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He felt something in the center of his chest tug, seeking to draw him to her, and he wondered if she felt the same thing. If the pull between them was as strong for her as it was for him, and if either of them would act upon it this time.
“And I think your thoughts and feelings deserve the words you clearly have for them.”
“She was a poor, uneducated thing. Words were foreign objects for other people. A means of communication and nothing more.” Griff’s heart thudded at the sound of truth, and he shifted his weight ever so slightly. “What a revelation was in store for you.” She laughed very softly, her smile spreading in a nearly wistful manner as nostalgia washed over her in an almost visible wave. “Yes. Why else do you think I began absorbing so many languages?”
Minerva was going to be the death of him. Unless she was the life of him. Which could very well be his death.
The noise and bustle of the day went quiet, the chaos calmed, and everything around her settled, which allowed for the beauty of the city and the skies and the unique aspects of London that everyone missed to show themselves for those keen enough to notice.
The only thing she needed to guard against tonight was giving Griff any indication that she had been the girl who had saved him that night on the docks.
Why did she feel a need to hide from their connection in the face of her growing feelings for him?
“Look, we were poor girls together, all right? We looked out for each other. She was not as fortunate as I was and had a very difficult life. Several children by different men, and barely has the means to keep them fed, let alone housed and healthy. She was forced into working in a brothel before anyone ought to even think such things, and…” Minerva paused, swallowing hard as she considered the sort of life Cathy had been living since Minerva had left the streets and gone on to improve her own.
She paid money to Cathy because her children deserved better than what they’d had.
The occasional connection was as jarring as it was amusing, and it was with that conundrum in her mind
“Sally Titchum, who runs the boarding house at the end of the row, swears she saw him a month or two ago out by Mr. Blaine’s residence. You know Mr. Blaine, the moneylender? Brutal man.”
“Would she know him well by sight?” Griff asked with a furrowed brow. “If his hair was different…” “I asked the same thing,” Cathy said, laughing a touch. “I says, ‘How could you know him without the mop of ginger hair?’ And the look she gave me!” She shook her head. “As it happens, the man lodged at Sally’s for a time and left without paying the remainder of his balance. She told me she never forgot anyone who owed her money.”
I may have put it into the head of Miss Laura that I may know of a situation where she might find education and training for any future of her choice without requiring any cost at all from you.
“You were thinking of the Rothchild Academy for Laura, weren’t you?” she asked in a rough voice. “Yes,” he said simply. “I have no doubt you’ve thought of it before, too. I hope I didn’t overstep.”
“You’re not just some governess from Norfolk turned operative. You couldn’t be. I’m not asking you to reveal life secrets but give me some credit. I’ve been to Downham several times, and I’ve never met anyone there who could pick locks like you. And my associations were far from polite.”
Why do you think Gent stays where he is instead of taking a promotion? Or Rogue? Or Trick? There are many of us who work down here, you know that.
It is an advantage in these circles to be late in developing, as I was. I had only ever been propositioned in the weeks before I left for the Academy.
“I take it we are heading for Blaine’s house?” Minerva nodded, feeling her operative nature slip back into place. “Yes. Not to intrude, but to examine. And Ears should be meeting us somewhere around here.” “Good plan,” he praised, turning to continue their walk and taking her hand again. “I hope she brings Rudder.” “You know him?” Minerva demanded, grinning at the idea that Griff had crossed paths with Ears’s husband Teo already.
But only when their conversation was broken by a gunshot did she even think to properly look about her. And only after Griff shoved her into an alley, hissing in pain, did she acknowledge the danger. “Griff?” she whispered, gripping his jacket as he hissed through his teeth. He shook his head. “I’ve been shot, love. Not badly. You lead, I’ll follow.” She stared at him in shock, not quite comprehending. How could he have been shot?
Rudder, a Spaniard by birth, though half-English in truth, came over and gripped his hand, his smile holding a touch of irony.
“There’s nothing happening at the house at present,” Ears told Minerva, putting a hand on her arm. “Not a meeting, not a gathering, nothing. There is a watchman holed up across the street in the dead end, and when we got there, he was passed out with drink. So it may very well be that you played into his drunken imaginings, and he was careless.”
Griff raised the glass beside him, containing some of the brandy Suds was using on his shoulder. “Consider me warned.” He downed it, then winced as Suds pressed against the cut with fresh burning.
“We cannot look for Mist’s mark where he was last seen because of a bloody watchman with a rifle. That leaves us with no avenue to explore there unless we take him out.”
Griff blinked at her admission. “A man holds a gun in your face, and you don’t bat an eyelash, but I get winged, and you go to pieces?” She sniffed harshly. “Yes!”
And that was what she had felt? Minerva nodded as he felt an echo of that anguish across his face. “Exactly.” “Exactly what?” he managed to force out, trying to play off anything she thought she saw, anything he was presently feeling. Anything at all. It was too much, too complicated, too real. Minerva shook her head and marched across the room to him, gripping his head in her hands and crashing her lips down upon his. There was nothing tender in it, only desperation and need. And fear. A whole world of fear. Griff gripped her sides as she pulled back, wondering what she had done with the air
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Griff truly believed they could all be overcome in the face of his rather profound love for her. Love. Well. There it was.
