Chapter Two:

A Place to Sit and Ponder

London, England: 1878

The hands that turned the key in the lock were small and white and stained with ink at the tips; they would not have attracted much notice, belonging to a typist. If, however, some uncouth fellow chanced to catch the woman by the wrist and turn her hands over, he might have been astonished to discover great dark scars, like the lines on a map, stretching from the heel of her hand to her elbow.

But no such scoundrel existed who could manage such a feat without incurring great wrath and greater injury, for the typist suffered no man to treat her inconsiderately.

With the smallest of clicks, the lock was set and the woman set about securing the key in her handbag, a fashionable little affair held shut with drawstrings.

"Until tomorrow then," she said to no-one in particular, then descended the marble steps, taking great care to pin her hat more firmly to her dark, upswept hair. It was such a nice shade of blue, after all, that she would have been quite put out should something spoil it.

All at once, a chill came over Miss d'Iacon that had very little to do with the gnawing frost that seemed to be keeping everyone indoors. She looked about and, seeing no one, drew her tailored coat a little tighter over her riding habit.

"Now Miss d'Iacon," said the typist sternly to herself, "You're only being silly. Imagine, someone like you jumping at shadows like a schoolgirl! Whatever would your mother say?"

Naturally, some shade of her concern must have been tied to being a woman out alone in a world that was, admittedly, not very friendly to her gender. There was, added to that, little point in denying that she was a woman with enemies. Miss d'Iacon could no longer operate strictly out of sight for Lord Prime: she had been marked.

The woman unfastened an old bicycle from the iron railing and departed for her flat.

From the rooftops of the fine houses around her, several pairs of unfriendly eyes glittered with evil intent. Then, as quick as a thought, they had gone.

Miss d'Iacon coasted easily along the streets with a cordial greeting and a polite nod for what few souls could be found out and about at such a late hour. By and by, the mansions around her gave way to humbler buildings, and crowded closer together like the poor, huddled together for warmth. The typist continued onward and did not try to avoid the puddles and the slush that had gathered on the byways. What good would it have done in February, after all? Mud splashed up and quite soon the hem of her cobalt dress looked positively primeval.

As the houses surrounding became less hospitable and more functional, Miss d'Iacon came to the part of her journey where she was most unfortunately required to take a short cut through the East End. Poor, overcrowded, and often frequented by characters with motivations other than pure ones, it was not the sort of place one might expect to find Lord Prime's secretary. She took this leg of the journey at a quicker pace than before, unwilling to stay longer than necessary. It had been whispered to her, by women detained at hospitals, that there was something sinister afoot in the Whitechapel area, some gentleman who was, in their words, "proper-dressed, but some'ow not wot ye'd call a gennleman, if ye take my meanin' miss".

Miss d'Iacon would discover years later that the women's fears were not unfounded, but for now she merely endeavored to give the whole setting as wide a berth as she could manage. As she crossed the street, she came to a lonely corner in the waning light, just outside a glowing tavern resounding with the drunken carousing of revelers. Standing at the edge of the street was a young man attempting to sell newspapers, though no-one was out to buy them.

He could barely have been older than fourteen, and his nose and cheeks were scarlet with the cold. Miss d'Iacon felt a stab of pity for the lad, as he had been entirely unable to sell more than two papers thus far. The oft-patched coat and well-worn hat he wore testified to the necessity of the evening edition's purchase, and his thin shoes offered no protection from the harsh temperament of the weather.

Not of a sentimental nature, yet warm and compassionate in sentiment, the typist felt that she could not pass the thin creature by. Her duties had been light throughout the day and she was in an altogether charitable mood as she halted her bicycle and leaned over.

"I'll take one, if you don't mind lad."

The young man made quite a start, having not heard her approach. With a flush that now had little to do with the cold, he held out one slightly damp paper.

"Two for a pence, miss, if you'd like," he gulped in an accent rather out of place with his rough surroundings. He sounded as though he would have been more at home in one of the better boarding schools near her end of town, rather than standing in the snow selling papers. Miss d'Iacon thought that perhaps his family had fallen upon hard times, as her own had when her father had died long ago. She did not, of course, voice her thoughts so as not to embarrass the lad, but now more than ever she felt a desire to see to it that he would be alright for tonight at the very least.

