The Merchant and the Rogue by Sarah M. Eden

Afew days had passed since the robbery at Mr. Bianchi’s shop. Every person who walked down the street was eyed closely, watched with suspicion. Anything of any value in the various shops had been tucked out of sight. They’d no good reason for the crime; Bianchi wasn’t exactly wealthy. No one on this street was doing terribly well for themselves. Yet, it had happened, and everyone was worried.

Little Olly slipped inside the print shop, earlier in the day than usual. The enterprising urchin was a favorite of Vera’s. He’d learned to read at a ragged school and devoured any story he could get his hands on. Unfortunately, he was also poorer than a church mouse.

“Hiya, Miss Vera.” Olly snapped a salute, a common gesture for the boy.

“Zdrastvui, Olly.”

He flashed her a mischievous, gap-toothed smile. “I like when you say the Russian words.”

“Always knew you was dimber-damber, Olly.” She ruffled his dusty hair.

Olly strutted a bit. “I am smart, at that.”

“Smart as a fox.”

“I read ‘The Dead Zoo’again. Three times now.” He made for the penny dreadful display but stopped at arm’s length. The boy knew he couldn’t touch them if his hands weren’t clean.

Ganor spoke from his place updating the window display. “Do you like the story so far, lad?”

Olly’s eyes pulled wide. “I want to know what happens next.”

“The next installment came in today,” Ganor said.

The boy’s mouth pulled in an O. “I’d hoped it would.”

“That first bit was fine feathers, weren’t it?” Vera said

“It were.” He stuffed his hands in the outer pockets of his jacket and bounced a little in place. “I ain’t got any pennies. None I can spend, leastwise.”

She wished she could give the poor children who came through her shop all the serials they wished for—the stories were good for their spirits—but she and Papa would land in the workhouse if she did. Many children had shown themselves too proud to accept charity, as it was.

“Have you some time to yourself just now?” she asked Olly. “There’s work to do around here—enough to earn a penny.”

He eyed her narrowly. “I could take on a spot of work.”

“Dusting the display and the windowsills?” Vera suggested.

He nodded quickly. “I’ve done that before.”

“And you’ve had to wash your hands before,” she reminded him.

Olly eyed her with brow drawn and forehead creased. “Yous always after me to clean up. I cain’t go about smelling like a blossom and looking clean as a toff. I’d get me nose broke.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” she said. “Get to it, then. No more knocking about.”

Olly snapped one of his salutes and disappeared into the shop’s back room, where they kept a washbasin and hand towel. He knew the setup well by now.

“Good of you to help the lad,” Ganor said.

She knew how easily the street children’s pride could be bruised. “He works hard for the coins,” she said. “Fly me if we ain’t getting the better end of the arrangement.”

“What does Olly do when he’s not dusting for you here?”

“A little of everything, from what I hear of him. He’s like most urchins in London; he gets by on his wits.”

Ganor stepped back from the window, apparently having finished his efforts there. “Dublin was like that, too. M’sister and I did what we could to get by. ’Twas sometimes a long while between pennies.”

“Life don’t hand out opportunities in equal measure,” she said.

“Correcting that inequality is the work of a life well lived.”

It wasn’t a sentiment she’d have expected to hear from a man who bore the scars of a life violently lived. Not only was the idea gentle and compassionate, but the expressing of it was almost poetic. “You’ve a way with words.”

“And I didn’t even have to kiss the Blarney Stone.” He grinned mischievously.

His brown eyes had a way of sparkling when he was jesting. That, combined with his breath-catching smile, was mesmerizing. Every time he tossed her that look, and it came often on account of his being fond of teasing, she wondered what it would take to keep the laughter from fading away.

“Do the Irish often kiss rocks?” She matched his tone of teasing.

One ginger brow quirked upward. “Oh, the Irish are brilliant kissers. Every last one of us.”

Vera attempted to pull in a breath, but her suddenly pounding heart seemed determined to prevent it.

“And do you know what I’ve learned about Russian lasses?” His eyes danced about.

“What’ve you learned?” Her voice emerged a bit shaky.

“That you blush a very pretty shade of pink.”

No one had ever flirted with her before, but she was certain that’s what he was doing now. Bless her, she was enjoying it. Deeply enjoying it.

Olly emerged from the back room, holding up his newly washed hands. “Scrubbed raw, Miss Vera.”

“You’ve piles of dust waiting to be wiped up.” She waved the boy over. “Hop to it, zaychik.”

Olly grinned, the gap in his front teeth making him all the more darling. The child was a delight, a right nutty little fella, and she adored him.

“What does zaychik mean?” Ganor asked, doing a fine job pronouncing the Russian word.

“‘Little rabbit,’” Vera answered. “Can’t say when I started calling him that.”

“My da called me sicín beag, when I was wee thing.”

“What’s that mean?”

He straightened the display of pen nibs. “‘Little Chicken.’”

Though Ganor wasn’t a tall man, it was difficult to imagine him so small he’d be compared to a tiny chick. He had the hands of a fighter and the muscular build of one as well. She probably should have found his thick arms and broad shoulders intimidating instead of undeniably intriguing.

“Sicín beag.”She tested out the feel of the Irish words, not having ever attempted anything in that tongue.

“Not terrible,” Ganor said. “Likely better than my attempt at zaychik.”

With a shrug of dismissal no one could possibly have mistaken for sincere, she said, “Not terrible.”

He grinned at her teasing repetition of his exact evaluation.

