William ate slowly, taking the opportunity to savour potatoes that didn’t
resemble cricket balls and chops containing more meat than gristle. Around him
the bustling coffee shop hummed with custom, from business men negotiating contracts
to women of dubious virtue making deals of their own. He’d been there
for nigh on four hours and still there was no sign of Mr Fletcher. William was
starting to give up hope that the man would appear at all today.
He was busy mopping up the last of his gravy with a hunk of fresh bread when a voice – smoky, deep and yet unmistakably feminine – made him pause and look over at the counter.
She was beautiful. Body generous without being plump, dark hair, barely restrained by her bonnet, fell in waves around her face. But what caught William’s attention and held it was the way she moved. More self possessed that any woman he had ever seen before; she held herself like a fencer, a fighter. She exuded carnality on an animal level.
A sharp elbow dug into his ribs and William coughed as he nearly inhaled the mouthful he’d forgotten to swallow.
“See our Miss Summers’ got your attention, lad,” the man with the offensive elbows said.
William gulped, took a quick swig of his tea, and answered in a voice that came out inappropriately soprano, “Miss Summers?”
“Aye. Heiress from Westminster way. Often calls in here on the way back from the ‘at shops in Southwark. Don’t know why she goes, meself. Not like she ain’t got servants and such to fetch them for ‘er.”
William scarcely heard him, and his lips moved silently as he repeated her name, “Miss Summers.” She didn’t look like a summer. She looked like autumn; full of ripe promise and fecundity.
The woman picked up two plates and – miracle of miracles – started walking towards his table. William looked around wildly, thinking that maybe she had somehow eavesdropped on his unsuitable thoughts, only to realise that his was the only eating spot with vacant seats. That quelled his panic, but only until he saw how close she now was. Close enough to see the colour of her eyes – the same shade as polished chestnuts and burning with wicked fire.
As the plates slid onto the table, the woman’s lips – as rich a crimson as fresh blood – opened and William waited for whatever pearls would grace those lucky enough to be listening.
“Leg it, Harry. Y’know we don’t stand for hangers on when we’re eating.”
William’s mouth dropped open. Somehow that wasn’t what he expected from a Westminster heiress. Next to him, the man with the elbows – Harry – stood up with a humph of complaint. “Getting above yerself, hanging with these toffs, girl. I remember when you was nothing but a cheap-”
The blow came from nowhere, stifling whatever it was Harry had to say as his hands came up to cradle his bloody nose. “What you do that for?” he whined.
“You know why. Now shove off,” the siren – surely not Miss Summers – snapped, rubbing the leather clad knuckles on the hand that had delivered the punch.
Keeping his head down, and trying not to be noticed, William began to gather his own plates and eating irons.
“Not you, love.” A hand on his arm stopped him. William glanced up and was captivated once more by the promise in the woman’s face. Eyes that had flashed fire at the intruder now glowed with kindly warmth, all aimed at him.
“I was finished anyway,” blurted William. “And I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
The woman gestured. “You sit back down and keep us company. Having a strapping lad like you around’ll show any other blokes we ain’t to be messed with.”
We? The plural finally penetrated William’s befuddled mind and he glanced over at the girl sitting to the siren’s left hand. Slight, and much younger, she sat with her eyes downcast and her hands folded properly in her lap. This, then, must be Miss Summers. Which meant…?
“I’m Lily,” the siren said and held out a gloved hand. William took it, shaking it as he would a man’s, and sank back down onto the bench, his knees weak from shock. Really London couldn’t be any more peculiar.
*
“Where’d you hide him, eh?”
Craven’s huge paw clamped around Moore’s neck and the smaller boy struggled to draw breath, his nails clawing at Craven’s wrist.
Damn me for a fool, Moore thought. How had he not seen the great lummox behind the tree? “Dunno what yer on about,” he croaked as his boots skidded for grip on the wet grass.
“My boy,” Craven growled shaking him like a terrier with a rat.
“Thought you were the feckin’ boy.” That earned him another rattle, and then a clout round the head that made his ears ring. But it was what Craven said next that made Moore lash out.
“Goddamned nigger lover.”
Moore’s knee slammed into Craven’s groin and, when the older boy dropped him, Moore sprang back up and let loose a solid punch that caught Craven in the temple. With a groan like a sawed through tree, Craven toppled forward and crashed, insensible, to the earth.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” cursed Moore, clamping his hand under his arm and jumping up and down on the spot. Once the initial burn had worn off, he glared down at his head boy lying in the mud, and muttered, “S’if I’d tell you where Samson is, yer flaming great brute,” before putting the boot in for good measure.
*
While Lily chattered on around her food, William watched in bemusement. He’d never encountered a woman like her before in his life. The gentler sex, in his experience, were exactly that; gentle, refined, reticent. Lily was anything but, a delicious mixture of sparkling humour and cool undercurrents, her every movement entranced him.
“So, um… What did you say your name was again?” Lily waved her fork under William’s nose, effectively pulling him from his contemplation of her lips.
“Bartlett, William,” he said, half rising from his seat and offering his hand again.
Lily wiped her fingers on the napkin and shook it, and this time William felt the tell tale calluses where gripping a sword chafed the skin to greater resilience. It was something he was accustomed to feeling on Brutus’ hands and the familiarity was, in some strange way, comforting. He ran his thumb over them and then glanced up to see Lily staring at him from hooded eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he gushed, blushing and dropping her hand as though it scalded him. “That was unconscionably rude.”
Neither accepting nor rejecting his apology, Lily said simply, “Appearances can be deceptive,” and then changed the subject, continuing with, “What brings a little ‘un like yourself to Lambeth, then? Visiting family, or looking for something a bit less wholesome?”
The lascivious smile accompanying the question left William in no doubt as to what Lily was referring, and the flush that had started to pale returned full force. It seemed everything about Lily sent his mind in inappropriate directions. Doing his best to ignore his flaming cheeks and shaking hands – and the growing hardness in his trousers – William hunted around for an answer which didn’t involve secret brotherhoods and running away from school.
“I’m waiting for my father’s business partner,” he offered eventually, “Mr Fletcher. I have a note for him from… from my family.” There now, he may have left out some information but none of what he said was a lie.
“Fletcher, huh?” Lily answered. “Would that be Babyface Fletcher? Imports tea, amongst other things.”
“You know him?” William said, hope blossoming once again.
“By sight and reputation, yeah.” Having finished her own meal, Lily began slicing up the food that sat untouched on Miss Summer’s plate, speaking as she did so. “Does most of his deals out of this place,” a waved knife dripped gravy over the spotted table cloth, “which I reckon you know already, being as how you’re looking for him here.” She made no attempt to introduce him to Miss Summers, which seemed a little odd when Lily seemingly had no qualms about chatting to him herself.
The two women couldn’t have been more different, William reflected, as he watched Lily feed thin slices of meat to the girl. Whereas her companion overshadowed everything with her vivacity, Miss Summers was a silent shadow, mouth opening as obediently as a fledgling bird’s for each mouthful, while her slim fingers played over the heavy gold bracelets gracing both her wrists.
“He’s around at least once a week,” Lily continued. “Dunno what day though.” She raised her voice and called over to one of the other tables. “Oi, Frank, seen Fletcher this week?”
A smartly dressed man raised his head and glanced in Lily’s direction. “What, Babyface?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she answered.
A frown skittered over the man’s face and then, “Nah,” he said shaking his head, and returned to his meal.
Lily raised her eyebrows and said to William, “Reckon you’d best
keep coming in then, if you’re wanting to catch him, that is.”