The Merchant and the Rogue by Sarah M. Eden
Brogan couldn’t manage to write a single word. His publisher would have his neck if he was late with the next installment, but he couldn’t concentrate. Vera had returned to the print shop that morning, having passed the night safely at the flat. ’Twasn’t one of Brogan’s days for working there. Thus he was at home, meant to be putting pen to paper.
His mind, though, was with her. A growing part of his heart was as well.
Was the shop safe? Was she planning to talk with her neighbors? Would his being there have been helpful today? He wished he knew for certain.
By midmorning, he’d accomplished exactly nothing when someone knocked at the door. Hadn’t been that long ago when an interruption in the middle of his writing day was an annoyance. Today, he was grateful.
Until he opened the door.
’Twas Elizabeth Black, headmistress of a respected girls’ school and writer of respectable novels. She was also secretly the author known as Mr. King, and the only female member of the Dread Penny Society. Brogan, of course, knew her well, but having her at his door now that he was considered a former member of the DPS had the potential to deal him as much of a blow as his encounter with Doc had.
She also knew Móirín. “M’sister’s not here. She’s off doing the day’s cleaning.”
“Perfect.” With that, Elizabeth stepped inside, the click of her heeled boots echoing around the entryway. She’d never lacked for boldness.
Brogan closed the door and followed her to the sitting room. He was not left to wonder long what she’d come to discuss.
“I had a most enlightening conversation with Ana Newport yesterday.” Her tone gave the declaration significance.
“How is Ana?”
“A better question is ‘How is Ganor’?” She folded her arms, one shoulder tipping higher than the other, and skewered him with a look. “Why’re you using a false name, Brogan?”
“Mr. Newport knows me as Ganor O’Donnell. Ana told me her own self not many weeks past that she thought it best we not burden his mind overly much by correcting that name now.”
Elizabeth’s only reaction to that explanation was the slightest tip of her head.
“Ana really did ask me not to—”
She cut him off with a lifted hand. “She said the report she received was that someone else was there with you who didn’t seem at all to doubt that Ganor O’Donnell is your name. That’s an identity you used during your DPS years. Why’re you using it now?”
Keeping secrets from Móirín had always been difficult; keeping them from the Dreadfuls was proving nearly impossible.
“I’d never’ve been hired at the shop where I’m working if they knew who I really am.”
Her gaze narrowed on him. “I thought your latest story was selling well. I see it all around London.”
She was too clever by half. ’Twas like having yet another Móirín. Brogan didn’t like lying, but it seemed that was all he did anymore.
“A bit of extra coin in m’pocket might mean Móirín and I could begin building lives of our own. It’d mean a lot to the both of us.”
Though Elizabeth didn’t look convinced, she didn’t press. “Why wouldn’t this shop hire you as yourself?”
“The owner harbors a deep dislike of authors.”
She grinned, looking as if she were barely holding back a laugh. His lack of amusement must’ve made a quick impression; her smile faded.
“You are in earnest.”
He nodded.
“Why does this shop dislike writers so much?”
Brogan shrugged. “Something in the family’s past.”
“And you’ve fallen in love with the shop girl anyway?”
He actually sputtered, something he tried very hard not to do. “’Tis a bold assessment from Ana, considering she wasn’t even there during our visit.”
Laughter entered Elizabeth’s eyes. “Her father offered that evaluation.”
“And you’ve come because you’re concerned I might be courting someone who hates writers and doesn’t know my actual identity or profession?” Mercy, that was a discouraging summary.
“It was a convenient excuse.”
“Excuse?”
She shrugged. “I’ve wondered how you’ve been doing since parting ways with the rest of us.”
“Middling,” he answered, matching her shrug with one of his own. The gesture tossed his thoughts to Vera. She had such an endearing way of shrugging. Was it odd of him to be so fond of a gesture? To smile inwardly when he thought of it?
“The Dreadfuls are struggling.” Elizabeth broke into his wandering thoughts. “I’m told you’re the first member to have left. It’s thrown things into a bit of uncertainty.”
He rubbed a hand across his forehead. “Doc did seem put out with me when I saw him a week or so ago.”
“You were a hardworking part of the group. Making up the difference with you gone is not an easy thing.”
“Foot soldiers like me are easy to replace,” he said. “You’ve plenty enough captains and generals to fill that gap.”
“Is that all you think you are?”
“There’s nothing shameful in being the one who follows through on orders. Not everyone has to be the one giving the orders.”
She leaned forward. “But you seem to think not being the one in charge makes you less needed or important. If you could see how the Dreadfuls are scrambling, you would know that is not true.”
It was both reassuring and discouraging. “I hadn’t meant to leave them in a lurch.”
“You seem to be in a bit of a lurch yourself.”
He shook his head. “My struggles aren’t my biggest worry. Too many people in my life need a champion.”
“So be one.” Elizabeth had a tendency to go directly to the heart of a matter, but it meant she sometimes missed the complications.
“Again, I’m the reinforcements not the hero.”
She rose. “Then be heroically reinforcing.”
“I do not believe that is a real role.”
Elizabeth gave him one of her well-known looks of amused annoyance as she made for the door. “Heroes come in a lot of forms, Brogan. Be the one you are best suited to being.”
Best suited? What type of hero could a one-time street urchin, turned delivery boy, turned refugee, turned second-rate former member of a secret organization possibly be best suited to?
Thinking of Vera and the burden she was carrying, he found his usual doubt less powerful than his wish to help her in whatever way he could.
“Heroes come in a lot of forms.” Perhaps it was time he figured out what form he came in.
“It isn’t protection money.” Vera ended her explanation to her neighbors with very little encouragement to offer. “It’s extortion.”
“What can we do?” Mr. Bianchi asked. “We can’t go on like this forever.”
