Although I shall always disapprove of reckless gambling, Jeremiah has convinced me that there is no harm in a friendly family game of cards and is going to teach me how to play whist tonight …
—from the diary of Miss Venus Merriwell, aged 17
“All I know is somebody was in here again last night after we finished, Mr. Sinclair.” Mr. Evans was still red in the face despite all Gal’s placating. “This time, that someone put all the tools outside in the yard for the damp to rust them.” Which was a change from the day before when all the tools had apparently played a midnight game of hide-and-seek, and it had taken Mr. Evans and his boys a good hour to find them all before they could start work the next morning.
As there had been no sign of forced entry on either occasion, or after any of the annoying little pranks that had been played over the last week, Gal had a sneaking suspicion he knew exactly who the culprit was. He was prepared to lay good money on him being twelve, freckled, and totally devoted to Venus.
“It’s sabotage, is what it is, Mr. Sinclair. Sabotage! Although I have no idea what me and my boys have done to deserve it.” Mr. Evans and his boys had done nothing. Gal, on the other hand, was big enough to admit he had probably earned this stint in purgatory.
He should have told her sooner that he had bought this place, and he should have confessed they were going to be neighbors before he had succumbed to the foolish temptation to kiss her. And he certainly shouldn’t have even kissed her in the first place.
He realized that now.
Venus Merriwell’s intoxicating kisses were as dangerous and destructive as a siren’s song. Dangerous enough that they were capable of bewitching him, of overriding his reason and diverting him from the road he needed to take. For a while, thanks to her and the effect her hypnotic lips had had on him, he had lost all control of his life. All control of what he was and where he was going, and had handed it all to her, and that was madness.
Utter madness when he knew to his cost that the second you ceased to hold the reins of your life, someone else drove you headfirst into a wall. Or a dead end. Or a trap. Or off a cliff.
Therefore, she, and most especially her lips, was best avoided unless he wanted to watch all his hard-won, longed-for plans and dreams get smashed to smithereens on the perilous rocks of her pious and unreasonable whimsy.
Sell his building to her! Pay for Mallory’s mistakes! Wave goodbye to everything he had worked damn hard for!
Scrimped for. Saved for.
Dreamed of every goddamn day since the day he’d lost everything.
Not today!
Yet there was no denying Gal had been so entranced by the power she held over him, so sold on the alluring prospect of her that he’d almost made the biggest mistake of his adult life. Thank the Lord fate had stepped in to save him before any real damage had been done. He’d made a fool of himself, that was all, and some dented pride was a small price to pay for his lucky escape.
As he had all his life, he would take that mistake and learn from it.
Yes, on the spectrum of kisses, that one had been stupendous, but that was exactly why Saint Venus Merriwell was best suffered at a distance going forward. In that respect, her fresh hatred of him was a bonus. Something to be celebrated, not lamented. He was furious at himself for losing control in Brighton, for succumbing to and then displaying weakness, and so livid at his own continued stupidity directly after at that ball that he could barely stand to look at himself in the mirror.
What the hell had he been thinking to go chasing after her like that, and then throwing out the baby with the bathwater on the back of one ill-considered kiss? When he knew any decision made in the irrational heat of the moment was always the wrong one.
Thanks to a mad moment of passion and a stupid ache in his heart, he had practically begged, when he had never ever stooped that low for anyone else before.
As if he had the time for a romance? With someone so determined to be a wife, for pity’s sake?
A trouble and strife.
A ball and chain.
When the last place he needed to be right now was caught in the goddamn parson’s trap!
With his rational head now screwed firmly back on his shoulders, Gal knew that he was too damn sensible for any of that distracting nonsense. He had likely only been seduced into the thought of it back in Brighton because she had caught him at a bad time. He had been overwhelmed, panicked, and melancholy, lost in the past and uncharacteristically lonely that night, too, so obviously her feminine softness had appealed. When you combined that with the intimacy of the moonlight, and the intimacy of the conversation and his blatant attraction to the alluring minx, it was hardly surprising that Venus had called to his soul. Toss in that kiss—that phenomenal kiss—was it any wonder he had been so thoroughly seduced?
However, thanks to some distance, and the timely reminder that no good ever came out of letting someone in, he was over it.
Over her.
Or soon would be.
On that he was resolute.
He had seen her only three times since Brighton. The first had been at that ball where she’d used the idiot Dorchester as a weapon. The second had been a week ago when she had stormed off in a hackney with a face like thunder. The last time he had seen her was yesterday, when she had briefly glanced out of the orphanage window, spotted him, scowled in repulsion, then yanked the drapes closed, so he figured he was destined to languish in purgatory for a while longer despite him directing his workmen to charitably fix her roof first.