That she was simply another passenger along this strange, vulnerable ride that she didn’t quite like.
Some easy, unexceptional evening of two people who lived their lives together, without artifice or ceremony, without walls or secrets, and found simple pleasures in entangling their lives with the other. Was that what love was? She almost gagged at the word. Love?
Madness. It wasn’t love, it was madness. As she took in the figure of him and felt the deep, almost feral satisfaction in taking pleasure at the sight of him, her mind fumbled over the madness, and her lips burned with the other word instead. Love.
And the fact that I managed to help you just now without kissing you in a way that would probably have me knocked unconscious should earn me a damned medal.” She was suddenly hot all over and cold at the same time. Her eyes were dry, her fingers no longer existed, and there was nothing at all tying her to the ground. And him… dash it, she could barely breathe for the look in his dark eyes.
Why was she letting herself hurt with it rather than losing herself in him and forgetting thought and sense and even feeling? If this was love, and she thought it might be, why weren’t they falling headfirst into it?
Knowing he found her attractive and appealing, considering she found him the same, was a heady thing indeed, and playing with that knowledge was the most fun she’d had in ages.
Would she always be that London street urchin at heart? Or could she ever truly be Lady Beddingsford and the like?
“My dear woman, when you hear the language known as man’s incoherency in response to your appearance, it is the purest and most natural expression of approval and appreciation that exists.”
“This is the most like me I have been,” she whispered, her fingers shifting against his. “And that is almost more uncomfortable.”
“You, just as you are, happen to be my preferred company. And while I may not be the arbiter of taste, admittedly, I cannot see any other sentient, logical, philosophical, or artistic view from anyone else differing on the subject.”
“Stop thinking so much. Stop analyzing everything. Just stop. Breathe it in, and let it be. Let it exist. Can you do that?” If his thumb continued to rub against her hand like that, and his smile in her direction continued to be so sweet, she could let almost anything exist.
She heard him suddenly hiss a dark Hindustani curse and glanced over in surprise. “What in the world was that for?” she whispered. He was not looking at her, nor the stage, but across the theater to another box that was almost pointedly empty. “What?” she whispered again. “Chorlton,” he grunted. “And Pryce and friends. All of whom just left their box one by one. The intermission isn’t for another few songs.”
“The Key is safe and guarded, and he will remain so until further notice.” “And your assignment to destroy his records?” “Complete.” “And the Hand?” “Wants us to continue our plans. The Key is not necessary for them.”
“Have you collected enough support for the arrival?” a deep voice asked. “We believe so. Our plant has a certain charm about him, and he has encouraged many to host more. Between his work and our roots, we are prepared for twenty, if not more.” “Excellent, nicely done.” “Unfortunately, Herschel wouldn’t fall for the story, and with his wife behind bars, he is more suspicious than ever.” “We can forget about him, then. Lady Lavinia was useful to us, but he never was. It does not matter. The Hand will be pleased to have so many new recruits in the ranks. And to be able to free up the Key to
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“Martin is Key?” she mouthed, twisting her fingers to indicate a key unlocking. Griff’s brows rose. That was a genius speculation, and was more than likely correct, the more he thought about it. He nodded once, agreeing with that assertion.
“Monday at midnight. It is all above board. We’ve even got a charity providing resources to the ‘poor, helpless refugees,’ and no one can claim anything else. It’s perfectly orchestrated.”
A group of operatives, agents, conspirators, or sympathizers were going to make their way to British shores on Monday, and there wasn’t a damn thing they could do about it. Refugees could not be turned away, and if that was what they were claiming, there wasn’t much hope of stopping them.
Roots and plants… This was a full-scale infiltration with longstanding supporters as well as new ones and stopping it might not be the most important detail.
“St. Saviour’s, of course,” came the grizzled response. “As our cause is so righteous. Go to your box number. Clear enough?”
Not yet. Had there ever been a phrase of more hope and more dread?
He didn’t care; that was the point. Griff wanted to hold Minerva’s hand, and it had nothing to do with the Beddingsfords.
She shifted slightly in her seat, then settled once more, this time leaning away from him, her expression unchanged. Now he was irritated as well as curious. From a kiss in the corridor to distance in the box, and only a handful of words to fill the time and space between. That was not enough time or context for anyone to have offended another person, even when they were as classically irritating as Griff had the ability to be.
Because he loved her, damn it, and he wanted to hold her hand for no other reason than because it allowed him to be connected to her. Was that too much to ask? He’d have to tell her one of these days, or she would never fully comprehend his continuing to reach for her. Perhaps it was an annoyance when she wasn’t aware of the strength and depth of his feelings, or in which avenues they moved.
Revelation upon revelation lashed upon his cheek, a strange cacophony of pleasure and pain as she thrilled and devastated him in turn the more she spoke. No admission of feelings should sound with such anger, if not disgust, and to hear what he had enjoyed so much be described with such fury…