Quietly, she thanked him as she took the paper and handed him a pence, then asked whether he thought anyone else would be interested in buying a paper that evening; when he answered rather forlornly that he didn't think so, she said, "Well then, I think you ought to go home, young man. You'll only catch your death out here! If not for your own sake, for your poor mother's, I do insist that you get indoors!"

The boy looked down at his stack of sadly blurring papers with a kind of frown on his narrow features. "I wish that I could, miss," he pushed his black hair from his eyes and put the pence in his pocket. "I'm afraid the landlord isn't as charitable as you, bless the man."

"Bless him!" Miss d'Iacon said with no little surprise, "Whatever for?"

"Why miss," answered he, "doesn't the Bible tell us to bless those who curse us?" She smiled and answered that it did indeed, and it occurred to her to suggest that if the landlord was really so heartless as all that, perhaps he might take shelter in a church for the evening. It was sure to be warmer than sleeping in the streets, at any rate.

The lad seemed to brighten at the suggestion, then his eyes grew narrow, and vapor clouded the air as his breath hissed from between his teeth. He was looking at something just over Miss d'Iacon's shoulder, where she could not see. When she made a face clearly demanding an explanation, the paperboy spoke in a low tone.

"There are three men just there, under the eaves across the street. All the time that you've stood here with me, they've been there. I fear their motives are highly suspect, miss." Then with an apology for his boldness, the lad warned her to clear out.

In the frosted windowpane behind the young man, there was the barest hint of a reflection of the three, only clear enough to show hulking, tallow creatures hanging back like ghosts in an unpleasantly familiar livery.

The figures clearly were bent on mischief to her person in some manner, and she could see no way to outdistance them on the bicycle in a part of London she was not altogether familiar with. That left her only hope in standing and fighting, but she hoped it would not come to that, for by now the House of Kaon was well aware that she carried a derringer. Too late, she realized that the paperboy was speaking to her.

"I beg your pardon?" asked she, and patiently he repeated an offer to escort her back to the West End, making use of side streets that he was accustomed to using. He was quite offended when Miss d'Iacon asked whether he would like to be rewarded for his kindness, and rather stiffly answered that he only wanted to make sure that she reached her destination safely. "You're someone's sister or daughter, miss. That's all I need to know."

She was unable to argue with the young man's stolid and unshakable attitude, and so she agreed that he might lead her out of the East End, particularly as the three men from the House of Kaon were edging closer quite boldly. With an unfinished warning of what might befall should the paperboy manage to get them lost, Miss d'Iacon allowed him to take her by the hand and let her bicycle clatter to the cobblestones as they took off at a run.

The sound of boots upon stone followed them like an executioner's drumbeat as the moved from byway to byway, stopping only once, when they appeared to have met a dead end. The thin lad dragged an abandoned cart over to a low wall and insisted that Miss d'Iacon go first. With never a moment's composure lost, she did so and reached back to pull her young rescuer with her as he kicked the cart away. There was no time to celebrate clever escapes, however, and they were soon on their feet again.

All remaining light was eclipsed by the slow moving fog as it draped itself down over the buildings and rubbed up against the windowpanes. They'd got across town, to be sure, but they'd not lost their pursuers. The barbarous trio were still hard on their heels with little chance of relenting.

"Lad, you must realize," Miss d'Iacon said, "That if those ugly fellows intend to harm me, you've made yourself a target as well?" To which the young man replied that he might've come to blows with them sooner or later even if he had not met her, for they frequented his part of town with no small amount of damage left in their wake. The boy said he didn't see how it could get much worse, and the secretary hardly knew how to answer his naivete.

Their breath came in gasps and their steps slowed as they wound through a labyrinth of alleys and hidden gates towards the place of the woman's employment. With signs that he should now follow her, Miss d'Iacon hid herself in the shadows behind a hedge as their would-be assailants rounded the corner. The leader of the three came uncomfortably close to their hiding place, but was interrupted in his search by a brash and youthful voice that cut through the night with a brogue as thick as the fog.

"Well, would you look here, Raphael, m'lad? They do say as rats come out at night, now don't they?"

Standing at the alley's end, framed like a guardian angel straight from a boxing match, stood the unflappable Mr. Foiche. Miss d'Iacon noted that his coat was well-brushed and looked quite new, and knew that Mr. Foiche's mother and father would likely have reason to buy a new one for him before the night was out. At the young Irishman's side stood a small boy, perhaps nine or ten years of age. He was as well-dressed as his brother and watched with wide eyes.