So be it.
“We’ve had to waste another hour this morning oiling every tool against rust.” Mr. Evans held up a saw as if it were a crucial piece of evidence in court. “It’s not on, Mr. Sinclair, and it’s certainly not fair to either me or my boys to waste countless hours on sabotage when we already have more than enough to do and a short window to do it all in.”
“It isn’t fair, Mr. Evans, and I shall sort it.” Although how he was supposed to do that when Tommy’s commander in chief Venus the Unreasonable wouldn’t speak to him, he had no clue. “I shall find the culprit and I shall stop him.”
“Until the bleeder is found and stopped, you need to employ a watchman after hours, as this state of affairs cannot continue!” Mr. Evans waved the saw in the air like a broadsword. “Time is money, Mr. Sinclair, and my time is limited. When I moved this job forward, I moved them all forward, and I told my next client I would be finished here by the end of March. The Duke of Harlow is too important a customer to upset. If it comes to it, I’ve no choice but to go to where my bread is buttered, even if that does leave this place unfinished.”
“I understand that, too.” The clock was ticking and in more ways than one. As Mr. Evans’s reputation for fine work preceded him, and because Gal really couldn’t afford the delay, either, when—thanks to three renovations instead of the planned-for two—his funds were depleting faster than he could replenish them. He had to do whatever it took to keep the man on the job and the job moving in a timely manner. This new club had to open in the spring. It had to or Gal would have no savings left at the rate he was going through them.
“I’ll stay here myself tonight to guard everything, Mr. Evans, and every night until I employ someone. You have my word.” Which wasn’t the most ideal or comfortable solution, but it was the best he had at this precise moment.
He scanned the dusty shell of the building where he was now going to have to bunk in resignation. Parts of the connecting walls between the three buildings were either sporting holes or fully demolished already, replaced by jacks and lintels. That meant that the drafts from every warped, cracked, or ill-fitting window whistled around the cavernous space. With the temperature outside more than cold enough to freeze the knackers off a brass monkey, and this winter’s perpetual snow falling again with a vengeance, those drafts were bitter. Ladders, tools, and building materials were piled everywhere. Where there wasn’t the necessary chaos of a full-scale renovation, there was rubble from the works, yet despite the evidence of a week of fevered activity, the decrepit stench of years of neglect still overpowered the fresher scent of sawdust.
All a long way from the luxury of his cozy suite of rooms at the Albany.
His ridiculously expensive suite at the Albany, too, so maybe this was actually a blessing in disguise as far as his pocket was concerned. With his funds already stretched almost to their limit, the savings on his rent would come in handy.
He’d slept in worse places in his life, he supposed, and the Claypoles’ nocturnal shenanigans needed to be nipped in the bud before they did real harm and left his precious club floundering unfinished.
Having won his battle, Mr. Evans was magnanimous and thanked him for his understanding. He even sent one of his boys to the nearby shops to fetch Gal some dinner, candles, a newspaper, and firewood for the long night ahead.
The only fireplace he could find that wasn’t blocked was in the attic, which he had already earmarked as his future apartment, so he made his camp there among the discarded old roof struts. Once the fire was lit and roaring, fearing for his teeth if he tried to bite into the solid, stale loaf in his food parcel, he ate half his lackluster stew instead until he could stand the bland, oily taste of it no more, then read the newspaper from cover to cover rather than mull over her some more, until his eyelids began to droop.
As he had all those years ago when he’d slept rough for almost two winters, he found himself a tight corner, wedged his body into it, and, much to his surprise after years of finer things, fell into a deep slumber.
He was still in it when a noise down below woke him with a start. It wasn’t a loud noise, more the quiet protest of a rusty old hinge, but just like when he had slept under the stars, his body went instantly to full alert at the interruption.
Gal sat bolt upright. His candle had long extinguished and so had his fire, but instead of the pitch-black darkness he had expected to find in the middle of the night, the attic was filled with the shadows of the December dawn. Rather than alert the intruder, or intruders, to his presence, Gal stayed as still as a statue while he listened to the sound of boots entering the premises stealthily, then forgetting to creep once they had closed the door behind them.
Good.
They had no idea he was here. That gave him the advantage of the element of surprise, and he would be sure to surprise Venus’s miscreants in the act. Catch them red-handed. Then march them back next door with matching fleas in their identical ears before he put some in hers, too, for either unwittingly or—more likely—wittingly putting the Claypoles up to it with her flagrant hostility toward him.
