The Merchant and the Rogue by Sarah M. Eden

It had been two days since Vera had accompanied him and Móirín on their mission to Somers Town, and Vera had been very quiet toward him ever since. She’d not been herself, and it was fretting Brogan. Though he’d not give Móirín the satisfaction of knowing she’d read him right, he’d admitted to himself that he’d begun falling in love with Vera. He thanked his lucky stars every time they were together, and he missed her when they were apart.

He, who had long ago given up on his once-cherished dream of a family and home of his own, was letting himself imagine that again. They could teach each other bits of the languages of their homelands. They could fill their home with reminders of where they’d come from, of family members they’d lost. They’d continue on with the work he and Móirín undertook in the struggling corners of London. He’d read her his stories before sending them to—

That caught him up short. She didn’t know who he really was. She didn’t know he was a writer, a member of the profession she distrusted and despised. He’d do best not to build castles in the clouds until he knew how likely they were to come tumbling to the ground.

When Brogan reached the print shop, Peter was at his cart beneath the overhang, calling out to passersby, telling them he had “fine fruit” and “perfect pippins.”

“How’s today’s apples?” Brogan asked, pausing in front of the shop door.

“Perfect,” Peter said.

“That is the word on the street.”

Peter perked up. “Who’s been talking ’bout my apples?”

“You have.” In a decent imitation of the man’s monger shout, Brogan repeated, “Perfect pippins!”

The fruit seller laughed and waved him off.

The pause had allowed Brogan to regain a bit of his footing. He knew he would eventually need to tell Vera his real name and profession. But he was being honest with her in most other respects. He’d told her of fleeing Dublin, of being unable to return. He’d told her of struggling with his sister’s unhappiness. She’d gone along with him as he’d looked in on the struggling people he tried to help. They were working together to solve the mystery of the Protector. No matter that she didn’t know Brogan’s name, she knew him better than most of the people in his life.

He simply had to trust that, in the end, it would be enough to give her some faith in him.

Vera was standing near the display of penny dreadfuls, giving instructions to Olly and Licorice. It’d been ages since both children had been working there on the same day. Olly popped him a salute. Licorice offered a quick nod.

Not wishing to interrupt, Brogan slipped quickly to the back and hung his hat and coat on the nail he always did. Mr. Sorokin must’ve been nearly finished with his latest printing order. The table in the back room was strewn with samples, several marked with changes to be made. He’d left the room in disarray, something neither father nor daughter ever did. The man, it seemed, was overwhelmed by the job he’d taken on. He likely wouldn’t be if he confided in his daughter more.

Brogan hoped the job proved as lucrative as Mr. Sorokin believed it would be; Vera had spoken many times about the struggle they’d had to make the shop profitable.

He stepped back into the main room, excited to start the day. Working at a shop would not have been his first choice, but he found he thoroughly enjoyed it. That, he suspected, had far more to do with Vera than with the work he did there.

Vera nudged the children on to do their work. Brogan smiled at her when she turned to face him. She, however, did not smile back.

Odd.

“Good morning, Vera.”

“A minute of your time, please.” She pointed toward the back. Her tone was too formal, too unemotional. Something was decidedly wrong. Whatever had been bothering her when they’d last been together seemed to be troubling her still.

“Of course.”

He followed her to the back of the room, but not through the back door. She looked him in the eye, her shoulders back, her chin at a confident angle.

“Is something the matter, Vera?” he asked. “You seem upset.”

“I’m not upset.” But she wasn’t terribly convincing. “I pulled you aside to inform you that your employment here has come to an end.”

’Twas little she might have said that would’ve surprised him more than hearing that. It’d come without warning. There’d been no indication she was unhappy with his work. He’d always done his best, gone beyond what was asked of him. He was, he’d thought, an asset to the shop.

He’d thought he was more than that.

“If this is a jest of some kind, I’m struggling to find the humor in it.”

Vera gave a firm shake of her head. “No jest.”

He watched her closely, searching for some kind of clue as to what was happening. She was as unreadable as an empty page.

“You’re truly giving me the sack?”

“You’ll be paid the wages that are due you.”

He quickly eyed the children. “Is the trouble that you can’t pay me and the wee’ns both? I’d give the children my pay if need be. I’m certain they need it more than I do.”

Nothing in her demeanor softened. “It’s precisely what I told you: you’re no longer needed here.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “No longer needed, or no longer wanted?”

“No longer either.” The coldness of her response sent a shiver down his spine.

It made no sense. “You’re the one I work for, so I’ve no ability to override your decision here, but I do think I’m entitled to some explanation.”

“I gave you one already.” With that, she turned about and made to walk back to the heart of the shop.

To her retreating back, he said, “You said I wasn’t needed or wanted, but you didn’t tell me why.”

Vera half-turned, enough to look at him over her shoulder. “I do not employ people I cain’t trust.”

Her words were piercing. Hadn’t he been thinking on his way to Soho how much he disliked the dishonesty between them? She had declared she couldn’t trust him. That was truer than he would prefer.

“Why is it you don’t think you can trust me?” He could hear the worry in his voice.

“Why is it you think I can?” Then she added in a hard and unyielding tone, “Brogan.”

Brogan. She had found out somehow. Learning his actual name told her more than merely that lie. It told her he’d lied about his profession. He’d lied about his need for employment. He’d heard her explain more than once her family’s feelings about writers, and he hadn’t said anything, hadn’t kept a distance when he’d known that was what they’d prefer.

He’d been open with her about so many other things that he’d hoped it would be enough to overcome this . . . eventually. Seeing her walk away, back ramrod straight, he knew it wasn’t.

