Chapter Sixteen

FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, SAL, WOULD YE QUIT THAT noise?” grumbled Archie, his tongue thick with gin. He turned over on the creaking bed and smacked her hard on the rump.

“It ain’t me,” Sal protested, her words equally slurred. “Must be the lad.” She buried her face further into the stale dampness of her pillow and resumed snoring.

“Quit yet racket, ye scraggy whelp, or I’ll crack yer napper,” Archie snarled.

“It ain’t me,” Flynn returned from where he lay bound upon the floor. “Someone’s bangin’ on the door.”

“What the hell—” Archie sat up and ground his fists into his eyes, trying to clear his head. “Who the Christ is it?” he shouted furiously.

“It’s me.” A woman’s voice, soft and tentative. “I’ve brought your money.”

Archie stopped pummeling his eyeballs and blinked, confused. “Lottie?”

“Let me in,” Charlotte urged. “Hurry.”

“Open the door, quick,” Sal hissed, elbowing Archie in the ribs. “Before someone grabs her an’ nicks the whack.”

“I’m goin’,” Archie snapped, heaving his legs over the edge of the bed. Staggering through the leaden gloom, he banged into the edge of the table. Cursing, he stumbled to the door and twisted the lock, struggling to remember when exactly he had told Lottie where he lived.

The door smashed against him, knocking him back. Powerful hands wrapped around his neck and jerked him off his feet, cutting off both air and sound.

“Good evening,” drawled Harrison. “Boney Buchan, I presume?”

Struggling wildly, Archie clawed at Harrison’s hands.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Harrison heaved him hard against the wall while still gripping him by the throat.

“Leave ’im be!” Sal shrieked, clamoring from the bed. She grabbed an empty gin bottle off the floor and raised it over her head. “Set ’im down or I’ll smash yer friggin’ napper!”

“That won’t be necessary, madam,” Simon assured her, entering the room and pointing his pistol at her. “Why don’t you just put down your bottle, light that lamp over there, and sit down, and this will all go much faster.”

“Your friend is perfectly all right,” added Jamie reassuringly, barely casting a glance at Archie as he entered. “I’m studying to be a doctor—I know for a fact that you don’t need to start worrying until his eyes pop from his skull.”

“Oliver! Miss Kent!” Flynn exclaimed as they entered the room. “What are ye doin’ here?”

“Lookin’ for ye, lad,” Oliver told him, squinting against the thin veil of light coming from the lamp Sal had lit. “An’ ’tis quite the time we’ve had of it, too.”

“Are you all right, Flynn?” demanded Charlotte anxiously as she limped over to where he was lying on the floor. “Did they hurt you?”

“I’m fine, Miss Kent—just a bit stiff an’ hungry is all.” Flynn closed his eyes and inhaled her summery clean fragrance, letting it wash through him.

“Sweet Saint Columba!” Oliver swore, seeing that Flynn’s ankles and wrists were bound. “What kind of devil are ye,” he demanded fiercely, turning to Sal, “that ye’d bind a wee lad so tight even while he was tryin’ to sleep?”

“We had to bind him so he wouldn’t run off,” Sal retorted, defensive. “If he tried to run off, Archie would’ve beaten him. Better to bind ’im tight and let ’im lie still.”

Oliver shook his head in disgust as he saw where the bindings had bitten into the tender skin at Flynn’s wrists and ankles. “Here, lad, hold steady,” he said gruffly, sawing through the rope with his dirk. “I’ll have this off soon.”

“I’m sorry, Flynn.” Tears welled in Charlotte’s eyes as she gently stroked his bruised face. “I’m so terribly sorry.”

“Weren’t yer fault, Miss Kent,” Flynn assured her, troubled by her stricken expression. “This old shanker’s gone off his head.” His arms free, he sat up and cast a look of pure loathing at Archie while Oliver cut the rope binding his ankles. “The old soaker thinks he’s yer da.”

“He does, does he?” Having strangled most of the fight out of Archie, Harrison eased his grip a little, still holding him pinned against the wall. “That’s where he and I have a difference of opinion.”

Archie coughed and gasped, fighting to replenish his lungs.

“He is her da,” Sal insisted, feeling bolder now that she sensed the men around her did not intend to actually kill either her or Archie. “He quiffed some doxy up in Scotland.”

“If I were you I’d hold my tongue,” Jamie warned, fighting to keep his own temper in check.

“It’s true,” Archie managed, his voice a defiant rasp. “Looked after her from the time she was a squallin’ bairn, an’ now that’s she’s flush in the pocket all I asks is that she spare a few quid for her poor ol’ da—an’ what’s she do? Sends you bell swaggers over to baste me.”

“I told ye so.” Flynn shook his head in disbelief. “Gone completely off his pate.”

“You never looked after me.” Charlotte’s voice was low and raw as she held fast to Flynn. “You only used me—just like you use everybody.”

“Used you?” Archie regarded her incredulously. “Ye was nothin’ but a scraggy wee lass, always sick, an’ afraid of yer own shadow. How the devil was I to use ye?”

