Author's Note: So, I have the best readers in the world.
I wasn't planning to update this quickly originally – though, by most standards, this is not quick, I know – but your reviews have been so wonderful I couldn't resist.
Thank you so much. And to those of you that love Mercy and this story, you are loved in return, and I hope you enjoy this chapter.
The fact that updates help those of you that are struggling at the moment makes me feel elated, and I will try to be better in updating because of you lovely readers and reviewers. You are fantastic, and wish all of you love and peace and happiness.
Unlike poor Mercy!
This is shorter than most, I'm sorry, but it's the rev up before the action. I promise to update sooner to atone for the words it lacks!
Enjoy!
"Liberating my hired help now, are we Ada?"
The amusement in Tommy's eyes spoke of a tired mirth; an old joke that had been played out time and again at the expense of his socialist sister, whose sharp tongue and keen determination found her stationed in her brother's study near midnight, scowling with familiarity from the chair opposite his that she had thrown herself in without pause or question.
Tommy had not flinched when she had thundered in, a vision of inherited chaos and learned grace that only Ada could embody, supported in the juxtaposition of her rouge-painted lips and lengthened lashes against the twisted expression of her mouth, and daggered pupils of her eyes. He had only lifted his head, caught sight of her expression, and thrown down his pen, expecting an agenda as he leaned back against the mahogany frame of his chair, ankle resting on opposite knee.
He had not been wrong. But that didn't mean he wasn't surprised by the demand all the same.
"It's not a joke, Tommy, for Christ's sake. Let the girl have some fun. God knows she needs it; it's a wonder she hasn't frozen to death in this frigid iceberg you call a house." Sighing, Tommy refrained from comment, eyes following cigarette smoke as it willowed upward from his parted lips. He knew his sister wasn't finished. "With just you and a one-year-old for company, too. Any sane person would have topped themselves by now; jumped from the North-fucking-Tower. She needs some adult company that's not half-drowned in a whisky bottle for once."
Tommy thought that was slightly rich, coming from a woman that had blistered into his study with one hand latched protectively around a half-drained tumbler, but only raised an eyebrow to suggest as such.
"And what kind of company are you expecting to introduce her too?"
Ada tutted and rolled her eyes, "Fucking people, Tommy, who do you think? People that aren't maids or housekeepers or criminals or cold, silent arseholes on secret missions from the fucking government, that's who. Is that alright with you? Is that specific enough to meet your approval?"
Tommy did not move, enjoying the silence of the pause and letting it stretch with luxury. He loved his sister, but she spoke too much. She always had. It was a trait he struggled with, and it was why their encounters often were brief. Too many words met between them, and 90% of them were from her, pummelling the silence and stirring the solid atmosphere he built with cold glares and judgemental sighs.
"So you'll be hosting one of your parties then, for hypocrites with Soviet delusions that sip on French champagne? That's the better company you're referring to."
Ada snorted, "Frightened she'll join the revolution and won't suffer under your greedy thumb anymore?"
No, Tommy thought. A communist revolutionary newly-born was not his concern, though Ada had picked up on more than he would have liked to admit. Shopping to find a new dress, one that – with Ada's influence, no doubt – would stir with indulgence around her frame, would wrap to her silhouette, would make her the centre of all attention in the finest fashion, Ada would thrust his beauty into the direct eye line of London's youngest and finest philosophers.
And she would leave her there to sparkle.
Tommy wondered how she would react to that, the pretty nanny that blushed under his intrusive gaze. Would she flush that pretty, dainty pink like she did for him? Would she smile with discomfort and fluster? Or would that wicked little glint that sparked alight when kindled under careful circumstances flame in those whisky depths?
A plan formed. He certainly knew how he could find out.
"Alright then, Ada. You can play dress up and hostess with the workers. Next weekend will be fine."
There was no surprise in his sister at his acquiescence. He hadn't expected that there would be. She had come here with purpose, and – as always – she would not have left until the close and success of her business.
"I'll send Vince with the car –"
Tommy cut her off as she stood to leave, draining her tumbler and leaving it on his desk, just to bother him. "No need. I shall be in London on business anyway. I'll drive."
Ada looked at him, taken aback, before she scoffed out a laugh. "Are you joking?"
Tommy picked up his pen and leaned forward once more, returning to his paperwork to dismiss her. "No sense in wasting petrol."
She had yet to leave, "And it's just a coincidence that I happened to ask this of you when this business cropped up?"
"Aye." Tommy raised his eyes to signal the end of the conversation, "What fortunate timing you have."
