She watched him warily. “Eyeteeth’d fetch a fair bit.”
He nodded. “For sure.”
Her eyes darted to the approaching bullyboys.
“Let’s go see if I’m keeping m’teeth, lass.” Brogan tried to hide his growing concern behind a tone of teasing.
“If you’re wrong, I’ll miss all the best dogs.”
“I’ll repay any losses,” he said. “My word of honor.”
“What’s your name?” she asked.
He’d only just given his word on the matter of her income, and here he was about to lie to her about his own name. “Ganor O’Donnell. What’s yours?”
“Licorice.”
The street children had interesting names, no one’d argue otherwise. Hers, he’d wager, had been given her on account of her unique hair.
“I suppose I could go see this shop in Soho,” Licorice said.
Thank the heavens. He motioned her onward, relief filling him from his toes to the top of his head.
She walked alongside him—head high, eyes wary—away from the park. He didn’t for a moment think she actually trusted him. More likely than not, she was merely leaving before the ruffians got too close.
As he’d promised, he kept a distance between them and made certain she could see him at all times. She had ample reason to be wary of anyone and everyone. He didn’t want to scare her beyond what was avoidable, while still getting her to safety.
Not more than a half-dozen steps from Hyde Park, Brogan took note of one of the men he’d been watching following them.
If Brogan took Licorice directly back to the shop, these roughs would know where to find her. They might simply wait and follow her to wherever she laid her head at night. He wasn’t about to let that happen. Móirín wasn’t home, so he didn’t particularly want to take Licorice to their flat. DPS Headquarters was entirely out of the question—the Dreadfuls would never turn their back on a child in danger, but revealing the location was a violation of the oath they took when they joined. Besides, he wasn’t considered one of them any longer.
He could hail a hansom cab and be out of sight of the bullyboy in no time, but that’d only delay the danger if the driver happened to know the man following them.
“How do we mean to shake ’im?” Licorice, of course, had noticed. Nothing got past the urchins.
“I don’t think we can, lass.”
She didn’t look shaken or afraid, but there was no doubt her every sense was on alert. “So what comes next?”
He rolled his neck a little. “What comes next is you learning a bit more about me than I’d figured you’d learn.” Brogan stopped on the spot. “You make certain I am always between you and that man; move about, run if you’re needing to.”
“What’re you gonna do, Mr. O’Donnell?”
“I’ll be offering the man a ‘Liberties greeting.’” The Liberties was the area of Dublin he’d called home. A lad growing up there learned to wield fists of diplomacy and wield them well.
Brogan turned about, his eyes meeting those of their pursuer.
He must’ve been able to tell Brogan hadn’t turned to him in a gesture of goodwill. “Don’t ruffle up, mate. We can share.”
Brogan didn’t wait, didn’t hold back. With a quickness and precision borne of far too many street altercations, he delivered a fist to the scoundrel’s gut just below the ribs. The man bent forward with the impact. Brogan took a half step back, cocked his fist once more and landed it solidly on the man’s nose. He grabbed his neckcloth and twisted so it pulled tight around the would-be-assailant’s neck, then pulled him up close.
“This wee one’s protected,” Brogan growled. “You leave her be. Understand?”
The man made a motion that likely would have been a nod if not for his quickly swelling nose and Brogan’s grip on his neckcloth.
“Say it,” Brogan growled out. “Convince me you mean it.”
“She’s protected.” The strangled whisper emerged nearly as broken as the man’s nose.
“And?” Brogan pressed.
“I’ll leave her be.”
“Not just you.” Brogan pulled the neckcloth tighter. “You get the word out.”
Another jerking and graceless nod.
“And, just to make certain you don’t forget . . .” Brogan slammed his knee into the man’s groin, sending him crumpled to the ground.
Then, calm as a saint in church, he turned about, wiping imaginary dirt from his hands as well as a very real trickle of blood from one knuckle. “Shall we, then?” He motioned Licorice forward.
“Where’d you learn to fight like that, Mr. O’Donnell?”
“Like what?”
“Like a criminal.”
He likely ought to have been offended, but he found himself laughing. “I was taught to fight by a criminal.”
“Were you a criminal?”
“I’ve been poor and desperate, and there’s bits of m’ past that don’t bear scrutiny,” he said.
“Seems you and I ain’t that different,” Licorice said.
“I think most of us are more alike than we realize.”
She hadn’t much to say as they walked; Brogan kept a bit closer to her than he might’ve otherwise but still let her have space enough to feel safe. They reached Sorokin’s Print Shop and he still hadn’t the first idea how she felt about much of anything.
He led the way inside. It was busy, as it often was.
Vera looked over as he stepped inside and, to his amused delight, looked immediately curious. He liked that she seemed pulled in by mysteries, no doubt from having read so many penny dreadfuls.
“Miss Vera,” he said, dipping at the waist.
“So formal?” She laughed a little.
Licorice spoke before Brogan had a chance to reply. “You’re Miss Vera?”
“I am.”
“Olly works for you and your papa sometimes.” Licorice took over the conversation, not needing an invitation. “And Burnt Ricky and Bob’s Your Knuckle.”
Vera motioned to the children in the shop at the moment. “Among a few others.”
Licorice popped her fists on her hips, not a posture of defiance but determination. “I’m needing a spot of work, and I know you hire on urchins like me now and then.”