The Merchant and the Rogue by Sarah M. Eden

Móirín dropped into the shop at the end of Brogan’s workday. She wore the slightly tattered cloak and bonnet she always chose when they were bound for the poorer corners of London. Blending in was a helpful thing. So was being armed. Móirín had likely brought him his pistol. She always had hers.

“We’re for Somers Town today,” Móirín said. “Frank sent word they’re having troubles.”

“He did?” Brogan hadn’t seen any note arrive.

She eyed him sidelong. “You’ve been a wee bit distracted. I’d be surprised to hear you’d noticed a single thing beyond a certain gray-eyed lass from Russia.”

Thank the heavens Vera wasn’t in the room at the moment. Her da was seated at the printing-order table in conversation with a customer who’d only just arrived. They were too focused on their transaction to be paying Brogan and Móirín any heed.

“Vera and I have struck up a friendship between us,” he said. “I’ll grant you that.”

“Lie to yourself all you want, Brog. It’ll not change the truth of the thing.”

“And what truth is that?”

“Firstly, that you talk about her constantly. Secondly”—she counted off on her fingers—“that the two of you are forever holding hands. Thirdly, I’ve eyes in m’head and can see for my own self how you look at her.”

“I surrender.” He held his hands up. “Give me a moment to let Vera know I’m nipping off.”

“Go give her a kiss goodbye. I’ll be right here waiting.”

Kiss goodbye. Móirín was not going to stop teasing him about this. If only he truly knew what “this” was. He knew he was far more than fond of Vera, and he was well aware he felt a vast deal more than friendship for her. He thought the feeling might be mutual, but he’d no guarantee.

The woman herself arrived in the room in the next moment, having been up in the flat above the shop.

“Zdrastvui,”Móirín greeted.

“What brings you ’round?” Vera stopped directly in front of them both.

“M’brother and I are jaunting out to Somers Town to look in on some people who’re struggling.” After the briefest look of absolute mischief tossed Brogan’s way, Móirín again addressed Vera. “We’d love for you to join us.”

Vera’s expression brightened. “I’d like that. Neither of the children is working here today, so I’m not needing to see them off.”

Brogan might’ve pointed out that their errands could be dangerous and that the people they were looking in on didn’t know Vera and might be uncomfortable with her seeing them in their difficulties. He might’ve. But she set her hand gently on his arm, and he was entirely undone.

In no time, they had the shop set to rights: the various items back in drawers, a cloth set over the penny dreadful display to save it from dust and make it less tempting to anyone passing by the window.

“This is the first I’ve seen your da up here today,” Brogan said as they pulled their coats on. “Whatever job he secured a bit ago must be quite a large one.”

“It ain’t a heap of printing,” Vera said. “He says it’s complicated, and he’s worried he won’t get it right. Must be important.”

“Enough that you’d not be selling the penny dreadfuls any longer?” That might let him finally tell her who he really was. Except, of course, that she and her da both distrusted writers and telling them he’d been lying about being one wouldn’t improve their opinion of them.

“He’d need a string of important print jobs. Until that happens, we’ll be selling the stories, and he’ll be put out about it.”

The three of them stepped out of the shop. Vera tucked her scarf more securely around her neck.

“Perhaps we’ll find Clare while we’re out,” she said, walking alongside them. “She’s not been in the shop in ages, it seems.”

“Makes the lass a bit more suspicious, yeah?” Móirín said.

“She didn’t strike me as the type to be part of anything like this.” Brogan had spoken with Clare a few times in the past. “Quiet, a bit withdrawn, personable.”

Móirín didn’t look put off the idea. “It may be she’s a fine actress. Or it may be she’s being forced into it.”

“Plenty enough women in Soho haven’t choices in how they live their lives or keep the roof over their heads,” Vera said. “Some fare better than others. I suppose that’s true of most everyone on Old Compton, i’n’it?”

Brogan knew the street wasn’t faring too well just now. “Have you heard anything from Mr. Overton?”

“Peter said he was in the area this morning, picking through the ashes of his business. He’s ruined. Won’t be long before the bailiffs come from King’s Bench Prison.”

“He has a lot of debts, then?”

She nodded. “He could make good on ’em if he had his business, but that’s no more than soot now.”

Brogan reached over and took her hand as they walked. “’Tis moments like this when I wish I had the resources of a lord. Breaks m’ heart not to be able to help people who’re needing it. There’re far too many suffering people in this world, and I’ve far too little ability to help them.”

She moved closer to him, walking so near that their shoulders brushed. Vera was almost exactly his same height, making holding her hand and walking in-stride a far simpler thing than it would be otherwise.

“I’m feeling proper guilty myself,” she said. “I told my neighbors I’d help. Don’t seem I’ve done much.”

Brogan slipped his hand free and, instead, set his arm around her. She rested against him, still walking along. He’d assumed the arrangement simply to offer her comfort but found his heart pounding in a most disconcerting way. He didn’t drop his arm away. He couldn’t. Walking with her as he was, enjoying their conversation and her nearness, he felt more at home than he had in ages.

Home. A future. Love. They were dreams he’d not let himself have in years. This remarkable woman was stirring them up in him again. His heart insisted he fully embrace the possibility; his mind argued that it wasn’t wise.

He was still waging that internal war when they reached Somers Town.

