hidden. Dirt covered her skin, hastily smeared on as she’d crept through the garden after Archer had ridden off into the night.
Experience told her Archer would be gone for hours—doing what she couldn’t begin to fathom, though she suspected it was as clandestine as her mission tonight. Cheltenham’s murder, and the attack at the museum, lay heavy on him. Since then, he had gone out every night, when he thought her long abed. She knew he was in search of the killer. Even though he tried to hide it, she could see the frustration and rage in his eyes burning just below the surface. And it ignited a wild urge in Miranda to protect him and find out what she could, where she could.
Cold air, heavy with icy shavings of soot, filled her lungs. She resisted the urge to tuck her head farther into her collar. One walked with purpose here, or one would be quickly singled out. But the smell brought tears to her eyes. Onions, piss, shit, rotted meat… The thick stench of rot was the worst, working its way into mouth and throat, a promise of one’s future: death and decay. She pressed her lips tight and forged on.
Her mark stood beneath one of the few working lampposts. Nearly a head taller than the rest, he was as lanky as a garden ladder, his shaggy brown hair dull in the flickering light. He was older, just as she. Fine lines fanned out from his cheerful brown eyes. But the grin. That gap-toothed grin remained the same, an equal mix of ready humor and malice. A group of younger men and boys surrounded him, watching his every move, modeling their behavior to his. He was boss now to this small group, after having worked his way up through the ranks. His velvet green bowler and mustard-colored sack suit were a bit less shabby than the clothes of his mates. Perhaps one day he would run the whole area.
Her steps slowed. How to get him alone? It wouldn’t do to come upon him with his gang hanging about. Willing to wait, she leaned against an abandoned lamppost. The lamplighter had passed it by. Passed by most of the street lamps here. This neighborhood wasn’t deemed fit to have good light, or fresh water for that matter.
A sudden anger sparked hot in her breast, and with it an idea. Perhaps she alone could smell the acrid sweet tang of gas that had leaked out of the unused lamps to pool in the thin, trash-filled gutter running down West Street. It was enough to burn. One small spark would do the trick. Her loins tightened with a throb of excitement, and a familiar power ignited within. She shoved her hands deep into her pockets to hide their trembling, and her fingers curled around the cool coin hidden there. She held onto it like a lifeline. Should the task be done incorrectly, the whole of West Street could ignite like a lamp. In truth, the very fog-fouled air of London was an incendiary bomb waiting to go off. Nothing too grand, she promised herself as a cold sweat broke out over her skin. Only a small spark, directed with precision at the gutters.
An organ grinder and his monkey danced by. Then she acted. A shiver of pleasure pulsed through her limbs, and the gutter along West Street flared to life with a sudden hiss. Gasps rushed through the night as a yellow river of fire ran between the throngs of people. Among the laughter of surprise and the general mayhem, Billy Finger lifted his head. His brown eyes glared round before catching hers. They narrowed for one cool moment. Miranda touched her brim, and the familiar gap-toothed smile curled in response. She was, as they say, all in it now.
“ ’Ello there, darlin’,” he said as he came near. “Know how to make an entrance, you do.” The overpowering scent of grease, sweat, and bay rum—most likely lifted from a recent house job—followed him. “An’ how’s me favorite mot on this fine night?”
“Don’t call me that,” she hissed in a low voice.
His feathery brows rose. “Wha? Mot?”
“ ‘Mot,’ ‘darling.’ ” She stiffened her shoulders to make them appear broader. “I’m a man, remember.”
The gap-toothed grin appeared again. “Right. An’ a very convincing cove you are.” He snorted, blowing stale breath over her. “Only a blind codger would happ’n upon you and not want to put his old nebuchadnezzar to the grass.”
“Don’t be