The Merchant and the Rogue by Sarah M. Eden

Brogan brought Vera back to his and Móirín’s flat to convalesce. Her life was not in danger, but what that life would look like remained to be seen. They’d only been home a matter of hours when two notes arrived: one for Brogan and one for Vera.

Sleep sat heavy on her features. She’d likely not keep her eyes open long enough to read hers.

“Would you like me to read it to you?” he offered.

“Please.”

He unfolded the smudged and scuffed paper. The handwriting was haphazard and hasty.

Kotik,

I am so proud of you. Now it is time for you to rest and heal. The children remain with me. Whispers are abundant on the street, warning me that the storm has not yet passed. Donnelly will safeguard you just as I will safeguard these little ones. If the fates are willing, we will reunite soon and rebuild.

Until then, be safe. Be vigilant. I will see you as soon as it is safe.

Pápochka

“The tempest is bigger than we know.” Vera whispered the warning they’d heard from both Clare and Four-Finger Mike, the same warning that was echoed in her father’s note.

Brogan pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You’ve an army, my dear. You will not face that storm alone.”

Her smile was weak. Her eyelids were heavy. “Promise I’ll have you. That is better than any army.”

“You always will, my love.” He kissed her lips, softly and tenderly. “And with you, I’ll have every dream I’ve ever hoped for.”

She released a slow breath. Her eyelids fluttered closed. In the next moment, her expression relaxed with sleep.

He sat beside her bed for a few minutes longer, grateful she was resting. Even more grateful she was alive. It had been a near thing.

All was quiet. He leaned back in his chair and pulled from his pocket the note he’d received. The wax seal on the back was disconcertingly familiar. This note was from the Dread Master.

As he unfolded it, a penny fell out onto his lap. He picked it up, turning it around with his fingers. It was marked with the design specific to the Dreadfuls. He’d handed his own penny over to Fletcher at the time of his feigned resignation.

Brogan turned his attention back to the note.

Today. 2 o’clock. Parliament.

He knew in an instant what the brief message meant. The Dread Master was summoning him to DPS headquarters. The demand couldn’t be ignored, and yet he hadn’t the first idea how he would be received by his one-time colleagues. They’d overlooked their frustrations with him enough to help solve the matter of the blackmail and the Mastiff’s violent grip on Old Compton Street. But allowing him back into their brotherhood was another thing altogether.

He slipped the note into his pocket and sat on the edge of Vera’s bed. He placed a light kiss on her forehead, careful not to wake her. She had a long road of recovery ahead of her, and sleep would do her a world of good. She mightn’t be entirely whole, but he had every confidence she would be well in time.

Brogan paused long enough in the kitchen to tell Móirín he’d be back as soon as he could and to ask her to look after Vera.

“She’s like a sister to me, Brog. You don’t even need to ask.”

His mind set fully at ease over Vera’s care, Brogan pulled on his coat and hat and made his way toward an uncertain reception. Each street closer to headquarters meant his heart pounded harder and his mind spun faster.

Doc had helped Vera because that was the kind of person he was, but that didn’t mean he had forgiven Brogan’s defection. And he was likely not the only one. Just because the Dread Master had summoned Brogan didn’t mean he was free to tell them all about his assignment.

He stepped through the familiar blue door. Nolan was dozing in his usual spot. A pile of pennies sat on the table where they were always placed.

Nolan opened a single eye. Brogan showed him the penny, and the man reached over and pressed the center of a flower engraved in the molding. A door slid open.

Brogan swallowed against the lump in his throat. He couldn’t put this off forever.

He stepped into the room where the Dread Penny Society held all of their official meetings. It was designed to be a small-scale version of the House of Commons. Fletcher sat, as always, at the head of the room in the midst of them all, on a chair that resembled a throne. The room was as full as Brogan had seen it in a long time.

All eyes turned to him. Surprise was written on every face, along with a fair bit of distrust.

“Ah,” Fletcher said, “the Prodigal Dreadful.”

Brogan approached the throne and handed over the Dread Master’s letter.