Ada's grumbling over her hard luck being stuck with pig-headed, arrogant brothers made him smirk with satisfaction, but the thought of getting Mercy back in his car turned that smirk into a sadistic grin of amusement.
Caught somewhere between enjoying the thought of her tense, narrow shoulders and having her pinioned in place by fear and fast-moving, burning roads, Tommy found himself considering the questions he could ask her, the mysteries he could uncover with her there, no possible means of escape.
No option to brush around him in hallways, feet softly, lightly padding along lush carpet, head ducked and face shielded behind tumbling, silky curls; no option to turn conversation to the child in her arms, his son, to divert her attention from having to look at him instead; no option to feign occupation or take solace in maids' work.
He finished his drink and his shipping papers in twenty minutes, mind still turning with entertaining thoughts of what the next week would bring, and he exited the study, eager to let his subconscious take his imagination further, monsters awake and exhilarated and yearning for another private and offending performance.
But on the way to his bedroom he stopped, turned and watched through the open door to his son's nursery as the fussy birthday boy was rocked gently in tender arms.
A brief flash of blonde hair and a blue gaze ignited behind his eyes, skin paler than the tanned little hands that cradled his son. A year to the day since the passing of his wife, and Tommy felt a blunt discomfort momentarily as he pondered the absence, allowing himself only a second before shutting the possibility of what-could-have-beens away.
Grace was gone, and while that had not been the plan, looking into whisky eyes did not find him disappointed in the crutch he had chosen for his son. Nor did he feel guilt at the solace and delight he took from them as well.
Mercy thought the day might have been enough to tucker her young ward out entirely: that between the games and the presents and the friends and the family Charlie would have been slumbering deeply until daylight. But, almost as if sensing the end of the day devoted to him, he had murmured with distaste and called out to her, demanding lost attention that left him cold and wanting.
She had plucked him from the crib and held him to the fabric of the dress she had yet to change, though it fell heavier across the sensitivity of her skin now that mud caked in patches at the bottom. Between speaking with Ada before the older girl left, and organising some of Charlie's new acquisitions in the space she hadn't previously thought limited, Mercy hadn't had the opportunity to slip into her comfortable nightclothes.
Something she found herself grateful for when Thomas Shelby made himself known.
Mercy had noticed that the door leading to the hallway had been left open, assuming that the constant stream of Shelbys striding in and out to bid farewells had seen it remain so. She hadn't thought to close it yet, unsure if any other visitors would be making themselves known.
And so they did.
In the form of a very handsome, very satisfied master of the house.
As seemed habitual before eliciting conversation with her, he shadowed the frame of the room and her eyesight, just long enough to watch the tension wind her muscles uncomfortably.
"So. London with Ada." He whispered, stepping into the dimly lit yellow of the nursery. Low and slow, the words caught sand as they left his mouth, roughened as they slid from the gravel of his throat with careful deliberation, icy embers lighting in the pit of her stomach at the texture of it. His predatory gaze did not move from her, even as he entered the room, feet barely making a sound. "You seem to have taken a liking to my family."
Strong hands curled around the top bar of the crib as Tommy slowed to a languid stop, arms spread wide as he faced her on the opposite side of the tender bed. He watched her still, clear, icy eyes a contrast to the murky intentions that always seemed to linger in the turning of his mouth, inspecting closely. Scrutinising. Always scrutinising, like he was unfurling her layer by layer.
Amusement flickered over her, born from an earlier irony as Mercy considered the list of Shelbys she had created that warranted avoidance and seemed to grow at each occasion. "Or rather your family seems to have taken a liking to me."
"Well," he responded, his eyes flickering across her face, "Aren't you the lucky one, then."
His tone certainly hinted otherwise, and danger lurked in the rasp of his response as he let the words hang dauntingly between them. Those eyes, unnerving as they were enticing, watched as her tongue darted out to alleviate the sudden dryness of her lips, leaving a tempting light reflecting in its retreat.
"It would certainly appear so, Mr. Shelby."
Charlie had begun to slumber once more, his hand having curled against the beating of her heart, though she doubted he found it soothing as the thrumming echoed throughout her head, drumming too quickly, her breathing slightly heavier to account for the strain.
She hoped her face would stay cool, or that the lighting was sparse enough to grant her emotions sanctuary in its shadows.
"Have you been to London before?"
An actual question, Mercy was sure. Another piece of information he wanted to garner from her. He had knack, she'd come to realise, of asking seemingly harmless, inane questions that one would never think too revealing, or too personal. In actuality, they exposed too much of her, more than she wanted to lay bare, and by the way he observed her, she thought it was no accident.
