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Hell and damnation.
Jack Portman lifted the pint of stout to hide his face and watched Filly Malvaise look around the pub. That had to be her fourth look, just as blind as the previous ones. Not all of them would be blind.
He hadn’t forgotten her, not a single jot. She’d changed, though. Up with the times, in one of those head-covering hats, her hair bobbed. The loss of her long brown hair hit him like a punch. She wore a shapeless serge grey jacket over a dress. The skirt revealed her calves. That skirt almost made up for her cut hair.
Jack had spotted Filly as soon as she entered the pub. She had threaded her way through the early Wednesday evening crowd of clerks and office jobsmen and a light sprinkling of women. A small table in the center caught her eye, and she slid onto the rattan-backed chair. No sooner had she planted herself than a man placed his hand on the other chair. Jack wanted to hit him. Brown eyes wide, Filly gave a decided shake of her head. The man dragged out the chair anyway. Her gloved hand shot out in a warding gesture. Whatever she said wiped the grin off the man’s face. He rejoined his mates at a larger side table and mouthed a word. Looked like married.
Which Jack knew was an effing lie.
He might not have seen Filly Bedamned Malvaise for three years, but he’d listened for information about her. He’d known when she moved to London and took rooms from the widowed Cecilia Arkwright before she became the married Cecilia Tarrant. He knew she’d found work at a dress shop.
Jack watched her give an order to the barmaid. Her upturned face caught the lamp’s glare. When the maid departed, she looked around the pub.
Something troubled her. Whatever had brought her to his local. The Gold Eagle Pub was far from her flat and her work.
They were up to five looks, still blind.
Occasionally, Filly ran with the other Bright Young Things, the racy ones who jumped in fountains with her cousin Tori or the Bohemian ones who talked around paintings and sculpture with her cousin Greta. Tori and Greta ordered around anyone in their circles. Filly didn’t take their orders, which put her in the outer sphere, for all the blood connection.
He’d like her from the start, that Christmas at Emberley, the Malvaise estate—although her father was second son and had inherited only a modicum of wealth. Still, a modicum was more than Jack had. Filly hadn’t panicked when Tony Gresham turned up murdered. She hadn’t tried to interfere with the investigation. Plucky thing had stood up to her cousins’ interferences.
Jack had thought her too young. His years in the sodding trenches aged him, mental years rather than physical years. He had a need to earn his pay rather than live off the Malvaise family.
Filly Bedamned Malvaise wasn’t effing married, though.
The barmaid returned with two pints, one for Filly, one for whomever she’d come to meet.
Married.
Shite. How had he missed that news?
She sipped the beer and grimaced.
Jack should leave. He had an early day tomorrow. His job required a clear head, clear thinking and quick reactions.
He stayed to see who came to her table. He didn’t see Filly seeking out a pub on her own. She fit a tea room.
She unsnapped her purse and withdrew a lace handkerchief. She dabbed her pinkened mouth to remove the beer foam. Jack drank his stout while she rummaged in her purse. She drew out a man’s pocket watch and opened it to check the time. Then the watch and the hanky returned to the purse, and she snapped it shut. She expectantly watched the door where thugs monitored who entered the Gold Eagle.
A man bumped past Jack. The man didn’t bother to apologize, just headed around the bar.
Jack took one look at the mustached profile, the smashed nose, and round spectacles under bushy eyebrows.
Oh, hell no.
Boggs. Thaddeus Boggs, the arsehole. Filly wasn’t in debt to him, was she?
Boggs came from the back, employees only. That made Jack rethink his choice of local. The arsehole wrapped his thick fingers around whoever he could then squeezed and squeezed until they choked up whatever he wanted.
And he plonked down in the chair across from Filly Bedamned Malvaise.
Hell and damnation.
She didn’t smile. Jack would have cursed aloud if she had. She could have ruined all his dreams with one sweet curve of her pinked lips. But she didn’t smile at Boggs.
She frowned.
Boggs grinned. His tongue touched his upper lip as he listened. Then he shook his head. Whatever he replied widened Filly’s brown eyes.
Then Boggs wrapped his fat fingers around the pint and stood. His other hand swept out, an obvious gesture for her to precede him. She hesitated. Boggs said something short. Filly’s dislike couldn’t be mistaken, but she stood and looked over at the bar’s corner.