"So are they rats then, Brendan?" he asked.

The older of the pair winked broadly and nodded. "Oh aye," said he, "That he is, boyo. An' ye know what it is we do about rats on our streets, now don't ye?" Both the young man and the young child made horrible, grimacing smiles at the men and brandished their fists in a threatening manner.

A matching smile graced Miss d'Iacon's lips. "At last we have some good fortune!" The paperboy remarked that he wasn't certain how a man barely older than seventeen and a child who ought to have been in bed at that hour could do anything against the three assassins and the typist shook her head. "Where Brendan Foiche goes, the Bull's Horn Band are certain to follow. Now come along, let's not have you out in this cold longer than necessary, hm?"

Just as she had said, it was not twenty seconds before Brogan O'Garvie and Wallace "Wheels" Jerome turned up, red-faced and eager for a brawl. Contrary to her predictions, however, one of the Kaon men managed to escape the fracas and followed the fugitives all the way to their destination.

Miss d'Iacon was quite relieved to see the beautiful marble house, supported at the front by the thirteen pillars. It did not once occur to her to think of the number as unlucky, though it did cross the assassin's mind as he darted out of the mist to confront the pair. It was only one woman and one child, after all, and he should have had little trouble disarming and killing them both.

In the scuffle that ensued, the ragged boy managed to blacken his eye. The man's fury was an awful sight, and with little effort, he had snatched up the lad by the collar and thrown him to the walkway. As he lay there, winded, the Kaon man drew a dagger and threatened with a vile oath that he should pin the boy to the sidewalk as a permanent decoration for the upper class to look at. His intended victim moved only just in time to avoid a blow that would have ended him, but came away with a rather nasty gash on one shoulder.

All the while that the man in black and purple had fought with the boy from the East End, he'd forgotten about Miss d'Iacon's derringer. Once the lad was out of the way, she brought the small pistol to bear on the ruffian's forehead.

"Truly sir, you are an imbecile!" Miss d'Iacon's tone was one part pity and one part contempt. "Not only have you followed me like a common dog from one end of the city to the other, but you have assaulted an innocent citizen in front of his home!"

With an inarticulate noise that sounded curiously like dismay, the assassin leapt to his feet from where he had tried to stab the boy a second time. There came the sound of a latch being undone, and light spilled out from a doorway.

An authoritative voice rang out over the fray. "What is the meaning of this?!" A shadowy form stood framed in the door, someone holding a candle behind them. "Put that knife away this instant sir, or I promise upon my honor that not only shall I take it from you by force, but you shall not have it back until you are walked to the gallows!"

The would-be assassin showed a wonderfully clean pair of heels and vanished into the night, leaving all still once more as a freezing rain began to fall.

"My dear Miss d'Iacon, are you well?" the voice from the door asked. The secretary gratefully replied that she was quite well, thank you, but that the boy had taken quite a beating on her behalf. Out of the candlelight strode a tall man, in disposition more like a king than a noble, and he carried a lantern. "I believe you had best come inside, the pair of you," he remarked, and helped the boy to his feet. "I shall send for my physician presently."

The young man began to protest, saying that he was quite certain he did not need a doctor, and that he did not wish to trouble anyone, but the man who had rescued them would not hear of it. He reasoned that, as his physician was rarely asleep at nights anyway, he could hardly be causing any bother by alleviating the man's perpetual ennui.

Once within the marvelous house, they found themselves escorted into a wide room containing quite possibly the largest collection of books the paperboy had ever seen. The nobleman's dark blue eyes twinkled with a wisdom that seemed almost mischievous at times. "Do you like books, my lad?" asked the man, "I've spent a great deal of my youth collecting them." And he smiled briefly at the secretary, who had evidently forgotten the man and boy entirely and had settled herself into one of the green velvet chairs with a slim volume from the desk.

"I should like to know what went on here tonight," the owner of the grand house remarked, and he took the boy by the elbow and directed him to a chair. "I certainly did not expect to have one of the servants burst into my study and cry out that someone was being murdered in front of the house!"

"Oh dear!" Miss d'Iacon said, "That means you were intending to work all through the night again, doesn't it? You really ought to take better care of yourself, sir." To which he merely laughed and thanked the woman for her concern, then asked again what had happened.

