She had demonstrated that, the first day she had come here.
“If you’ll forgive me asking, Miss Hyde, why should we pay any attention to you?” Wiggins had asked her, with a smirk on his face. “From the way Charlie described you, I expected you to be six feet tall, and as strong as an ox. You’re nothing but a little girl.”
Five minutes later, she had been standing behind him with a knife at his throat. A roomful of Baker Street Irregulars had looked at her with equal parts horror and trepidation. She had shown them, all right! After that, they had treated her with respect.
Now, the office was empty except for Wiggins and his lieutenants. Wiggins himself was sitting behind his desk, leaning back in his chair with his feet up, crossed at the ankles. His face was sullen, his brows drawn together in a frown. Had his father really been a Lascar pirate, and his mother a governess who had run away to sea for love of him? Or was that more of the legend of Bill Wiggins? He did not look quite English—more like a distillation of the various populations of the East End, wherever they originated. He was the oldest of the Baker Street Irregulars, and their leader. Every one of them would have died for him, which would have been preferable to disappointing him. He was not as tall as Buster, nor as handsome as Dennys, but there was something about him that compelled attention and loyalty. Not from Diana, of course! She had no loyalty, unless it was to the Athena Club and its members. Justine was prime, and Catherine had some admirable qualities. Beatrice was annoying, but at least she could poison people. And Mary—well, Mary was a pill and a sourpuss, that was all. But at least they were family.
Wiggins glared at her, and for a moment it looked as though he would not budge from his chair.
Diana walked up to his desk and stood in front of it, feet planted, hands in her trouser pockets. “Hallo, Bill,” she said.
He looked at her for a moment, then put his feet on the floor, stood up, and said, “So you’re back, are you?”
“I am, and I need your help.”
He crossed his arms. There was that smirk again! “Gracious, Miss Hyde! Admitting that you need our help?”
She shrugged. “Why shouldn’t I?”
He scowled again and looked at the floor. “You prefer to play a lone hand, or so I noticed.”
She frowned. Oh, so he was going to be like that, was he? As though he had a right to be angry with her. Well, he didn’t. She didn’t answer to Bill Wiggins. “I get it. You’re mad I didn’t tell you I was going to Europe. Well, I had to make my plans pretty damn quick—I didn’t even pack! Anyway, why should I tell you anything? I’m not Buster, here, to go where you want me to, or Dennys, to bring you information. Where do you get off—”
“Boys, get out,” said Wiggins, waving his hand in a motion of dismissal. “This is between me and Diana.” Reluctantly, Charlie and the others filed out of the room. As he closed the door behind him, Charlie gave her a last, worried glance.
“Now what?” She glared at him. “If you’re going to try to lecture me, Bill Wiggins, I’ll hit you so hard…”
“All right! All right!” Wiggins raised his hands in front of his face, as though fending off blows. “You’ve made your point. Don’t look at me like that—”
“Like what?” Diana put her hands on her hips. What look was he talking about?
“Like you’re going to kill me with your eyes.” He glanced at her ruefully. “I was just worried about you, that’s all. Charlie said you’d disappeared, but he didn’t know where—finally your housekeeper told him you’d run away to Europe. That’s all I—all we knew. Do you blame me for worrying?”
“Yes.” She put her hands back in her pockets and paced around the room, stomping her feet a little as she spoke. “Because it means you think I can’t take care of myself. I can take care of myself perfectly well, Bill Wiggins, and you know it. I forbid you to worry about me!” I forbid you—she liked the way that had come out. It sounded rather grand.
“Forbid me! You can’t forbid me from doing anything.” He looked at her from beneath lowered brows. Oh, didn’t he look angry! Like a thundercloud. She enjoyed making him angry.
“And you can’t forbid me from doing anything either. I’m not one of your Baker Street boys. You may be the high and mighty Mr. Wiggins to them, but you’re nothing to me!”
“Nothing, Diana?” Now he looked pained. “Am I really nothing to you?”
If she were Mary, she would have felt guilty. If she were Beatrice, she would have attempted to comfort him. But she was Diana, so she felt a deep sense of satisfaction.
“Well, not nothing. I’ve come for your help, haven’t I? But then you go on about how I left without telling you, as though I was supposed to report to you—I don’t report to anyone, and don’t you forget it!”
He looked down at the floor sheepishly. “All right, Diana. You don’t have to go on and on. What do you need help with? You know I’ll help you any way I can.”
“I don’t know, unless you tell me! I’m not Dr. Freud, am I? Here—” She reached into the inside pocket of her jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. “I need to know what these are.”
It was the list Mary had so carefully locked into her mother’s desk that morning.
MARY: Don’t you leave anything alone?
DIANA: If you want me to leave something alone, don’t put it in a locked desk, where it’s just lying for me to take!
Wiggins looked at it for a moment. “I think these are in Limehouse, but Cartwright will know for sure.” He looked at her more gently than he had so far. “Are we friends again, Diana?”
“Speak for yourself. I was never not friends. You’re the one who’s been kicking up a fuss.” She looked at him scornfully for a moment. Really, what was wrong with boys? If she had been given a choice, she might have preferred to be one herself. Life was so much easier as a boy! No one telling you to behave yourself, or forbidding you from going out at night, or climbing trees, or getting into any kind of mischief. And it seemed as though everything the least bit fun in the world counted as mischief. But then, boys were so emotional! Even Wiggins, with all this fuss about her going on a trip…
“All right, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. Apology accepted?” He held out his hand.
She shook it a little too hard, to show that she was still angry with him. Seriously, she had no time for this! “Accepted. Now, those addresses? I want to get home before Mary does.” Wiggins’ fussing was annoying, but Mary’s was going to be ten times worse. She didn’t particularly feel like facing the wrath of Mary today.
MARY: My wrath! When do I ever get wrathful?
CATHERINE: It’s your particular kind of wrath. You don’t shout—you just get precise and icy.
MARY: That’s not wrath. I don’t think that counts as wrath.
DIANA: It’s Mary wrath. Your particular kind, as Cat said. Not that I’m scared of it, mind you. But it’s worse than being shouted at.
MARY: I have no idea what either of you are talking about. Alice, am I ever wrathful?