Fletch read it quickly. To the gathering, he said, “Seems, mates, we’ve solved the mystery of why there’s been a call to quorum.”

A call to quorum. That explained why so many DPS members were present.

“The Dread Master summoned Mr. Donnelly here,” Fletcher explained to them all. “Which is likely why the Dread Master also sent me this.” He pulled another missive from his pocket, this one still sealed. He opened it and read.

Dreadfuls,

Today Brogan Donnelly returns among you, after having undertaken a task at my insistence. Doing so required a separation from the society, one he could believably ask for due to his longstanding concern about the deceit needed to maintain the secrecy required.

Whispers sounded all around the room. Eyes darted from Brogan to Fletcher and back.

His efforts saw Four-Finger Mike imprisoned, two influential men of importance and standing saved from a blackmail scheme, and the solving of a mysterious ring of extortion. But these matters all tie back to this organization. He took on this mission alone to protect all of you. It is time you returned the favor.

He remains a member, never having truly resigned. And it is for you to settle the question he has been asking for years.

DM

Fletcher tore up both the note he’d just read and the one Brogan had delivered and dropped the tiny pieces into a bottle. He would, without a doubt, burn the papers at the end of the meeting.

He motioned to Brogan from his position on his pseudo-throne. “We’ve a quorum. Time to make your case.”

Brogan didn’t waste a moment. He rose and stood firm and confident in front of them all. “M’sister’s helped in far too many of our missions to not have pieced together some of the secrets of our society. Hollis Darby’s fiancée, Ana, helped us steal documents from Lord Chelmsford and, not too long ago, helped Hollis and Fletcher with a dangerous undertaking, which has left her with questions he’ll not have answers to. Chandan Kumar”—Brogan motioned to him—“has kept his activities with this society a secret from his wife for far longer than it is reasonable to ask. Doc’s nurses help his efforts on our behalf but can’t be told the whys or hows. This’ll grow more complicated as our families grow more numerous. My sister is no longer the only lass in m’life I’m having to hide my membership from. I can’t abide lying even more to the woman I’ll soon marry.”

A chorus of congratulations filled the room. Brogan hadn’t time for the well-wishes, though he was grateful for them.

“We’ve long spoken of forming a sister organization, one that can be involved to some extent in our activities, our philanthropies, and our missions. Doing so allows us to give our loved ones an explanation of our absences and efforts that’s neither a complete falsehood nor an utter refusal to give an answer. It must be done. We can wait no longer.”

“You have always been the most vocal about this need,” Hollis said. “I confess I hadn’t taken the matter as seriously as I ought before my Ana became entwined in the issue. It is stickier than I realized.”

Kumar rose. “I have children now, and I don’t care to spend the rest of their lives lying to them. Being able to tell them something—and something true, at that—would make a world of difference.”

“It’s risky,” Martin tossed back.

“I’ll not deny that,” Brogan said. “There’d be little point in pretending we’ve not argued this before. ’Tis also well known amongst us that something being risky doesn’t make it not worth tackling.”

“True enough,” Martin said.

Brogan fully expected a drawn-out debate; that had always been the result of raising this subject in the past.

Doc Milligan rose. “I have learned that Miss Sorokina, apparently soon to be Mrs. Donnelly, fought alongside our membership. She formed a coalition that stopped in its tracks a sinister plot hatched by this society’s greatest enemy. She offered us information and insights we desperately needed. She stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Móirín Donnelly, another who has offered us invaluable assistance, despite our lies to her. If we agree to the formation of this sister organization for her sake alone, we will still be more than justified in doing so, and we will yet remain indebted to her.”

For a moment, Brogan couldn’t respond. Doc had been beyond frustrated with him and had even denounced him for his defection. Was it possible Brogan had already been forgiven?

“Gentlemen, and lady”—Fletcher tossed a smile to Elizabeth—“this matter has to be settled.”

Brogan stood on the spot, tense and nervous.

“The Dread Master wishes to speak to this matter as well.” And Fletcher pulled out yet another sealed missive.