Customers were wandering in, pulling them both back to work. They often had moments like that. Quick conversations scattered throughout the day. She’d worried at first about all the questions he asked, but she’d come to suspect he simply liked to gab. And, since they were nothing more than strangers when he’d begun working, questions were needed or they’d’ve had nothing to talk about. That would be a blasted shame.

“Oi, Miss Vera.” Peter held up a copy of Mr. Donnelly’s latest. “You’ve read the newest chapter, ya?”

“I have. A fine tale is unfolding, though Mr. Donnelly shows in it an odd interest in magpies.”

“Magpies?” Peter whistled slow and low. “Bad omen, magpies. Depending.”

“An English superstition,” Vera acknowledged, having learned of it growing up in London. “But who’s to say if it’s an Irish one as well?”

“He’d know.” Peter motioned with his head toward Ganor.

A good idea, that. And it’d give her a welcome excuse to chat with him again.

Peter reached into his coat pocket and pulled out two ha’pennies. “Thinkin’ I’ll pick this’n. I liked his last one.”

She took up his coins. “Drop in and tell me how you like it.”

“Will do, Miss Vera.” He tipped his hat without taking it off. “Always fine seeing you. Offer your father my greetings.”

“Will do, Peter.”

Many of the other customers bid him a farewell.

“Have you read Mr. King’s newest?” Clare asked. She lived somewhere nearby and tended to knock about the place, though she seldom had money to spend.

Vera suspected she was avoiding wherever she called home. This was Soho; Clare was hardly the only woman in the area wishing to avoid a bad situation. Vera would let her lark about all she wanted.

“I’ve read Mr. King’s,” Vera said. “There’s the start of a bang-up tale in that one.”

Clare nodded and returned to her perusal. A younger girl asked her a question. Two other customers talked in low but excited whispers about Mr. King’s stories. Olly was wiping down the windowsills. All her customers seemed content.

She returned to the counter to put the ink bottles back in the nearby cupboard. A folded piece of paper sat atop the counter, with her name scrawled across the parchment.

Odd. It hadn’t been there a moment earlier.

She caught Ganor’s eye and held up the note, pointing to it. “From you?” she mouthed.

He shook his head. That was unexpectedly disappointing.

She slipped a finger under the top fold and pushed the paper open.

I have heard of the violence on this street. I’m able to safeguard your business. Only £1. If you’re interested, someone’ll come collect tomorrow.

It was signed “The Protector.”

“Did you sort out what it was?” Ganor had approached while she was reading.

“The oddest note.” She handed it over to him. “What do you make of it?”

His eyes scanned the paper. She watched him as he read. Ganor O’Donnell was a handsome man, and that was a little distracting.

“Someone’s found a way to make a bit of money,” he said.

She nodded. “Odd, though, that this bloke didn’t sign his real name.”

Ganor shrugged. “I’ve heard any number of odd names on the streets of London. Dublin too. ’Tisn’t necessarily proof of poor character.”

“It ain’t exactly proof of good character either,” she said.

“And strange that the offer was made in a note rather than simply asking you. You’ve been here all day.” He flipped the paper over. “No marks. ’Twasn’t sent through the penny post.”

“Someone was here and delivered this note without saying a word.” Criminy, she didn’t like that. “And who’s to say if I pay what’s being asked that I’ll get any protection at all? Could be the entire thing’s nothing but a cheat.”

“I wish I had answers for you.” His usual teasing expression turned to sincere concern. “What do you mean to do?”

That he was confused by the note too didn’t bode well. “We could use extra eyes and ears on the street. No matter that the chap went about it in a curious manner, if the offer is a true one, it’d be helpful.”

“And if the offer isn’t aboveboard?” He handed the note back to her.

She took it, but reluctantly. “Then not paying it might be a danger itself.” Vera sighed, her body still tense. “The character of ‘The Protector’ ain’t the only thing I have to worry over in this matter.”

“What else, then?”

“What to tell my papa.”

Ganor stepped away a moment to answer a question one of the customers posed to him, leaving Vera to ponder the one on her mind.

Papa struggled to trust people. He was gruff and off-putting at times. Life had taught him to be paranoid. What he’d told her of the struggles he’d passed through had given her many of those same inclinations toward distrust. She’dfought all her life to keep her faith in people intact.

Papa had spent the days since the robbery at the tobacco shop grumbling about crime and poor characters. He’d talked to some degree of adding extra precautions around the shop on the days when Ganor wasn’t there. He’d even at one point mused that they’d have done better never to have left Southwark.

She didn’t want to give up on this shop but feared Papa would if the matter of crime in this area was pressed too heavily. Someone finding it enough of a threat that they’d offer protection for a price would only add to that impression.

Ganor returned, eyeing her with curiosity.

“Nothing about this is truly threatening,” she said, holding up the note. “Odd, yeah. But nothing to worry Papa over.”

“Are you sure?” Ganor asked. “It might be he’d have some thoughts on the matter.”

Vera very nearly snorted. “Oh, he would most definitely have thoughts.”

He smiled. How was it she hadn’t grown any more accustomed to that heart-melting smile of his after more than a week of working together? “Are you saying that you aren’t interested in his thoughts? Or that you know what they would be and therefore don’t need to hear them?”

“I know what they would be, and that would only make the situation worse.”

He nodded. “And what is it you mean to do with the offer that was made?”

“I mean to accept. This ‘Protector’ is only asking a quid, and if that grants us a few extra eyes on the street, it wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

He nodded but didn’t seem entirely convinced.

The customers pulled their attention in the next moment, and she hadn’t a chance to ask him what his misgivings might be. In the end, she set aside a pound from the till and told herself all would be well.

They’d have some protection. The shop would be safer.

And Papa would be happier not knowing a thing about it.