Thomas Shelby was gifted in reading people. She wondered if he had learned that from his Aunt.
"Yes," Mercy replied, avoiding his eyes as she placed his son back into the crib, tucking the knitted blanket around his chubby, childish frame, feeling as if he was growing by the second. Hoping the distraction meant he could not peruse her response so easily, she continued, "I've been to London before, though it's been a while."
He waited for her to look up again before replying, silently demanding her attention. "And what could a young woman want in a place like that?" Of course, he knew. Thomas Shelby was a shark, looming in the eerie silence of the room, smelling the smallest drop of blood.
"What all young women want. What was it you said? Parties, and dancing. Fast cars. Excitement." She was lying, looking him directly in the eye as she did, challenging him with the cheeky response she couldn't leave unsaid.
Tommy smirked. Each time they spoke, she seemed to unleash her nerve faster. It pleased him, stoking the temptation to push. "And that leisurely pace you enjoy?"
"There's no space for that in London." Mercy tilted her head, tone light and teasing, amber eyes glinting.
"I suppose not." Tommy nodded slowly, and smirked wickedly, "And it's best you think so. You'll be driving there with me, and Ada will be hosting her friends in the evening. So there you have it: parties, dancing and fast cars."
Mercy tried to keep the surprise from her face, she really did, but the enjoyment and satisfaction that settled over the cutting angles of Thomas' face heralded her failure. "A weekend built from dreams." It was hard to keep the sarcasm from painting her words.
"That's what most young ladies would think." With a final smirk, and a hovering glint of something sharp to touch, Tommy turned, stroked the cheek of his son, and made his way to exit. "Goodnight Mercy." He couldn't resist: "Sweet dreams." He was sure his would be.
Once Mercy had heard her employer's footfalls silence upon the closing of a door, she moved swiftly to lock herself away from the rest of the house, ensuring all entries to Charlie's and her chambers were sealed, checking twice.
Her breathing had escalated again, and the adrenaline that had spiked her veins still flowed freely, making her pace and shift and unsettle herself multiple times. With a frustration that she knew was created from more than annoyance, Mercy tugged harshly at the dress she had spent too long in, hearing a tearing stitch but having no emotion spare to care about it.
The nights were warm still, but the room felt stifling now her cold employer had finished with her, dismissing her with information he knew would play upon her thoughts for the days that led to her excursion.
An excursion she had been excited for.
An excursion she thought would be a reprieve from Thomas Shelby and his caustic gazes.
He was coming too. He was to be in London at the same time as her.
After spending the last two weeks believing the house – the house she had wondered at as a small girl, the house that seemed large enough to trap dragons and princes and cooks by the dozen and a thousand maids and enough gold to fill Buckingham Palace – the house that had always seemed to be the grandest building her imagination could conjure was too small; too small for the tension she felt in confronting her employer, too small to brush by in hallways without being burnt, she honestly wasn't sure London would be big enough to make her feel any semblance of safety from his keen and unyielding interest.
Mercy wanted to sleep. She was tired and had been exhausted by the day and by being constantly attentive to guests and constantly aware of Shelbys at every turn and constantly aware of her own body language, she just wanted to collapse in a heap and let herself drift into an abyss of nothingness.
But that isn't where she would end up, and that kept her alert too.
Even now, her mind drifted to his hands, strong and calloused and large, but rather than pressing against the wooden bar of a crib they were on her. They travelled over her skin, ghosting up from bare thighs, rough and soft and delicious until they reached her waist where they stopped, gripped and lifted…
Still, he evaded her. Hands and cigarette smoke and whisky and metal told her how he might feel, how he might taste, but the flickering of his gaze…
It left her hot and cold and numb and wanting and completely and utterly ignorant. It was too much. She needed a break. And to open a window.
He wanted to unwrap her, piece by piece he wanted to tear away parts of her until she was left naked and shaking under his intent watch.
And she found herself wanting to know him too. To strip him of more than just his expensive suits. She wanted to strip him of his armour.
She was an idiot; a little girl with a death wish. Children were told not to play with fire, never ice, and Mercy wondered if that was because there was an innate knowledge, an instinct, something primal and base and barbaric that scuttled away from ice, from the cold, that kept children and adults alike safe from its cutting blade. That warned them of the danger.
Nobody needed to tell her not to play with Thomas Shelby, she was well aware.
So why did she still want to?
Reviews are lifeblood, so please?
Next time: The lead up to the trip, and an interesting car ride…