Their mysterious leader could vote on such a matter, his vote holding the weight of two of theirs. His opinion held great sway. The contents of that letter could make or break the proposal.

Fletcher read aloud.

Dreadfuls,

The proposal made regarding an additional branch of our society is incomplete.

Brogan held his breath.

Working with a sister organization whilst keeping the membership of that organization ignorant of our more dangerous secrets cannot happen without careful coordination. It is essential.

Should the matter carry, two Dreadfuls should be appointed to oversee this complicated coordination. By way of suggestion: Brogan Donnelly and Barnabus Milligan. Donnelly has the most passion for the enterprise, while Milligan has a ready reason to oversee philanthropic efforts and would not raise suspicions in the sister-organization membership.

The decision, as always, rests with you. My vote is in the possession of your figurehead. Consider wisely, but vote now.

DM

Fletcher lowered the letter. He looked at Brogan and Doc in turn. “Would the two of you agree to take this on should the proposal pass?”

Doc dipped his head. “I would.”

“Readily,” Brogan said.

“Well, then.” Fletcher tore up the letter, dumping it in the bottle with the other fragments. “We have heard Brogan’s reasons. We have once more admitted the risk involved. And we have the Dread Master’s thoughts. It’s time this matter was decided once and for all.”

Brogan’s heart seemed to seize. This was a long-awaited moment of truth.

“All in favor, let it be known.”

Hands were raised around the room. Brogan scanned quickly, looking for any that were not in agreement. He didn’t want the group to fracture; he would rather step away than stop them from doing the important work they did.

“All opposed, let it be known,” Fletcher said.

Not a single hand was raised. Not one.

“The resolution passes,” Fletcher said.

Brogan looked across at Doc. “’Twill be a fine thing working together.”

“Assuming you don’t take on another secret mission and disappear again.” The man was clearly not entirely joking.

Damage had been done. Brogan would have to work to regain the trust of his fellow Dreadfuls. Some would likely be harder to convince than others.

“The matter of the sister organization—whose name is yet to be determined—was our primary purpose in gathering today,” Fletcher said. “But before we dismiss or move on to any other matters, I have yet one more letter to read, again from the Dread Master.”

Four letters in one meeting. That had never happened before. Never.

The whole room went still.

Dreadfuls,

The events of the recent past have revealed the enormity of the web in which we have found ourselves entangled. The Mastiff and his minions have greater reach than we realized. To his crimes of fraud, child labor, forced prostitution, arson, we must now add blackmail, forgeries, extortion, and rigging explosives meant to kill. He holds prisoner, still, the unfortunate Serena we have been attempting to rescue, as well as, we must assume, her children. He is unafraid to target even the most powerful in England. He will not hesitate to crush each one of us.

As we have been warned, a tempest is brewing, one greater than we’ve ever known. Pursuing our fight against him is, possibly, a bigger threat than some would wish to take on.

We either knowingly and willingly take on the danger of going after London’s most notorious criminal, or we choose not to invite the war our efforts might very well cause.

Decide. And act.

DM

Fletcher stood, holding the letter in his hand. “Our work has never been without risk, but this is a level we hadn’t anticipated. The Mastiff is a ruthless criminal, willing to kill and destroy in pursuit of total control of London. He has conspirators among the police and in the government. His power is growing, and with it the danger he poses.” His gaze slid over the entire gathering. The group listened without so much as breathing. “As the Dread Master says, the time has come for each of us to decide if this threat is one we want to confront. I won’t ask you to make that choice now. And I won’t make you declare your decision in the presence of your fellow Dreadfuls, but the decision must be made. Before long, there will be no turning back. Ponder. Contemplate. Decide.”

“We are the Dread Penny Society,” Brogan said. “We do not relent.”

“And we do not turn tail and run,” Stone added.

“So long as the Mastiff plies his trade unchallenged,” Fletcher said, “the people of London will never be safe. Going after him might free them, or it might simply see us killed. Once we take this step, there’ll be no turning back.”

It was a promise as much as a warning. Danger lay ahead. Greater than they’d ever known.

There was, indeed, no turning back.