Mason chuckled. “I’m pretty sure I can handle one retired Runner. I’ve just got a few questions for the bloke. I won’t be turning Freddie over to anyone who might be of a mind to harm him further.”
Turner rose to his feet and smoothed the wrinkles from the coat. “If you need anything while I’m gone, get in touch with Morley. You know where to find him?”
Mason nodded, then couldn’t resist the opportunity to poke at the man a bit. “Your partner stopped by this morning,” he noted casually.
Turner’s features remained flatly composed.
“Or shouldn’t I call her that?” Mason asked as humor twisted his lips. “The lady said you two weren’t working together anymore. In fact, she didn’t seem too pleased with you at all. Honeymoon over?”
When Turner finally responded to Mason’s ribbing, it wasn’t in the way he’d expected. Instead of revealing irritation, Turner’s mouth curved in a crafty smile. “Just the opposite. The honeymoon begins tomorrow.”
Mason should have figured Nightshade would have an angle. He shook his head and gave a short laugh. “You’re a brave man. She doesn’t seem the type of female who’s easily managed.”
Turner rolled his eyes and made a low sound of frustration, and for the first time during their conversation, a hint of cockney entered his voice. “An understatement of mythic proportions, mate. Good thing I’ve decided to stop trying.” Then he turned and left, leaving Mason in the parlor filled with pastel ruffles and flowery prints and knickknacks on every surface and furniture he couldn’t sit in.
Mason had rented the fully furnished house the day after saving Claire and Freddie from Bricken’s gang. His old place had been an office building where he’d conducted his business, running the stakes for the bare-knuckle fights in which he’d been undefeated before retiring from the ring. Though he’d also used his office as a residence, it wasn’t suitable for two children.
If he intended to stay in this house of flounce and frippery, there was a lot he’d need to change. But he knew even less about decorating than he did about caring for children, and he had no idea how long they’d stay, so the house and its excessive decor would remain as they were for the foreseeable future.
Chapter Two
Mason hailed a hackney cab to take him to his office a few hours after Turner left.
He figured by the time word got to the former Runner through Nightshade’s elusive and widespread network of whisperers and listeners, it wouldn’t take long for the investigator to locate the address. Mason Hale was a well-known figure in the East End.
Embraced by the world of bare-knuckle boxing at age seventeen when his size and strength had already been something to notice, Mason hadn’t gone far from the ring when he’d decided ten years of swinging his fists was enough. He’d made fair money as a fighter and even more as a moneylender to the men who bet on the bouts.
Entering the narrow brick building, he was struck by just how run-down the place looked. He’d never really cared much for appearances. His clients hadn’t worried much about it either as long as Mason had the blunt for their gambling addictions. But in contrast to the townhouse he’d been living in the last weeks, his former offices looked downright seedy.
Nothing could be as bad as the childhood home Mason had left behind, but he sure as hell wanted more than this for his daughter. Maybe he’d just sell the place outright. Start new somewhere else.
The building was quiet as he made his way through the lower rooms to the narrow stairway. The upper level contained his personal space, which was just one large room with a desk crammed into a corner, a sofa shoved against one wall, and enough open space for training.
Just because Mason had left the ring didn’t mean he’d stopped fighting. He still enjoyed going a few rounds with men of matched skill. He needed the challenge and his body craved the movement and strain and sweat of a good fight. Now that he had Claire to care for, he’d been thinking of starting up a more formal training program. Something that went beyond the ring and tapped into his experiences as a flash man for the bawdy houses. There were plenty of establishments around town that needed a well-trained and skilled fighter to guard their doors and keep the peace.
But first, he needed to see Freddie settled back in his proper life.
As he reached the top of the stairs and the door that led into the upper room, he paused.
The hairs on his arms stood up and his stomach muscles tightened with awareness.
Someone was there. Behind the partially opened door, waiting to attack as soon as Mason entered. Dusk had fallen outside, and without any lamps lit, the building was filled with a dim grey light, but the shadow beneath the door was a dead giveaway to a man who’d learned far too young to be wary of blind corners.
Though it had been a long time since anyone had dared to attack him unprovoked, in his gritty youth, it had happened often. He’d been a scrawny lad up until the age of thirteen or so, when several growth spurts added inches in height and bulk within a painfully short time. The dramatic transformation represented a challenge to the other boys in the rookery, where might equaled right.
Mason had been jumped so many times in those years, he’d had constant bruises and lumps on his face and body. But he’d been raised in a nest of violence and knew how to take a hit and keep going. Eventually, word got out he couldn’t be defeated and the attacks grew less frequent.
Mason rolled his shoulders in anticipation of the confrontation awaiting him behind the door. He probably should have anticipated the efficiency of Nightshade’s people to get word to Boothe.
Good. The issue would be settled
