest man.

If this kept up, he would quickly be in deep, deep water.