The Merchant and the Rogue by Sarah M. Eden
Ahalf-dozen members of the DPS gathered in Hollis Darby’s flat. ’Twould only be his home for another fortnight, after which he and Ana Newport would be married. Fletcher had answered Albie’s message in precisely the way Brogan had predicted, but rather than allowing Brogan to address the Dreadfuls at headquarters, Fletcher had agreed to gather a few members at a neutral location and discuss only what the Dread Master would allow.
Stone, Doc, Hollis, Martin, and Elizabeth were tucked into Hollis’s small sitting room, watching Brogan with both curiosity and uncertainty. They whispered among themselves, but he stood too far distant to overhear.
A hush fell over the room as Fletcher strolled inside. He was a commanding presence, even moving so casually. He made his way to the front. He took off his tall hat and set it on the mantelpiece. Fletcher then dropped into an empty chair with all the theatrical drama of a vagabond who’d usurped a throne.
“How’s tricks?” His grin could not be mistaken for anything other than enjoyment. Fletcher hadn’t a demure bone in his body.
“Some of us have other things to see to today,” Elizabeth said. “Please move directly to the matter at hand.”
He gave her an undeniably flirtatious glance; their romantic attachment was well known to everyone in attendance. “You don’t usually object.”
“I also don’t usually belt you, but I’m willing to make an exception.”
With a laugh, Fletcher got down to business. “We’ve a certain Irishman in need of help. I’ve brought the lot of you here because I’d wager you’re his best hope.”
“He abandoned us,” Doc said, pointing at Brogan. “Quite bold to then come asking for our help.”
There were far more hurt feelings than actual anger in Doc’s tone. Brogan had long suspected the man’s history was a difficult and painful one. Something he hadn’t told the DPS about drove him to spend vast amounts of his limited time rescuing people from horrid situations; he’d grow almost desperate when he wasn’t able to.
Brogan moved to a spot where he could address them all. “I know ’tis the beyond of everything for me to be asking any of you to help me. I’d not be doing it were I the one in danger.”
“Something the matter with Móirín?” Stone asked, somehow both doubtful and concerned.
Brogan shook his head. “Most of you likely know I’ve been toiling in a print shop these past weeks. While there, I’ve . . .” He had to tread carefully. Too many secrets were tucked into the folds of those recollections. “The entire street is being bullied into paying ‘protection money,’ and those who don’t hand over the blunt have been robbed or had their shops set ablaze.”
“That’s happening in other corners, too,” Martin said. His specialty among them was gathering information. How he knew so much and so quickly, none of them were sure, but he was reliable as the day was long. “I’m hearing whispers from all around.”
The others didn’t look at all surprised. This, likely, had been discussed at DPS meetings Brogan had missed. There were distinct disadvantages to not being among them. He hoped they’d be willing to overlook the current gap between himself and the Dreadfuls.
Fletcher jumped into the discussion once more. “Were that the only difficulty Brogan’s juggling, I’d not’ve dragged the lot of you here.”
Brogan knew the underlying message in those words: the Dread Master had given the nod to tell these few Dreadfuls about the blackmail. But unless Brogan received a letter specifically telling him to do so, he’d not reveal his assignment or the Dread Master’s involvement.
“Baron Chelmsford, former Lord High Chancellor, is being blackmailed,” he told the group, “and that blackmail is being perpetrated by the Mastiff.”
This, clearly, was new information among them. Surprised and concerned glances were exchanged all around.
“The man that owns the print shop where I work has been forced to create counterfeit documents, likely by holding over his head the axe of his own difficult history. The Russian Ambassador is being forced to corroborate the forgeries, likely by means of threats. The papers that will be his downfall are assumed to already be at Chelmsford’s house, tucked in a place where they will be discovered and made public.”
“Any notion what the forgeries are?” Elizabeth asked.
He pulled the papers from his coat. “A letter from Lord Chelmsford”—he held it up—“asking the ambassador not to reveal the existence of this document”—he held up the marked drafts—“which is also a forgery.”
“What’s the document about?” Doc asked.
“A list of names, of payment amounts, and what was being paid for. Printed at the top are the words ‘Securing a Verdict in the Radlett Case.’ The obvious inference is that this is meant to document the bribing of witnesses and judges and such to obtain a particular verdict.”
“This is to do with the Radlett murder?” Hollis let forth a low whistle. “Chelmsford’s efforts in defending Joseph Hunt in that trial are quite famous. It is the stuff of folklore: songs recounting the gruesome scene, waxworks recreations, penny dreadful retellings.” Hollis gave them all knowing looks. “Calling into question his role in something so well-known is a risk.”
