He pushed the covering off and shoved it aside. Dropping once more to the ground, he tossed his stick out first. Clamping his knife between his teeth once more, he grabbed the brown bag, shoved it through the opening, and then climbed out fast behind it.
The moment his feet found purchase on the East London cobblestones, a faint click sounded just behind him. “Ya’ve gotten careless in your old age,” the low, rough voice containing a trace of Cockney taunted. His palms up, Malcom inched slowly around and then, with a swift move, swept his leg out, capturing the other, broader figure, taking his feet out from under him.
Cursing, the man went down hard. His pistol clattered just once before Malcom had it in hand and turned on the man knocked clean on his arse. “And you’ve gotten sloppy in yours, Giles.”
Dark eyes glared up at him, and then a reluctant grin curved those scarred lips. “Bloody hell, Malcom,” he cursed, and yet, there was a thread of admiration as Malcom stretched a palm out.
With his only hand, the other man, Malcom’s associate, took the offering and made to wrench him forward.
Anticipating that movement, Malcom compensated, angling his weight back, and then drove Giles back onto the ground.
“Oh, fuck yourself,” Giles muttered, and this time, a scowl replaced his earlier smile as he ignored Malcom’s hand and jumped up with an impressive agility for a man of his powerful size. “Damned smug, you’ve always—” The other man’s words cut off as his gaze went to the bag Malcom hefted over his shoulder. Giles whistled slowly. “You caught him.”
“Aye.”
“He’s had his sights set on these tunnels since Fowler began to slow,” Giles said, speaking of the old tosher who’d trained Malcom years earlier.
Ever since, Malcom had been defending his own territories—and his livelihood—from potential usurpers such as Alders . . . people who’d try to take from him. If a tosher didn’t keep those people out, if he didn’t take back what had been stolen, one lost one’s operation and people starved because of it.
“Did you take care of him?” Giles asked as they fell into step, as casual asking that question as if he’d asked whether Malcom had invited his nemesis for an ale at a tavern.
“I handled him.”
“Someone’s looking for you.”
So that’s why Giles had searched him out.
It wasn’t uncommon for a man to be hunted in St. Giles. This, however, had been eerily different. A persistence that didn’t fit with constables looking to cart a guttersnipe to Newgate to ease the worries of some fancy toff. Someone had begun asking the other toshers and street waifs who hung ’round these parts about Malcom. As such, Malcom had stayed low, keeping to the shadows even when he embarked on his work.
“Fowler sent me to bring you back immediately.” That briefly gave Malcom pause. “He said there’s a fancy-talking blighter who’s come ’round.”
Malcom’s place was a lair, built amongst the rot, an unsuspecting kingdom hidden by a shattered facade and dirtied windows. The key, not only to survival but also to thriving in these places, was remaining hidden. And now, someone had found him. Through his frustrated fury he managed a single word: “Who?”
“The man’s a detective.” Giles gave him a look. “Connor Steele.”
“Connor Steele.” Malcom flashed a contemptuous sneer. That illustrious detective known by all. One of the few who’d escaped, Steele had been an impoverished street bastard who’d climbed out and built a respected name for himself—by betraying the men he’d run amongst. Respect in the streets, however, and respect on the side of the law and Polite Society were black to white. Malcom had less time for rats like Steele than he did for the sloppy toshers like Alders. “Where is he?”
“Fowler’s with him. Bram is on guard outside.”
Bram. More brute than human, the nearly seven-foot-tall mountain of a man had taken apart—literally and figuratively—opponents who’d crossed him . . . until he’d found himself making a trek to the gallows. Malcom had saved him from a certain hanging on more than one occasion, and because of it, the old man had set himself up as a de facto right hand, whether Malcom wished it or not.
And the truth would always be . . . the latter. There was no place for friends or family in these parts. Eventually, the streets claimed them all. As such, there was no point in creating dependents if one wasn’t going to be around to take care of them.
Malcom crossed the street to where a young urchin with a tosher staff in hand was watching his mount and handed over a coin.
The small child looked up at him with wide, adoring eyes Malcom had never been, nor would ever be, deserving of. “Mr. North, sir.”
“Billy,” he greeted the girl, and offered a word of thanks. Not more than eight, she didn’t have many options awaiting her. It was a miracle she’d survived as long as she had in her disguise. “Billy’s going to need training,” Malcom said.
“Girls don’t have any place in the sewers.”
It was not every day that Malcom met someone more diabolical than himself. “I wasn’t asking. Find her a drain, go over the rules of the sewers, and then train her.”
“Train her?” the other man protested.
“She’ll need a tosher pole. Get her one. And then teach her how to use it to get herself underground, and how to navigate the tunnels.” He paused. “And teach her how to use it to defend herself,” he ordered, the matter done.
A short while later, Malcom rode up to the front of the unassuming structure between Tottenham Court Road and Willow Street. Sandwiched between two businesses, it was cleverly insulated, protected on both sides.
As he dismounted, Malcom patted his horse on the neck and did a sweep of the area, homing in on the street urchin who held the reins of an enormous black mare—horseflesh too expensive to belong to any of the people who dwelled here. Steele was doing well for himself.
One of Malcom’s men came loping over, his gait slightly uneven, yet nearly indiscernible. “North.”
Handing his reins off to Dore, one of many toshers who worked for him, Malcom found his way down the narrow alley until he reached the back of his residence. He leapt up the steps and, after inserting the small key, let himself in through the back entrance. His boots slopped water and grime over the rotten wood flooring. Not bothering to discard his jacket, Malcom moved through the narrow hall and quickly found his way to one of the three small rooms on the main floor.
The door sat open, with Fowler seated in a too-small-for-his-frame wooden chair.
The moment the old tosher caught sight of Malcom, he struggled to his feet, but Malcom waved the bruised bloke back. His right cheek was still swollen from the beating he’d taken a fortnight back. Fowler peered at the satchel Malcom held.
“Here.” Malcom tossed the findings over to their rightful owner.
Fowler caught them against his concave chest. “Ya found it,” the old man whispered, glancing up.
“Aye.” The moment Fowler had come home bloodied, with a foot broken from a ruthless assault in the sewers, Malcom had resolved to flush out the ones responsible.
“Never made a mistake like that before,” Fowler said, his throat working. The old man briefly looked into his bag at the contents and then hugged it once more. A glassy sheen misted those pale eyes. “Won’t happen again—”