“You made me go out and steal before I was five years old,” Charlotte answered. “You turned me into a pickpocket and a thief, and if you didn’t think whatever I managed to nick was valuable enough, you beat me.”

“I was only tryin’ to teach ye how to survive,” Archie protested. He looked at Oliver, sensing the old Scotsman might understand better than any of the other men in the room. “We had nothin’—not even a spare coin to pay for a wee drop of medicine when Lottie needed it, an’ she was sick all the time. I knew she’d have to learn a trade right quick if we was to keep a roof over our heads, so I figured she’d better learn the only thing I knew, which was fleecin’. That way if anythin’ happened to me, I knew she’d be able to get on all right.”

“You made me steal because it meant there was more for you to drink.” Anger was pulsing through Charlotte now, anger and a powerful resentment. “That’s all you really cared about. You didn’t care whether I had food to eat or clothes to wear—it was always just about you. I was a burden to you, nothing more. And when it became apparent that I was not going to be the clever little shaver you had hoped, you decided the only way to make any decent money off me was to turn me into a whore. But then one night you heaved me into a table and broke my leg, leaving me with this—” She gestured furiously at her injured leg. “And suddenly I was a cripple, and no longer able to become the little child-whore you had hoped I would be.”

“I never wanted ye to whore, Lottie,” Archie protested, feeling Harrison’s grip tighten. “I just didna know what else was to be done with ye. If ye didna have me around, ye needed somethin’ ye could do all right to make a coin or two. Lots of lasses do it,” he added defensively to Harrison. “It puts bread in their mouth an’ a roof over their head—that’s all I wanted for my Lottie.”

“Your concern for her welfare is most touching.” It was only by the most vigorous self-control that Harrison was able to keep from strangling him.

“I saved her life!” Archie mewled, cowering. “Surely I deserve somethin’ for that!”

“You never saved my life,” Charlotte retorted. “You never cared what happened to me.”

“That ain’t true! Who do ye think it was shot that gotch-gutted nob the night ye was taken by the Dark Shadow? Me!”

She regarded him incredulously.

“Aye—an’ a good thing I did, too, what with the way he was wavin’ his pistol about. I knew he had just as good a chance of puttin’ a hole in my Lottie as he did the Shadow,” he continued desperately, talking to Harrison now, “an’ since the Shadow weren’t man enough to take care of ’im, I did. She’d ’ave snuffed it for sure but for me, and that’s the honest truth.”

There was some truth to what Boney Buchan was saying, Harrison realized reluctantly. Lord Haywood had already shot Harrison once. If Harrison had shifted even slightly, the next shot might have hit Charlotte instead. Apparently her father had been astute enough to realize that.

“Even if you did shoot Lord Haywood, you were only doing it because you wanted to blackmail Charlotte,” he pointed out. “You saw her as an easy source of money, and you didn’t want anything to interfere with that.”

“That ain’t true!” Archie objected vehemently. “I ain’t sayin’ I’m above givin’ her a clout or two,” he conceded, realizing Harrison obviously knew about the beatings he had inflicted, “but when it comes to her very life, that’s different. She’s my lass, after all. A man’s got to protect ’is own—an’ that’s what I did. I protected her.”

“If you were so concerned for my welfare, then why did you let me be abducted?” demanded Charlotte, unconvinced. “You saw a dangerous thief taking me hostage. Why not shoot him, too?”

“He wasna dangerous,” Archie scoffed. “I seen ’im wrap himself around ye the minute that jingle-brains come runnin’ out o’ the house—that’s when I knew he’d nae let ye come to harm. Whatever he was about, my Lottie could handle herself against the likes of him.” He regarded her steadily, his eyes filled with something akin to pride. “I also knew ye’d be more like to take ’im home an’ fix ’im up than turn ’im over to the peelers—an’ I was right. Ye may have lived with nobs for years, but ye ain’t forgotten yer roots. Doesna matter what fancy airs ye get for yerself—deep down ye’re Lottie Buchan from Devil’s Den, an’ that’s who ye’ll always be.”

Charlotte stared at him, a storm of emotions roiling within her.

For as long as she could remember, she had despised and feared her father. She had hated him for his violence and his cruelty, and feared him because he controlled her life. Even after they were separated by their arrests, his power over her continued. The ugly memories of her childhood and the possibility that he might one day find her had haunted her into adulthood, leaving her timorous and afraid. And then there was the constant, unforgiving reality of her leg, which never let her forget her life as Lottie Buchan.

Yet somehow, as he stood cowering beneath Harrison’s grip, desperately defending himself as a simple but caring father who only wanted to teach his daughter to survive, her fear and hate begin to crumble beneath the weight of overwhelming weariness. She no longer had any desire to sustain her anger toward Boney Buchan, despite everything he had done. Her father believed he had taught her to survive. Maybe he had. He also believed he had saved her life. Perhaps there was a grain of truth to that as well, although it pained her deeply to think Lord Haywood had inadvertently died because of her. His flawed attempt to protect her did not change the fact that her father was an abusive, selfish brute. But it did intimate that somewhere, deep within the recesses of his selfish soul, there was a kernel of something good.