“What’s the risk to Chelmsford?” Stone asked.
“That trial is one of the reasons he was made a baron. His reputation, his accomplishments, his potential future place in administrations rests in significant part on that case,” Hollis said.
“It seems ruining Lord Chelmsford isthe goal here,” Elizabeth said. “Except, he likely can prove it false.”
“Or,” Fletcher jumped in, “he can likely almost prove it false, but even doing that would leave lingering doubts. And the Mastiff likely has a plan for addressing those doubts . . . for a price.”
“More blackmail,” Brogan said.
“More ‘protection payments,’” Doc tossed back. “Have you considered that maybe the two schemes might be related?”
Saints. “I’m considering it now. The extortion notes are signed by someone calling himself ‘the Protector.’ Might very well be yet another colleague of the Mastiff.”
“It’d make sense,” Fletcher said. “Threatening the street kept everyone’s attention off Mr. Sorokin, including his daughter’s. With their resources strapped in more than one way, they’d be that much more vulnerable.”
Brogan pulled out of his pocket the sketch Móirín had made of Clare. “This is the woman we think has been leaving the notes. If the Mastiff is connected, she might be a clue to finding him. Maybe we could finally stop him.”
He handed the paper to Elizabeth.
Hollis eyed it over her shoulder. A gasp escaped, apparently involuntarily. “It’s her.”
“You know this woman?”
He nodded. “It isn’t a perfect likeness, but . . .” Hollis studied the face as he spoke, low and quick. “Do you remember when I was infiltrating the gambling house and there was a housekeeper, Serena, who helped us escape and begged that we rescue her and her children?”
The DPS had been attempting to find Serena ever since, wanting to uphold their promise and help her escape the clutches of the infamous Mastiff.
“This is her.” Hollis tapped the sketch. “I’m certain of it.”
Boil and blast. Serena was likely still in the employ—coerced, no doubt—of the criminal mastermind, being forced to do his dirty work for him, just as she had in the gambling den, though now she was going by a different name, likely also forced on her.
That meant the Mastiff was connected to the trouble on Old Compton as well as to the forgeries. There didn’t seem to be a rancid pie he didn’t have a finger in.
“Lives are in danger on that street,” Brogan told them. “The Sorokins look after urchins; two work at the shop regularly. There’re families living over the businesses there. Women who’re already being exploited are now even more vulnerable. Street vendors with nowhere to hide. We have to find a means of stopping this. All of it.”
No matter that the Dreadfuls likely still didn’t think too well of Brogan for having abandoned the organization, they united fully and quickly under the necessity of a desperate cause.
“We need to unravel the game from the top,” Fletcher said. “It’s the only way to stop both efforts with one blow.”
“It’d be easy enough to watch the street,” Martin said. “A few extra eyes’d make a difference. Sounding the alarm when needed, stopping assaults. Keeping a weather eye out for this mort”—he tipped his head in the direction of the drawing of “Clare”—“and see if we can’t thwart any roughs that come by to make trouble. We can set up a rotating watch of Dreadfuls. Might take a bit to organize it, but it can be done.”
“I’d appreciate it,” Brogan said.
“How do we stop the blackmail scheme when the documents are already at Lord Chelmsford’s house?” Doc asked.
“Can you warn him?” Elizabeth asked Brogan
He shook his head. “Not without implicating the other victims. And I’ve every reason to believe they’re being watched—the other victims, I mean. If they double-cross the Mastiff . . .” He let the sentence hang unfinished. They didn’t need to be told again how dangerous their greatest foe truly was.
“So steal ’em,” Stone said in his usual direct manner, bringing all eyes to him. “If the papers disappear when neither fella is anywhere near Chelmsford’s house, they can’t be blamed for it.”
“They’ll likely be in the man’s library.” Fletcher shook his head. It was a tall ask, for certain. “None of us is that stealthy.”
With a sigh, Hollis said, “Ana is.”
She’d had a long, impressive, and entirely secret career as the legendary sneak thief the Phantom Fox.
“Would she help?” Brogan asked. “’Tis a risky business, this.”
“I’d wager she’d be willing,” Hollis said, “but giving her information about this raises the possibility that she’ll sort out more of the DPS and our efforts. I’d guess she’s not far off the mark as it is.”
“We’ll be careful,” Fletcher said. “We’ve already lost one member over the weight of secrecy. We can’t afford to lose another.”