Vera pushed out a slow, tight breath. “I wish I knew.”
“Would the police help us?” Mr. Okeke asked.
“I received another note today,” Mr. Murphy said. “It warned against bringing in the blue-bottles.”
“I can’t afford to keep paying the ransom,” Gemma said. “I’ll be plum outta blunt soon enough. How do we make it stop?”
“We take away their power,” Vera said. “A big part of doing that is learning who the Protector is.”
Gemma sighed, frustrated. “There’s no way of learnin’ that. It’s a different rough every time what collects the money. And no one’s yet seen who leaves the notes.”
“Arson seems the order of the day. Can we at least protect against that?” Mr. Bianchi asked.
“Not one of us has the blunt for fire insurance,” Mr. Okeke said.
“We shouldn’t have to,” Gemma said. “I read the papers. Parliament passed a law. The fire brigades are supposed to put out any fire.”
“That law don’t go into effect until January,” Vera said. “We can’t depend on the brigades. We need to depend on each other.”
“Takes too long to get water here from the pump down the road.” Mr. Overton spoke for the first time. He and his family had been taken in by the Bianchis, but heaven only knew how long that family could afford the extra mouths when Overton had no income.
“What if we all agree to keep an extra bucket of water in our shops?” Vera suggested. “That’d give us a dozen buckets, at least, to get started dousing a fire while more water was run over from the pump.”
It wouldn’t be foolproof, and it might not be enough, but it’d be a far sight better than doing nothing.
“Word of the fire didn’t reach everyone quickly enough,” Mr. Okeke said. “If we had a plan for getting word to everyone, that’d speed things.”
“Good suggestion,” Vera said.
“I can organize that.” Mr. Overton’s downcast expression lifted. “I’ll work up some kind of plot and let everyone know.”
“Excellent.” Vera gave him what she hoped was an encouraging nod. “And if everyone’d get me them lists of people who were about or anything unusual on the days the notes were left, that’d help a heap.”
They began handing slips of paper to the people sitting closer to her, passing the growing stack forward.
“If we can convince this Protector fella that we’re looking out for each other and can thwart his plans, he might leave us be.” Gemma’s declaration was optimistic, but not entirely unrealistic.
“And anyone struggling to make the payment needs to let the rest of us know,” Vera said. “We’ve strength in our numbers, but only if we work together.”
Exclamations of “hear, hear” and “Indeed” and other shows of agreement followed, as Vera collected her neighbors’ handwritten recollections.
“Miss Vera, you’ve visitors coming.” Peter had been placed at the window, charged with watching the street.
“Who is it?”
“Mr. O’Donnell and some cloddy bloke.”
Ganor had endeared himself to everyone present with his tireless efforts to put out the fire at Overton’s. He also never failed to offer friendly greetings all around. He remembered all their names, their professions, their worries and joys.
A moment later, the man himself stepped inside along with someone Vera didn’t know, a man likely ten years his senior. The gathering grew very quiet, very attentive.
“Forgive the interruption,” Ganor said, “but I’ve called on an acquaintance of mine who’s taken an interest in your recent concerns.”
“Who’s this bloke?” Mr. Overton demanded, his tone as defiant as it was uncertain.
“This here’s Captain Eyre Massey Shaw, head of the London Fire Engine Establishment.” Ganor must’ve felt the same tension Vera sensed growing in the room. “I’ll point out to you that your recent experiences were with private brigades, not with his.”
That eased things a little.
“He told me in detail how you were treated by the insurance brigades.” Captain Shaw was decidedly Irish, which was likely how Ganor had gotten to know him. “I’ve come with the reassurance that I will insist the London Fire Engine Establishment fill in the gap while we wait for the law to change. My brigades will be made aware of your troubles here. They’re brave and tireless, and they aren’t in the pocket of any insurer.”
It weren’t precisely a guarantee, but it was far more reassurance than they’d had mere moments earlier. That was worth something.
“I mean to regularly check with the people of this street to know if you’ve had trouble in this matter.” Captain Shaw turned to Ganor. “Who was it lost their building in this business?”
Ganor motioned with his head to Mr. Overton. “A barbershop was totally lost. The entire building fell in. Only by luck and the tenacity of a hastily formed bucket brigade did the adjacent buildings escape being engulfed as well.”
To Mr. Overton, Captain Shaw said, “I’d appreciate being shown the site. It’d be good for me to be familiar with what’s happened.”
The barber nodded and rose, accompanying the man charged with overseeing all the firefighting efforts in the entire metropolis. A man who was now on their side and willing to prevent another tragedy.
Vera felt more hopeful than she had since the day of the fire. She saw that same hope reflected in the faces of her neighbors.
“The fire brigade’ll be looking out for us,” Mr. Bianchi said. “That takes some of the wind out of the threat, don’t it?”
“A bit, leastwise,” Vera answered.
Ganor received words of thanks and firm handshakes. He received them all with the broad smile she’d seen so often since he’d first begun working at the shop, the one she’d grown so very fond of.
The neighbors hung about for a spell, slowly wandering out now that their planning meeting had come to its natural close. After a time, only Vera and Brogan remained.
“How is it you convinced Captain Shaw to take an interest in our tiny, poor corner of London?”
“The man owed me a favor,” he spoke rather mysteriously. “Seemed the right time to call it in.”
“The head of the London Fire Engine Establishment owes you a personal favor?”
“Let us just say m’ years in Dublin were . . . colorful.”
“I’d love to hear about it some time.”
The smile twinkled in his eyes, setting her heart to a pleasant sort of flutter. “Come to the flat for supper again tonight,” he said. “I’ll tell you a few tales, lass.”
Despite the heaviness of her mind, Vera brightened at the prospect. In the midst of uncertainty and deception, worries over lies and threats, she had found a refuge, someone she could rely on.