Right at Jack.
His nearly empty pint of stout still hid his face.
Yet she wasn’t looking at him. She spied the swinging door behind him and started for it. Boggs followed, enjoying the view he had of Filly’s legs in low heels.
She passed within inches of Jack. Boggs came right behind her.
And Jack intended to find out what shady business Filly had with a moneylender like Thaddeus Boggs.
He waited until the barkeep shifted down the bar to pour a cluster of pints. Then Jack slipped back the half-yard needed to step against then through the swinging door.
The shadowed hall lacked the yellow glaring light of the pub. Light streamed around the door directly opposite, a kitchen by the sounds leaking through. At the hall’s end was a heavy door with two locks, the side door. On the way down to it were two more doors. Pubside would be the coze, no longer in use. Opposite it, a little further along, was another door.
Jack tried the knob to the coze. It turned easily. The door swung into darkness, street lights shining through the windows, the bottom halves blocked by curtains so the people in booths had privacy. He left the coze door ajar and soft-footed to the opposite door.
Pale light streamed under the door. He heard Filly before he reached the door.
“—gone up? Why has the price gone up?”
“I said it does. Fair market price.”
“Fair?”
Hell and damnation. Why had she gone to a moneylender?
“Bidding war,” Boggs said.
“You had a deal.”
“Like I said then, one time offer. Gone now. Price went up. And up again.”
“What do you mean? What do you mean by bidding war?”
“Someone else wants it. They’ve offered more.”
“How much more?”
“I want £400. From you.”
“Four—? I don’t have that much. I brought the agreed price. I don’t think we can get more.”
“We can make that the down payment. Sweeten the deal.”
Jack didn’t like that oily insinuation.
“Sweeten it how?”
“You. Now.”
Jack reached for the door.
“Or her. Tomorrow night. All the night. Matter of fact, I like that idea more.”
“She won’t agree to that.” Filly’s voice shook, fear or rage. “And what guarantee do we have that you will not raise the price again?”
“That’s a chance you take. Like I said, he offers more, the price will go up and up.”
“You are a monster!”
Ah, Filly¸ Jack thought, Boggs holds all the best cards. Don’t make him take everything. He wondered who the other bloke was, offering more money to start a bidding war.
Boggs laughed. “She tell you to say that? Let’s see what she says after tomorrow night.”
“How much is he offering?”
“I told you.”
“No, you said our price had gone up to £400. How much is he offering?”
“£350.”
“Do you have his guarantee that he’ll pay £350?”
“What do you care? You can’t pay that.”
“I can—I can pay £325. I have that much. £25 more than what you agreed to. All of it, right now, a sure thing.”
“He offered £50 more.”
“You don’t know he’ll pay £350. You don’t know he’ll pay anything.”
“He wants it, maybe more than she does. He’ll come up with it.”
“But you have no guarantee. £325 now and everything in my hand, and we’re done. A certain thing, Mr. Boggs, versus a chancy thing later.” Silence descended. Take it, Jack prodded, take it. Filly broke the silence with “See? £325. All of it. Right now, Mr. Boggs.”
“Just one problem, Miss.” Boggs’ voice did sound regretful. “I don’t have the packet here.”
“Where is it? We’ll retrieve it.”
Don’t go with him, Filly.
Or maybe she should. Jack would follow. He would ensure nothing happened to her. He would force Boggs to follow through on the deal instead of discovering a way to crook her again.
“It’s in a safe place.”
“Then we’ll go there now. You will get your money. I will have the packet. And we’re done.”
“I got a couple more meetings.”
“After them, then.”
A pause while Jack reckoned the arsehole Boggs stared at the money she offered now and weighed up a guaranteed profit versus a chancy future, as Filly had pointed out.
She could drive a bargain for him anyday.
“How long before these other meetings are over?”
“Couple of hours.”
“I’ll wait then.”
“Out in the pub? You? Two solid hours?”
“To ensure we keep our deal current, Mr. Boggs.”
More silence, then the man said, “Tell you what.”
Here it comes. Hell and damnation. The arsehole was changing the deal on her again.
“Two hours gives you time to get her down here. You fetch her. You get her to hand me the money, and I’ll hand over everything. Or is she too good to dirty her hands with payment for her own problems? You get her down here. She gives me the money herself, and we’ll make it a round £300, as agreed. Save yourself £25. But I want to see her smiling as she hands me the money and I hand her the photographs and the negatives and those letters. That’s our deal. Good until midnight.”