Stomach firmly in the soles of his boots, he stepped into the back room. No more than a minute had passed since he’d been there, but he felt decades older. He pulled his coat off the nail he’d only just hung it on. His mind refused to make the least sense of all that had just happened.

He swallowed. He tried to breathe. His mind was so befuddled that his body didn’t seem to know how to function without it.

There must be a way of fixing this. There has to be.

But even as the desperate thought spun in his mind, he knew it was futile. He himself had argued that this would eventually be the result for all the Dreadfuls and the lies they told. The secrecy allowed them to save lives, but he’d always known it would eventually exact a steep, terrible price. And he was paying it now.

He’d sacrificed the friendships he’d made in the DPS. He was still telling half-truths to his sister. He’d lost Vera, lost all the dreams he’d begun having of the two of them. And for what? He wasn’t any closer to solving the mystery he’d been sent to Soho to investigate.

His eyes took in the back room while his mind attempted to find a way of moving forward. A name on the papers scattered across the desk caught his attention: Lord Chelmsford. That was the gentleman the Dread Master had mentioned was on the outs with the Russian ambassador.

Brogan looked around, making absolutely certain he was alone, then stepped closer and carefully slid the paper out from underneath the ones nearly hiding it, making note of its position so he could return it with no one the wiser.

It was a handwritten letter, which was odd for a print shop, and addressed to the Russian ambassador. A quick glance at the bottom showed it was signed by Chelmsford. In it, the baron spoke of a document that he implored the ambassador not to share. He mentioned their long-standing friendship, the trust that bound them. The letter spoke of damage to Chelmsford’s reputation should the document be found.

Strange.

On the table, directly below where the letter had been, was a stack of nearly identical documents, ones with only the slightest changes made between them. He took them up as well, careful not to disturb the papers that had been hiding them. Here was a solid connection between Mr. Sorokin and the ambassador. ’Twas what he’d come to the shop to search for. Weeks earlier, he’d’ve been excited by the discovery, but now he felt no joy, so sense of accomplishment.

Rather, he felt lost.

Brogan tucked the papers carefully into the inner pocket of his coat, then pulled it on, followed by his hat. Determined not to make a scene, he slipped back out, making his exit as quietly as possible. Though he wanted to leave unnoticed, it hurt a little how easily it was managed.

No one offered a goodbye. No one seemed to care that he was leaving for good. The ache in his heart turned to a piercing stab of pain. He’d let himself dream again, as Móirín had suggested. Those dreams had seemed to be nearly within reach, only to be snatched away.

Reclaiming dreams might not have been selfish, but it had proven foolish in the extreme.

Brogan stopped at Soho Square, an unassuming green in the midst of this rough area of town. He stopped beneath an obliging tree and looked over the papers he’d nipped off with. Perhaps focusing on the mystery he’d been tasked to solve would prove enough of a distraction to ease the pain in his chest.

The letter was covered with notes about adjusting the formation of certain letters, of keeping aspects of the handwriting consistent. A great many things were noted about the signature in particular.

The document printed on a press rather than written by hand was a list of names, money amounts, and phrases such as “evidence” and “verbatim testimony” and “will offer no information.” Despite the fact that these documents must’ve been printed in the last day or two, they were dated 1824.

Among the nearly identical lists, he found a paper containing nothing but Baron Chelmsford’s signature, written again and again, only the slightest differences between them all.

In a flash of understanding, Brogan knew what he was holding.

Forgeries.

This was the print job, the lucrative opportunity Mr. Sorokin had been so excited—and so secretive—about. Vera had been confused by her father’s refusal to discuss any part of this job, but that made perfect sense now. It also explained why Mr. Sorokin had been hanging about the embassy and the concern the ambassador had.

Sorokin was involved. And it seemed he was keeping the truth of it from Vera. Brogan wanted to be relieved at that, but he wasn’t. Forgeries were a dangerous business, and ambassadors made powerful enemies.

Brogan kept his posture as casual as he could manage. The green wasn’t empty, and ’twouldn’t do to draw attention while he was in possession of forged documents. The people behind the deception wouldn’t be happy with the arrangement, and the police would never believe he hadn’t had a hand in making them.

He tucked the papers in his coat once more and leaned back against the wide tree trunk. Fletcher needed to be told about the papers, but rushing off would only make Brogan more conspicuous. Time slowed as he stood there, pretending all was right in the world when absolutely nothing was. There was something painfully fitting about being required to lie even to himself now.

When time enough had passed for him to appear to be lazily wandering away, Brogan made his way to Fleet Street. He searched the faces he passed, looking for one bootblack in particular. Henry, Fletcher’s most active and helpful urchin informant, always knew how to get a message to him without drawing the least notice.

The moment he spotted the boy he was looking for, Brogan pulled from his watch pocket an etched penny. All of the Dreadfuls used these precise calling cards. Some of them were given to their contacts to use when getting them messages. They each possessed one penny that granted them access to headquarters; Brogan had been required to turn that one over. But this penny was one he’d marked with his own symbol. The Dreadfuls used those to send word to a fellow Dreadful when they needed to discreetly discuss something.

Brogan leaned up against the wall beside Henry. He spun his penny around in his fingers. Henry gave only the tiniest indication that he noticed.

“Think you could get this to a mutual friend of ours?” Brogan asked.

Henry made a noise of agreement. Brogan tossed the penny to him, and he caught it easily. Henry pocketed it but didn’t move. Brogan had done this often enough to understand the rest. He would walk on. When enough time had passed to not draw notice, Henry would do the same.

Brogan pointed himself in the direction of his flat. Perhaps working on the next installment for his publisher would give him something to think about other than the shattered remains of his heart and the echo in his mind of Vera spitting out his name in disgust. He’d lost her, and with her, every hope and dream he’d kept in his heart.