She hoped so.

“I don’t want to ever see you again,” she said quietly. “If you ever try to come near me or any one of my family or friends again, I promise you I will go straight to the police and post such an enormous reward for your capture that every whore, thief, street urchin, and coster in all of London will be fighting amongst themselves to turn you in. Even Sal here will be quick to turn stag on you and become rich,” she predicted, noting how Sal’s eyes had rounded at the talk of a big reward.

“Ye’d nae send me back to prison, Lottie.” Archie stared at her in disbelief. “I’m yer father!”

“No.” Her voice was hollow. “You’re not.”

“Ye canna change what God planned,” he challenged, growing angry. “God gave ye to me.”

“And then he took me away from you and gave me to Lord and Lady Redmond.” She clenched her fists, willing herself to be strong as she stood before him. Her voice was small but steady as she finished, “And they loved me and helped me to overcome everything you did to me.”

“Why, ye ungrateful wee bitch—”

“Quiet!” barked Oliver, outraged. “Mind yer scabby tongue or I’ll twist it from yer head!”

“Good-bye.” Holding fast to Flynn, Charlotte limped across the gloomy chamber to the door, with Oliver following protectively behind her.

“Ye canna change what ye are, Lottie!” Archie shouted, furious. “Ye’ve my blood runnin’ through those coddled veins—nothin’ will ever change that! Ye’ll always be a beggar an’ a thief, do ye hear? Always!”

“I think we’ve heard enough from you.” Harrison tightened his grip on Archie’s throat, cutting off any possibility of further speech. “And now I’d like to add my piece. You’re going to leave London today, and you’re not going to return. You’ve been given eight hundred pounds. That should be more than enough to get you and your friend Sal here decent lodgings in almost any town you could think of. If you’re smart, you’ll invest the money in a business—I’d suggest something along the lines of a tavern or an inn, given your obvious expertise in drinking and sleeping. I don’t really give a damn, as long as you stay the hell away from Charlotte. Which I’m sure you will do, if you at all value your life. Because if you ever go near her or her family again, I promise you I won’t bother with the police. I’ll find you myself.” His voice was deadly soft. “And when I do, I’ll make you wish you had listened to my very reasonable suggestions. Do you understand?”

Archie nodded furiously, his face crimson from lack of air.

“Good.” Abruptly, Harrison released him.

“Archie—are ye all right?” cried Sal, flying over to him as he gasped and choked.

“He’s fine,” Jamie assured her. “His eyes hardly swelled at all.” He sounded disappointed.

“All he needs is a bit of fresh air,” Simon advised, following Harrison and Jamie out the door. “I think the seaside might make a nice change for both of you, actually. I understand it’s very pleasant this time of year.”

“Come here, Archie, let me hold ye,” said Sal, pulling him against her bountiful form. “Are ye all right?”

“Get the hell away from me!” Archie snapped, incensed that he had been so thoroughly humiliated in front of her and Charlotte.

“Can I get ye somethin’?”

“Get me a goddamn drink,” he ordered, staggering over to the bed. “An’ then get yer things. We’re leavin’.”

She splashed some gin into a dirty glass and handed it to him. “Where are we goin’?”

“Any place that’s the hell away from here,” he muttered before downing his drink.

“Where?” she persisted, frowning. Sal knew Archie was in a bad way, but that didn’t mean she was willing to go traipsing all over England with him, not knowing when he might just tire of her and toss her out. At least in London she had friends, sort of. She had places where she could go. She knew her way about. “If we’re leavin’ London, I got a right to know where we’re goin’,” she insisted, unmoved by his glower.

“I ain’t sure,” Archie grumbled. “Maybe north. Maybe south. Maybe to the seaside. I’ve got a few quid—let’s get to the train station an’ decide.”

She shook her head. “Ye know I’ve always gone with what ye wanted, Archie—an’ maybe this time I will too. But first I want to know just what it is ye want. That ain’t too much to ask, especially now that ye’re flush in the pocket. I need to know what my stake in it is.”

Christ, he thought, first he’s nearly strangled to death and then he’s being henpecked. Eight hundred pounds, he thought morosely, staring at his empty glass. It wasn’t so bad. A man could go far on eight hundred pounds—especially if he didn’t piss it all away on gin and gambling. No, he’d have to be smart. Maybe he would buy some kind of business—one where he could be the boss, and work only as hard as he liked. A tavern might be good, with a few rooms upstairs, for those that needed a bed for the night. If he made it friendly and relatively clean, and didn’t water down the ale too much, he might do all right. It was definitely a possibility. Still, he didn’t think he could manage it by himself. He knew more about drinking gin than pouring it, and he didn’t know the first bloody thing about cooking or laundry or keeping a place nice enough that people might actually want to spend some money there.

He looked around the filthy, shabby room, then glanced uncertainly at Sal. She wasn’t much at cooking or cleaning. Still, she was strong for a woman and not all that bad to look at. Besides, he’d grown used to having her around, nagging and all. He sighed and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“Tell me somethin’, Sal—if I bought us a wee pub, do ye think ye could learn to cook?”