“£300. Until midnight.”
“And her pretty hands giving me the money. Her pretty eyes looking into mine. Her pretty mouth saying ‘Nice doing business with you, Mr. Boggs.’ ”
“You keep adding things.”
“We can leave you out of it, if you want.”
“No. No, I’ll come with her. And I’ll thank you now, Mr. Boggs, for agreeing to my offer.”
Jack heard chair legs scrape on the wooden floor.
“Sure. Why not? I’ll get me £400.”
“What do you mean?” Filly sounded close to the door.
Boggs laughed. “She won’t come. Not her.”
“Yes, she will.”
“No. Or she would have come now. She got you to come for her, never caring what you might face.” He chuckled. “I’d lay a bet on it.”
Filly didn’t answer, and Boggs laughed again.
Jack backed into the darkness behind the door as it opened. It swung wide into the hall and shut with a thud. Filly paused a second then headed for the pub.
Jack caught her as she passed the door to the coze. He slipped an arm around her waist, the other around her shoulder, his hand covering her mouth. She stiffened then jerked. An elbow hit his stomach.
“Filly,” he hissed in her ear, her bobbed hair whispering against his lips. “It’s Jack.” He took his hand away, hoping she wouldn’t scream.
She remained rigid. “Jack?” Her voice was the barest breath.
“Jack Portman.” Did she forget me? He’d thought their connection at Emberley was strong, but maybe she hadn’t wanted to remember anything about that ill-fated Christmas party. They hadn’t met since. Work had consumed him for a solid year, then too much time had passed to re-introduce himself to her. He kept hoping to meet her at her cousins’ parties, but she must attend the ones he didn’t. They always just missed each other.
“Jack,” she repeated, but she became pliant. “What are you doing?”
“In here,” he said and guided her by the shoulders to the coze. He pushed her inside then shut the door with the faintest of clicks.
She stood in a puddle of light from the street lamps. She had turned toward him, but he could only see her dark silhouette against the windows.
“Over here.” He headed for a booth in the corner, away from the light, out of the line of sight from the door, protected from any passersby. He let her pick the side against the interior wall, facing the room and the windows. He crowded after her, jamming her into the corner and not caring.
She scooted inches away, and Jack followed, using his bulk and touch to break any barriers she wanted to throw up.
Her protest was only a muffled sound, then “How safe are we in this room?”
“Keep your voice low. No one uses the coze.”
She nodded. She glanced at the windows then leaned away to face him. “Jack Portman. What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here, Filly? What are you doing making deals with Thaddeus Boggs? He’ll crook you right, left, and sideways.”
Her shoulders sagged. “As I have discovered.”
“Well?”
Filly bought a few seconds by placing the so-valuable purse on the table. She rested her gloved hands on it. Her breath huffed out. “It’s secret, Jack.”
“Not so secret that Boggs is not looking for a higher bidder. Sounded like he had one.”
She flinched. “How did you kno—? How much did you hear?”
“Pretty much everything.”
“Then you know what a monster he is. He is going back on his deal with Daphne.”
“He’s an arsehole, no mistake.” She flinched at the curse word. “Apologies. I forget you’re gently born.” She waved a hand, as if the word meant nothing, and he knew that was a lie. He also knew that was a lesser word than most she heard from her own cousins. “Who is Daphne, the one he had the deal with?”
“I shouldn’t say.”
“You’ll have to if I’m to get you and her back here before midnight.”
“Jack.” Her pale face turned to him, the faint light catching in her dark eyes and creating a gleam. “You can’t.”
“You’re not coming back here without me. No, Filly, listen. Midnight is four hours, nearly five. That gives Boggs too much time. He’ll set up problems for you both. He has guards here. Thugs. Ready for whatever he wants.”
“I didn’t see any guards.”
“Out in the pub. Watching. Two at the entrance. Probably one or two in the side alley. You come back with your friend and the money, and what’s to stop him from taking more? What’s to stop him from taking it now?”
She sat very still, barely breathing. “Jack, you don’t mean—?”
“You heard him. ‘You now’,” he spat, “ ‘or her. All night.’ Why else do you think he’s willing to take £300 as long as she pays it herself. He’s a sodding shite.”
