“That’s enough,” came a low voice. Mr. Pineapple Waistcoat was suddenly in front of them, blocking their way to the open door. Billy paused, looking at his comrade.
“Aw, Danny, c’mon,” he whined.
“No,” he answered quietly. “I said that’s enough. Go on.” He indicated his chin toward Paddy. “Both of you, get outa here.”
Billy’s eyes narrowed and his lips drew back in a snarl. “Why we gotta listen to you, Danny? She was following us!” He began to pull Genevieve toward the door again, wrapping his other arm around her waist to get a better hold of her struggling form. He progressed only a few steps before Mr. Pineapple Waistcoat grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him off.
With her arms free now and barely able to think through the haze of her panic, Genevieve pulled back and swung out at the two men. Pain exploded in her hand as her fist collided with hard flesh, causing her to cry out. She lost her balance and stumbled to the dirty ground. She’d boxed with her brothers for years, but never without gloves, and marveled at how much it hurt.
“Dammit, woman!” yelled the handsome man, staggering back a few steps and rubbing his jaw.
Danny, not Mr. Pineapple Waistcoat, she told herself, now that she had a minute to think.
Billy was so surprised that for a moment he simply gaped; then he moved toward Danny, his own fists raised.
“Not worth it, Billy,” Paddy noted dispassionately from the doorway. “The man said to leave her be. Let’s go. We can finish our business with Danny another time.”
Billy paused again, and Danny took the opportunity to grab hold of Genevieve himself. He stood before her in a protective manner. Heart pounding, Genevieve gratefully took refuge behind his broad back.
“Listen to your friend,” Danny warned Billy. “Get outa here.”
“But Danny.” He cut his eyes toward the corpse. “She saw.”
“Never mind that. We’ll take care of it later. Go on.”
Though she knew Billy had been dragging her toward certain harm, it killed Genevieve a little inside to watch him walk away. These men were the closest she’d come to finding a break in the Robin Hood story, and she doubted she’d ever come this close again.
Daniel watched Billy “the Breaker” Hanlon mope toward the tenement door, refusing to take his eyes off the other man’s back until the dirty entrance shut with an air of finality. He sighed and flexed his jaw in annoyance, glancing at the blonde woman’s face.
He hated being followed. Daniel had first become suspicious that the woman was tailing his group about four blocks uptown. For starters, she was far too clean for this neighborhood. There were plenty of pretty girls around here, but her simple, neat blue dress was not patched and worn from being passed from an aunt to an older sister and finally to its current owner, only to eventually go to a younger sister, friend, or niece; and her shiny, thick hair had fairly gleamed against the sooty walls of the tenements they passed, making her stand out like a sore thumb. He’d noticed that, then noticed how she bobbed along in their wake for several blocks, like a shiny toy caught in the muddy current of the East River. He’d abruptly stopped at a fishmonger’s cart, startling Paddy and Billy, just to be sure. As predicted, the blonde girl had halted just as abruptly about half a block back, suddenly inspecting the wares of a fruit peddler who was about to close for the night.
Paddy had given Daniel a sideways look, catching on right away. Billy, never the sharpest knife in the block, had inquired loudly why they were stopping for fish. The fishwife had reopened her cart hopefully, eager to make one final sale.
Now he had a piece of bluefish wrapped in brown paper weighing down his coat pocket. He disliked bluefish. Not so much that he’d throw it out—he despised waste more than bluefish—but enough that it was annoying to have the package thumping against his leg. He hadn’t wanted to waste the fishwife’s time, though, and if there was any justice in the world the blonde was similarly burdened with wormy apples or a shriveled pear.
He hated being followed, recalling how the press had hounded him when he’d first inherited his fortune, popping out of shrubbery and from behind moving carriages, shouting questions or snaking along behind him silently. He’d learned to shake them early and well. After a few years, the commotion had died down and they’d moved on to fresh meat like the sharks they were. But every once in a while he would feel the skin prickle on the back of his neck and, sure enough, he would spot one of the buggers riding his coattails.
It didn’t happen often anymore, but it still rankled. Didn’t people have better things to do than read about his life, which was exceedingly dull?
Well, usually it was dull. The surprise of finding himself in an alley with both a journalist and a corpse meant things might become quite exciting, quite quickly.
Finding out this elegant-looking girl was press had been a surprise. She was a far cry from the bedraggled, ratty fellows he normally had to shake. His best guess had been a temperance worker, as she had appeared soon after they exited Mulligan’s. In no mood for a lecture, he’d led his compatriots to Bottle Alley, one of the most notorious parts of the neighborhood.
He’d truly thought there was no way she’d follow them in here, especially since night was falling, and had watched in astonishment as the blonde gingerly picked her way through the garbage in the alley. He knew it wouldn’t have ended well for her and could have