Vera took up the efforts there without hesitation, distributing food and medicines and listening to people share their stories. He wasn’t surprised—she’d shown herself compassionate time and again—but he was grateful to see it extended far beyond her own neighbors and customers.

They’d been there a full quarter-hour when Brogan finally had a moment to talk with Frank. “Móirín says you’re having difficulties.”

The man looked torn down. “We’d a fire not long past. No one was hurt, and we managed to put it out quickly.”

“Fires seem the threat of choice lately,” Brogan muttered.

“A note’s been left at a few flats saying more fires could be prevented if—”

“If the note-leaver gets paid a small bit each week?”

“Oi.” Frank eyed him, confused and clearly more than a bit worried.

“The same thing’s happening in Soho,” Brogan explained.

“I’ve heard whispers from Covent Garden, Vauxhall, Globe Town.” Frank shook his head, the gesture one of weariness. “Someone’s turning a fine profit, but on the backs of the poor.”

“And does that someone have a name of sorts?” Brogan asked.

“Oi. Calls ’imself the Protector.”

“Same villain that’s causing trouble in Soho,” Brogan said. “We think there’s a woman by the name of Clare, who might know something about him.” He pulled out the drawing Móirín had made and showed it to Frank. “Have you seen her?”

Frank studied the sketch but shook his head. “Cain’t say I have.”

“Study it a spell,” Brogan said. “If you see her, send word to Móirín or me. We’re needing to find her without her knowing we’re looking.”

He made an obvious study of the face in front of him. “I’ll send word.”

“We’d appreciate it.”

Ganor served the poor people of London as naturally as most people breathed. Vera enjoyed watching him every bit as much as she appreciated being helpful herself. He’d told her that he was disappointed at not being able to do more for people in need and that his heart was heavy at not having a means of taking his sister back to Dublin. She’d known his was a kind heart, but seeing such ample evidence of it endeared him ever more to her.

Her efforts with the O’Donnell siblings took them to a few different corners of Town. At each spot, the brother and sister knew the people they worked with by name and remembered without prompting what was weighing on each of them. Ganor was precisely that way with the people of Old Compton. He cared, and he worked tirelessly on behalf of others. When she had been torn to bits with exhaustion, he’d buoyed her.

But who, she found herself wondering, buoyed him?

Either Móirín or Ganor showed the sketch of Clare to people in the various corners they visited. Two thought her face looked familiar. The others didn’t recognize her. But all promised to consider the matter and send word if they twigged any clues.

“Do you always do so much walking in an afternoon?” Vera asked as they made their way from yet another stop, the streetlamps having been long since lit. Darkness came early in the winter.

“We don’t usually make so many stops in one day,” Móirín said. “But we’re needing as many eyes peeled as possible looking for your mysterious Clare.”

“But you’re not doing only that,” Vera said. “You’re helping people too.”

“They’ve enough to worry about without us interrupting their day for something that’ll be of no help to them,” Ganor said.

The O’Donnells paused at a vegetable cart near Covent Garden, though whether doing their own grocering or gathering food for others, Vera didn’t know.

A harsh “psst” caught her attention. She looked about, searching. A moment later, she heard it again. On the third go, she spotted the woman making the noise and waving her over.

Vera closed the distance, which wasn’t far. “Are you needing something?”

“Only a word.” The woman sounded Irish. “I’ve seen who you’re here with.”

Vera tilted her head. “The O’Donnells?”

Frowning, the woman shook her head.

“You’ve confused them, it seems,” Vera said, kindly. “That’s Ganor and Móirín O’Donnell.”

“’Tisn’t, though. Móirín she is, but his name’s Brogan. And they’re the Donnellys. They’re too well known in Dublin to be mistaken for anyone else.”

Brogan Donnelly? The writer of “The Dead Zoo”? No, it couldn’t be.

But at the sibling’s flat the night before, Móirín had called him “Brog.” Vera had assumed at the time it was an Irish word. What if, instead, it was a nickname tossed out by habit?

Brogan Donnelly.No. He’d told her his name was Ganor. Ganor O’Donnell. He answered to it. People who knew him called him that. He’d not have perpetuated so large a ruse. He’d not have lied to her so much and for so long.

“I’d not pour rumor broth in your ear if I didn’t think you ought to be warned. I can’t imagine you know or you’d not—” The woman clamped her mouth shut and shook her head fast and furious.

“Cain’t leave it there,” Vera said. “Spill your budget.”

The Irishwoman’s eyes darted in the direction of the brother and sister, worry and something like fear tugging at her expression. “Donnelly is a name well known in Dublin. These Donnellys.”

Ganor had said he and his sister had fled their hometown with the blue-bottles close on their tails.

“They can’t go back, they can’t,” the woman added.

“I’ve heard that.” Ganor had said the two of them would be in danger if they returned to Ireland. That this woman was saying the same about him while calling him by a different name was too great a coincidence to be a coincidence.

“And do you know why they can’t go back?” the Irishwoman pressed.

“I’m beginning to doubt I know anything,” Vera muttered.

“’Twasn’t a small thing that triggered their run from the Peelers,” the woman said. “’Tis why I had to talk to you, why I had to warn you.”

Vera’s heart dropped ever further. What else had he lied about? “What was it that sent them fleeing from Dublin?”

Another darting look at Ganor—Brogan—and Móirín delayed the woman’s answer. But when it came, Vera wasn’t the least prepared for it.

“Murder.”