The tale was briefly told, and in a tone of amusement and scolding at once, the man said he thought Miss d'Iacon ought to know better than to cut through a part of town she was unfamiliar with during the evening. A servant brought a basin of water and, thanking him, the master of the house dipped a handkerchief into the bowl and went about trying to clean some of the blood from the young man's shoulder and face.

"What is your name, lad?" he asked quietly; the young man spoke too quietly to be heard at first, being rather more occupied with the stinging of the cold water on his cuts, and the question had to be repeated.

"Jack, sir," he said, a little louder, "My name is Jack Darby."

The handkerchief came away stained bright red and was rinsed in the basin again. "Well then, Master Darby, you are either very brave, or very rash. That was hardly a common thief you dealt with tonight," he courteously neglected to mention that it was rather the other way around, with the "thief" dealing with the boy. "That was an assassin, very highly trained, sent by an enemy to murder Miss d'Iacon."

Jack paled despite the cold, and the master of the house called for tea to warm the pair up. "But why should anyone wish to murder Miss d'Iacon?" the lad asked, taken aback, "What has she done?"

In a changed voice, the man answered, "It is because of me. I am a man with enemies, young Master Darby, and all those who associate with me find themselves with enemies of their own. I fear that you are now one of those unfortunate souls, as the man who nearly killed you tonight will doubtless recall your face and tell his master that you aided us."

Lighter in tone and disposition suddenly, he turned to Miss d'Iacon. "You needn't bother hiding the abrasion on your arm, my dear Arcee. I've already seen it. You didn't think the boy would receive the only medical attention, did you?" With crimson spreading over her cheeks, the woman muttered some kind of excuse and showed him the angry welt. "I see." The noble-looking gentleman shook out a second handkerchief and dipped it into the water, then wrapped it around the woman's forearm. "That should do until Doctor Rach arrives. Mind you keep that in place!"

Jack watched the strange gentleman with awe, heightened by the sheer magnificence of the home in which he now sat. Even in the days before he and his mother had lived in the East End, he could not have imagined such a place. Jack found himself terribly curious: who was the strange man that had rescued them and tended their wounds?

As if he had read his thoughts, their benefactor turned and smiled down at him. "Ah! Where are my manners tonight? I asked for your name and I never gave my own. Perhaps you are right, Miss d'Iacon, I ought to sleep more often."

He offered a friendly hand to the stunned boy and nodded. "Forgive me, my young friend! I am Lord Optimus, of the House of Prime. You have my thanks for rescuing my secretary." He held up one hand to forestall the awed babble as it fell from the young man's lips. "Please, please, you are exhausted." He ignored his secretary declaring that he was hardly one to talk. "When Winston arrives with the tea, you're both to stay here until you've finished it. Then Winston will show you to a guest room, and in the morning Dr. Rach will examine you. I shall send for your parents, if you like."

"It's only my mother and me, my lord," Jack answered, flushing, "But I'm certain she'll be worried when I don't come home." He was reassured that his mother would be brought to the manor as quickly as could be managed, for their own safety. Winston brought a tea tray in, and Lord Optimus stood and watched to ensure that all of it was consumed.

"Now then, follow Winston and you shall see us all at breakfast tomorrow," he waved the boy away with one hand. "Pleasant dreams, young man." Once Jack was safely out of earshot, he turned to Miss d'Iacon.

"Do you believe this was an act of retaliation for exposing Mr. Sherman and Mr. Thorston's connections to Kaon's more underhanded dealings?" asked he.

"I believe so, my lord," Miss d'Iacon answered, "But it is equally likely that they were simply taking the opportunity to do harm to someone under your care." They stood in pensive silence awhile, then Lord Prime asked whether she'd like him to have someone escort her back to her flat.

"If it's all the same to you, my lord, I think I'll just go up to the study and have a look at your book-keeping. I may as well work while I am here."

"My dear Miss Arcee," the man protested, "You know as well as I that my book-keeping is beyond reproach!"

"Perhaps it is, my dear Lord Prime," she replied, "But you've a horrid habit of writing it all in Latin! Someday you'll marry, and whatever will your poor wife do when she tries to help you with your book-keeping?"

"I should like to think," Lord Prime replied, "That if ever I should find a woman beguiled into marrying me, she would know at least a little Latin."

And so they remained in the library, in a heated, but playful disagreement, until Dr. Rach arrived.