spring. That alone should make her his woman. And now Evie was grown up, every curve and valley of her, and his body knew it. Even the thought of her made him ache in ways that could only lead to a hangman’s noose. Evie was right. There would be no mercy if he were caught inside a rich man’s house.
It had been a murder that had the place in an uproar the night he’d paid a visit. He’d found that out from one of the gardener’s boys, and the news had left him worried for Evie’s safety. Not that she’d appreciate his concern, he supposed, but that didn’t matter. He couldn’t just switch his heart off like an engine, all their history disappearing in a puff of leftover steam.
“Oy.” The voice came from behind him.
Unconcerned, Nick turned his head just enough to see who had addressed him. The city crawled with street rats, both two- and four-legged. The rich districts were no exception. After all, they had the best pickings.
Nick had no fear of rats. This one was big, though, built in a thick, beefy way that had nothing to do with fat. Nick rose from his crouch, snapping the spyglass shut and sliding it into the leather pouch slung beneath his coat.
“What can I do for you?” Nick asked, polite with just a pinch of nonchalance. He was willing to bet this was one of the streetkeepers—bullies who were the lowest rank of authority in any steam baron’s organization. Like all those who worked for Keating Utility, they called themselves Yellowbacks. Others called them Yellowbellies, but usually not to their face.
“The name’s Striker,” said the streetkeeper. “I don’t know your vile mug, Gypsy. What are you doing here?”
“Mr. Striker.” Was that a real name? Probably not. “As you so astutely observe, I’m a stranger to this neighborhood.”
“Don’t like strangers. What’s your business?”
“My name is Nick, and my business isn’t yours.”
“Fair enough,” said Striker.
“I’m pleased to hear it.” Nick started to turn back to the window, already dismissing the man.
“Not so fast. You picked the lock to this here building.”
With a sigh, he turned back. “So did you, if you’re standing here.”
“My territory, my lock.”
No doubt the landlord of the old counting house would argue ownership, but Nick shrugged. “Just borrowing the window.”
“No one breaks in nowhere without my say-so.” Striker’s voice dipped in a sneer. “The Gold King fines criminals who break the law.”
Irritation prickled through Nick’s limbs. “I owe you nothing.”
Striker clapped his hands together, making the empty room ring with the smack of his fingerless leather gauntlets. “You do if I say you do. I’m the Gold King’s law down here in the streets, and Yellow is the color a smart body fears most.” He ducked his head, shoulders rising, clearly ready for a fight.
Sullen silence followed. Nick took the moment to examine Striker more seriously. Dark hair stuck up like a hedgehog’s spines, framing a face that had been smashed in one too many times. His skin was the brown of so many of those born around the docks, making him perhaps the son of a lascar who had sailed to the western end of the Empire and took a local woman to his bed.
Nick’s scrutiny went on. Striker wore the thick boots of a laborer. A tattered leather coat hung to his knees, covered in metal bits and pieces, as if he’d attached every bit of iron and brass ever lost in the city of London to improvise armor. It gave him status, when raw materials for building anything were in such short supply. Plus, the coat looked like it had already deflected a bullet or two.
Most telling were his big hands, held loosely at his sides, ready to fight. Nick was about the same age and height, but Striker had at least twenty pounds more mass.
Nick cleared his face of all expression. If it was to be a contest of dominance, so be it. “There is no point to this conversation. We shall disagree, then fight, I shall probably win, and you’ll go home with a broken head and tell everyone how there were five of me. I, on the other hand, will be annoyed because you interrupted my work.”
Striker shifted from foot to foot. The chains hanging around his neck swayed and rattled, the flat surfaces of charms and keys catching the sunlight glancing through the window. One key was new, and flashed bright enough to attract Nick’s eye. He wondered what a rat like this would lock up.
“I don’t give a mouse’s fart about your work,” said Striker.
“You should. There is poetry in the satisfaction of a day well spent. I’m willing to include breaking your head among today’s tasks.”
Striker’s thick brows drew together. “How about you shut your gob and hand over that pretty piece of brass you had in your hand a moment ago?”
Nick didn’t bother to reply. He’d won the spyglass at cards, and it was one of the few things he had that was of any value. It would be a long, cold night in hell before he let it go—especially to this vermin.
He took a step to the right, just to see what Striker would do. The man took a diagonal step forward, closing the distance between them. The coat clattered as he moved, the chime of metal deadened by the heavy leather behind it. Nick’s mind cleared, calling on the same sharp, calculating focus he used when he performed. He feinted back, then went left. As he suspected, Striker was nowhere near as light on his feet. There was no doubt he could beat him with speed.
“Stand still, Gypsy boy.” Striker glared.
“Why should I? Are you too slow to dance?”
“I’m no wee street sparrow and this is no light dodge. If I say I want something of yours, you don’t get to walk away.”
Nick didn’t doubt he meant it. The street rabble fought for survival like starving dogs, and only the fiercest lived. If anyone challenged the streetkeepers and won, their master lost face. If Striker let his side down and word got out, he would be punished. He couldn’t afford to let Nick go without taking something to prove he was stronger.
But Nick had no intention of letting Striker win. There was no way he could put his life on the line every time he performed without believing—without
All this flashed through Nick’s head in seconds. He had to fight and win, but there was a fierceness to this lout that made him uneasy. Tweaking his tail would be dangerous. And irresistible.
Nick’s hand darted out, grabbing the shiny key and yanking it from Striker’s neck. The man cried out as the chain broke, his fist hammering toward Nick’s head. Nick ducked, his reflexes far faster. “A point to me!”
He stuffed the key into the pocket of his coat, curious to see what his adversary would do next. Slow and strong had few ways to beat light and quick.
The angle of Striker’s body said he was going for a weapon almost before his hand was in motion. The coat swept back to reveal a studded leather harness. There were enough weapons strapped to Striker’s chest to arm half the queen’s dragoons. “A point to me.”
The weapon Striker pulled was nothing Nick had ever seen. He had an impression of a pistol mated with a bulbous brass gourd, horns of metal curling above the bulge of its barrel. Nick dove for the floor, using his momentum to somersault beneath Striker’s aim. The bigger man whirled around, coat flying as Nick hurtled down the stairwell, half running, half sliding on the heavy oak banister. Striker flew after him, thundering down the stairs like a charging bull.
Nick’s mind scrambled for sense. This was appalling. Since when did street rats carry bloody cannons? And since when did the Indomitable Niccolo run?
About three floors down, Nick realized the whine he heard came from Striker’s gun. It escalated to a tooth- rattling shriek. Nick grabbed the banister, vaulting over it to land on the dirty marble floor of the foyer. He landed in a roll, the breath leaving his body in a painful rush as pain shot up his shin. Cold, pale stone bruised his knees as he scrambled to his feet, looking for the door. A strange, scorched smell flooded the air as the hair on Nick’s arms stood to attention.
Light flared, blasting through the dim building, scorching every last shadow to oblivion. Reflexively, he