Somebody said something, but as it was three floors below, Gal couldn’t make any of the conversation out. There was more movement. Doors opening and closing. Something being dragged. The sounds of exertion, as if whatever mischief the twin terrors were making took effort.
In case they gave him away, Gal gently toed off his boots, then unfolded himself from his corner slowly before creeping on stockinged feet toward the staircase door. With aching slowness, he turned the knob, cracked it open, and craned his ears.
“The higher the better, I reckon.” Although the twins’ voices were as identical as their faces, he knew that instruction had come from Tommy and not Sydney. Tommy ruled the Claypole roost and Sydney did as he was told. “If we shove ’em in the attic, they’ll be harder to remove. They’ll be even harder to get rid of if we nail the window frames shut, too.”
The boys cackled at their own evil genius.
The clonking sounds of Mr. Evans’s tools being disturbed were closely followed by footsteps on the stairs.
“We’ll teach the blighter not to mess with us.” The eager edge to this threat suggested that the loyal Sydney was keen to impress his brother. “We don’t want no Sodom and Gomorrah bleedin’ den of iniquity next door and we won’t stand for it!”
“Too bloody right, Syd. We’ll show him.”
Something rustled as the brothers cleared the first staircase; it sounded like wicker. Or at least something moving against wicker. Wrestling against wicker? Squawking against wicker?
What the hell is that sound?
“Wish I could see their faces when they find this lot.” Gal wasn’t sure quite which twin said that, but both tittered at the brilliance of their latest childish plan to send him packing.
They did not pause at all on the second floor, and as the first foot landed on the final set of stairs leading to the attic, Gal pressed his body flat against the wall to lie in wait for them, hidden behind the door.
He held his breath as the boys reached the landing, his fingers flexing in readiness so that he could slam the door shut behind them the moment they foolishly entered his lair.
Then they’d be trapped. Like rats in a cage. Thwarted and neutered in one fell swoop. Inadvertently playing into his hands because he would be gracious when he personally delivered them back to Venus.
Merciful.
Because contrary to her current opinion, he was noble and honorable to his core, and it would do her good to remind her of that fact. After all, how many would be as forgiving of a gold watch being stolen as he had been when Billy Tubbs had lifted his? Hardly any, that was for certain. Even less would forgive a second transgression with quite so much magnanimity—but he would.
For her.
Still.
Despite her continued and unreasonable belligerence.
Despite all the sensible reasons why he was better off without her.
And despite her cruel jibe about Dorchester being better at kissing than him.
As if that pompous ass had the wherewithal to know or care how to please a woman. Or keep his flapping jaws shut long enough to even kiss one properly, for that matter. Venus had just meant to hurt him—and she had—but he would be gracious about that, too.
Because they were now neighbors.
And because that was the sort of man he was, goddamn it!
Gal held his breath as the twins reached his door. One of them pushed and he poised to pounce as the wood creaked open. The door and the shadows camouflaged him as the first boy entered carrying a large basket.
“Do I let ’em all go now, Tommy?” Sydney’s fingers hovered over the leather strap securing a large basket, and whatever was within it moved with such determination the whole thing wobbled in the boy’s grasp.
“Not yet, Syd. Not until I’ve sorted the windows.” The dominant twin marched into Gal’s attic as if he owned the place, wielding a hammer and jiggling the handful of nails necessary to do his own special renovations on the frames.
Gal let him get all the way to the first sash window before he lazily pushed the door shut.
“Mornin’, boys.”
As he expected, both tearaways screamed in alarm.
What he didn’t expect was Tommy throwing the hammer at his head like the Norse god Thor unleashing his thunder.
The heavy tool whizzed, spinning through the air at such speed that Gal only just managed to sidestep it before it cracked his skull open, but not fast enough for it to miss him entirely. Pain exploded white behind his eyes as the hammer landed on his bootless foot and he screamed, too.
Then screamed some more when something wild and angry and definitely squawking burst from the basket in a hail of feathers and flew at his head faster than the hammer. With such fury he had to throw up his arms to shield against the birds flying into his face. Something that might not have been so catastrophic if Gal had been standing on two feet. But as he was hopping on one while his instep throbbed as if it were about to explode, the motion threw him off balance.
Before his backside hit the ground, it hit the half-empty earthenware bowl that still held the remnants of his lackluster stew. With an ominous crack, the bowl immediately shattered beneath his weight, sending a shard of dense pottery into the flesh of his left ass cheek like a dagger.
As fresh pain gripped him, and while Vee’s terrible twins were attacked by what looked a lot like common street pigeons, the cold, congealed remnants of his dinner seeped into the seat of his breeches and made his dreadful first night in his new home complete.