The West End decor was foreign to Jenny. Despite the surroundings of their town, the Andersons did not frequently invest in the town, clearly not in this neighbourhood.
Even now with their current heritage, there was a limit they could have the money for here.
Staring at Marvyne, Jenny marvelled at why he appeared to know precisely where they were heading when he was no more familiar with the town than she.
But Marvyne had an instinct for locating his way anywhere.
They turned onto King Street, which was smouldering with a bright shed from gas lanterns. It was rowdy and engaged, crowded with carriers and groups of pedestrians setting out for the evening's recreation.
The sky flickered pale red as the lingering light percolated through the fog of coal mist. Titles of outstanding houses smashed the frontier, layers of dark silhouettes bulging like witches' teeth.
Marvyne drove the horse to a slender aisle of mews behind a huge stone-fronted house. Jenner's. Jenny's abdomen shrank. It was likely too much to inquire that her brother would be discovered safely here, in the first location they peeked.
"Marvyne?" Her voice was exhausted.
"Yes?"
"You should perhaps recall that if my brother has not already contrived to kill himself, I intend to shoot him when we locate him."
"I will give you the pistol."
Jenny chuckled and untangled her bonnet. "Let us go inside. And remember, I will do the discussing."
An unsavoury fragrance crammed the hallway, a city scent of creatures and waste and coal dust. In the shortage of nice rain, dirt grew rapidly on the roads and branches.
Swooping to the smudged floor, Jenny jumped out of the hallway of squawking rats that ran alongside the barricade of the house.
As Marvyne gave the souvenirs to a stableman at the mews, Jenny looked toward the border of the aisle.
A couple of street boys leaned near a small fire, searing something on stakes. Jenny did not need to assume the essence of the things being toasted.
Her scrutiny shifted to a group—three men and a woman—illuminated in the unpredictable flame. It happened that two of the men were immersed in fisticuffs.
However, they were so intoxicated that their game looked like a feat of romping bears.
The woman's gown was made of gaudily cloaked fibre, the bodice yawning to disclose the plump hills of her bossoms.
She appeared fascinated by the scene of two men struggling over her, while a third strived to disband the row.
" Ere now, my wonderful jacks," the woman blurted in a Cockney rhythm.
"I said I would take you both on—no need for a cockfight!"
"Stay back," Marvyne muttered.
Feigning not to listen, Jenny drew nigher for a proper view. It was not the scenery of the commotion that was so intriguing—even their town, amicable little Primrose Place, had its stake of fistfights.
All men, no matter what their circumstances, sometimes relinquished their downward personalities. What fascinated Jenny's attention was the third man, the would-be peacemaker, as he flickered between the drunken clowns and struggled to reason with them.
He was every modicum as well adorned as the gentlemen on either aspect ... but it was apparent this man was no gentleman. He was black-haired and dark and weird.
And he strode with the immediate dignity of a cat, skillfully deterring the jabs and lunges of his rivals.
"My lords," he was saying in a satisfactory expression, sounding flexible even as he obstructed a huge fist with his forearm.
"I am scared you will both have to end this now, or I will be compelled to—" He broke off and ducked to the side just as the man behind him dived.
The whore chuckled at the scenery. "They got you on the peak tonight, Smith," she yelled.
Ducking back into the dispute, Smith strived to crush it up once more. "My lords, actually you must know"—he ducked beneath the quick arc of a fist—"that chaos"— he obstructed a straight hook—"never solves anything."
"Bugger you!" one of the men let out and butted forward like a crazy goat.
Smith walked aside and permitted him to arraign directly into the side of the house. The assailant slumped with a whine and lay puffing on the ground.
His adversary's outcome was singularly unappreciated. Instead of appreciating the dark-haired man for setting an end to the combat, he roared, "Curse you for intervening, Smith! I would have whacked the filler from him!"
He charged forth with his fists swirling like windmill edges.
Smith avoided a left combination and deftly flung him to the floor. He strutted over the prone figure, tarnishing his forehead with his sleeve.
"Had enough?" he inquired pleasantly.
"Yes? Good. Please permit me to assist you to your feet, my lord."
As Smith jerked the man upward, he looked toward the entrance of a door that directed into the organization, where an organization labourer stayed.
"Dawson, guide Lord Latimer to his wagon out cover. I will bring Lord Selway."
"No need," said the gentle person who had just strived to his feet, sounding meandered.
"I can stroll to my bloody carriage."
Yanking his dress back into place over his huge form, he tossed the dark-haired man a worried peek.
"Smith, I will have your word on something."
"Yes, my lord?"
"If word of this gets out—if Lady Selway should find out that I was combatting over the endorsements of a fallen woman—my life won't be worth a farthing."
Smith answered back with soothing composure.
"She will never realize, my lord."
"She understands everything," Selway said.
"She is in association with the devil. If you are ever interviewed about this small confrontation..."
"It was inflicted by a very brutal game of whist," came the bland response.
"Yes. Yes. Good man." Selway dabbed the younger man on the shoulder. "And to put a stamp on your silence—" He lunged a sturdy hand inside his waistcoat and pulled a little bag.
"No, my lord." Smith strode back with a strong tilting of his head, his glossy black hair scampering with the action and sitting back into place.
"There is no fee for my silence."
Take it," the aristocrat urged.
"I can not my lord."
"It is yours."
The satchel of coins was thrown to the ground, landing at Smith's feet with a metallic thud.
"There. Whether you prefer to abandon it lying on the street or not is solely your decision."
As the gentleman left, Smith glanced at the bag as if it were a dead rodent.
"I don't need it," he mumbled to no one in particular.
"I will take it," the whore said, sauntering over to him.
She picked up the bag and interviewed its weight in her palm. A mocking smile cracks her face.
"I have never beheld a Gypsy who is scared o' blunt."