The Spiritglass Charade (Stoker & Holmes 2)
Page 9“If you don’t remove your hand from my arm by the time I count to four, I’ll break your finger. Can you count that high?”
Oh, he didn’t like that. At all. His eyes, already squirrelly and beady, narrowed. A glint of malevolence showed there for the first time, and I was quite glad of it. I didn’t want to break his finger if he was just a drunken sot acting silly.
But this man was mean. How many times did a woman have to tell him to take his hands off her?
“One,” I said.
He tightened his fingers and grinned. I could feel them digging into the soft flesh at the front of my shoulder. His filthy nails cut through the flimsy linen of my shirtwaist. “Ye don’ tell Big Marv what ’e kin and kinnat touch. Ain’t no one ’oo does ’at.”
“Two.”
The obnoxious beast’s nasty grin turned nastier, and he reached over and yanked at the edge of my corset, causing me to jolt. “Oh yeah?” His words were tainted with whiskey and rotting teeth. Then he moved his hand down and rested it flat on my leg, curling those fingers tightly over my thigh.
My breath caught. I’d never been touched so intimately in my life. I wasn’t ashamed. I was furious. Definitely a finger was going to get broken. No, two.
“Ye kin stop countin’ now, jenny. Ye’re gonna ’ave some oth—”
“Three.” My voice was steady and I allowed the fury to show in my gaze. Other than that, I didn’t flicker an eyelash. One would think the numbfist would be wondering why I wasn’t writhing on the floor in agony, for his indecent grip was tight as a vise.
Instead, Big Marv chuckled and nodded for another drink from Bilbo as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
He squealed like a train coming into the station. Before he could react, I snatched up his other hand from my thigh and smashed it into the edge of the table. Marv gave another roar of pain and rage and swung out at me, teeth bared, eyes burning with fury. I ducked half under the table and, with one slick, smooth move, used my hand and foot to yank the leg of his chair out from under him. The dinkus landed on his arse on the floor with a loud, satisfying thud.
“I told you not to touch me.” I don’t think he heard me over his howls.
Then I stood, shoving the chair away from the table. When Garf made a halfhearted move to stop me, I looked at him. “You can’t be that stupid. At least you know how to shave.”
Sinking back down onto his seat, he picked up Marv’s new whiskey and glugged it down.
Every eye in the place was on me, of course. “I’m finished here.” I dusted off my hands then smoothed my hair. Not one curl out of place, my hat still intact.
“’Oo are ye?” whispered Bilbo.
“A tempest in a bloody teapot is wot she is.”
I turned. Pix was leaning against the wall beyond the countertop where Bilbo reigned. I had no idea how long he’d been standing there or where he’d come from, but it didn’t matter. I’d accomplished what I set out to do.
Tonight he wore a long dark overcoat that covered everything but his hands (ungloved) and his lower legs and feet (booted). He was hatless, revealing a dark head of thick and mussed hair and long sideburns, which likely were fake. He also needed to shave the rest of his face. Other than that, he wasn’t in disguise—at least, as far as I could tell. But then again, I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen him when he wasn’t somehow altering his appearance or hiding in the shadows.
“Ah. Just the man I was looking for.”
A low ripple of laughter trundled through the pub. Marv growled, but remained where I’d left him, nursing his hand.
“I gave him fair warning. If he’d listened, I wouldn’t have had to count in the first place.”
Pix shook his head and I saw his jaw move. Then he turned to Bilbo and said, “A gatter for me and the lady. In the back.”
“But she prefers lemonade,” the bartender ventured. “Wit’ ice.”
“I don’ care wot she prefers.” Pix gave the bartender a steely grin, then swept the same look over the rest of the pub. Then he took my arm with a firm grip. “This way.”
With that, the patrons seemed to lose interest and they returned to their cards, arm wrestling, dice, and conversation.
I lifted a brow at Pix. “I’ve already broken two bones tonight because a bloody facemark thought he could manhandle me. Do you really want to attempt the same?”
“Now, luv, y’ know it wouldn’ be only an attempt,” he said, his voice pitched only for my ears. His hold on me didn’t ease, but I allowed him to lead me away. He was aware I could shake his grip if I wanted. “Ye came ’ere t’see me, and ye know it.”
“I have no other way of contacting you, and you know that.”
“Aye. I jus’ didn’ expect ye to ’ear ’bout it so quick,” he muttered.
By now we’d reached the pub’s back wall, which was covered with heavy walnut paneling—an expensive addition to such a lowly place.
Pix must have pushed a button or stepped on some release, for the paneling slid open as we approached. We walked through and it closed silently behind us, leaving us in near-darkness.
My heart thumped as I wondered if he meant to try and kiss me, which he’d done once before. Instead, he directed me farther into the dim space. I drew back in surprise when I felt a cobweb brush against my face, then drift over my shoulders . . . only to realize it was a heavy curtain. Pix lifted the drapes away, revealing a brick passageway lit with a cool, crisp, white illumination.
Electric lights.
The glass bulbs with their glowing interior wires were contraband in London since electricity had been banned by the Moseley-Haft Act.
“Will this lead us to your lair, Mr. Spider?”
“I didn’ think ye’d be that eager t’visit me crib again, luv,” he said, releasing my arm and gesturing for me to precede him down a well-lit stairway. “But if ye insist . . .”