This time she didn’t flinch. She rolled his words around. “You mean, when we return, he takes what he wants in addition to the money.”
“With no guarantee that he’ll turn over whatever is in that packet. I would guess whoever gave him that packet gave him the idea. Who is your friend Daphne?”
“Just a friend. Oh, Jack, I didn’t think it would be complicated to help. Dear God.”
He thought that was a prayer, not a curse.
“How did you know? About me? About Boggs?”
“This is my local. I saw you come in. Damn, Filly, you cut your hair.”
“That’s what you notice?”
“Hell no. Noticed a lot more than that.” He flicked the bobbed curl beneath the brim of her hat, and his finger brushed her cheek. “You cut it for your job?”
“Yes. They wanted someone au courant, you see. Wait. You know about my job? Jack Portman, are you keeping tabs on me?”
She didn’t sound outraged or shocked. Pleased, maybe. “Wasn’t hard, Filly. Your cousin Tori chatters about the whole family, everything Emberley and connected to Emberley, including your side of the Malvaise crew. At one party a season, I keep up-to-date.”
She fiddled with her purse. “Are you and Tori still an item?” Her posh voice sounded flat.
“Not since that Christmas. Before then, really.”
And she knew which Christmas he meant.
“I didn’t see you attend her parties when I came to London.”
“I was working. Still am, but it’s easier to make time to attend the occasional do.” He ran a finger under his tight collar. The effing Malvaise didn’t have to have jobs to pay their way. They took jobs to have something to consume their time. Never had he felt the distance between him and Filly Bedamned Malvaise than at this moment.
Right after he was demobbed, flooding into England with the rest of the trench survivors, he hadn’t cared about any distance between him and the upper crust. He drank and danced and—well, more, all for the sensation of life. He took whatever he found, drunk on dissipation for months.
One night too many, with the sun making the world from black to grey, he dragged himself home. He had drowned himself in cocktails to forget the war ... until the money ran out.
He dried himself out that December and January. In February he kept a headache; that’s when Filly came to London. He pawned his medals and played on his former colonel’s sympathies to get a job. Until he could afford digs again, he slept in the garage. But Filly didn’t need to know that.
“Look, we need to get to your friend, whoever she is, to make Boggs’ deadline.”
She gave him her profile. Pretty profile it was, too, all sharp angles, pert nose and decided chin. “I know two places she may be. A third, if we run late. She didn’t want to come here. She hates Boggs.”
“Friend that she was, she sent you,” his words making clear his view of that friendship. “And she’ll have to deal with him now—or lose this chance.”
“Will you come with us?”
“Filly. I’m not letting you come back here alone.”
“Then we better go. Can we leave without going back through the pub? You said he had guards out there. I want you to be a ... surprise to him.”
He grinned at that.
“And we’ll need to change.”
“What?”
“Where we’re going—well, Jack, you will need a better shirt front and evening jacket. And then it’s a long trek from here to where she’ll be.”
Party, he realized. “What about you?”
“Hat, shoes, then I’m ready.”
A woman who dressed that rapidly was after his own heart. He’d known that about Filly for three years.
Why did I leave it so long?
“I can shorten the time,” he offered. “I’ve got an auto. Access to one.” He didn’t clarify.
She gripped her purse and scooted, but Jack didn’t move on the bench.
“Filly, you certain?”
“I committed to helping Daphne. I will help her.”
“Daphne?” The name came to him, then. He felt a fool for not placing it earlier. “Daphne Leicester.”
“Do you know her?”
Jack slid out of the booth. This was an effing shite storm. Daphne Leicester was one of many who had filled his first months after the great powers hauled him out of the mud-filled trenches, before he fell in with the Malvaise set and before he dragged himself out of the liquid trenches and began re-making his life. That first wildness after demobbing had left him. For Daphne’s set, the Bright Young Things, they only became wilder as the years passed.
He gripped Filly’s hand. He reckoned the next few hours would be the last ones she’d let him anywhere around her. “Keep quiet. We’ll leave through the kitchen.”
“Those guards will still see us.”
“Better than the pub, sweetheart.” Curse his tongue for slipping in the one word that had haunted him since that ill-fated Christmastide party three years before.
He’d take what he could this evening before Daphne’s recognition blew everything sideways.