Mr. Robert Moreland waited in the dark alley.
His back was pressed against the cool brick building of the Knock & Bull Tavern in St. Giles - the air dank with the smell of unwashed skin and bile. One black trousered leg clasped over the other, his arms crossed over his chest in a negligent stance.
To anyone passing by he looked like a man lost in thought, one ripe for the taking, oblivious to his surroundings.
Those would be wrong.
As the man currently stumbling along the alley could attest, his nose bleeding stark drops against the pavement, limping, as he blurrily stared at the morose sights of St. Giles.
Most rarely saw him, though. He had taken to wearing all black the day he had been scarred for life. It hid the monstrousty of burn marks along his arms and body, the smooth skin next to angry blots of red.
And it was one man's fault that he had to resort to such dramatic attire. Fury filled his breast and clenched his hands. It hardly diluted his anger that the man breathed no more. That Moreland had been the one to feel the man's life shrivel into a husk as the man gasped for breath between Moreland's fingers.
But it hadn't been promises and empty apologies on his lips.
It had been sputtered curses and vile oaths, words that were washed away as his eyes went blank, his lips turned blue.
A man stumbled, half drunk and undoubtedly empty of pocket, breaking into Moreland's thoughts. He watched in mere fascination as the man tumbled haphazardly towards Madam's brothel across the street. The sight was interrupted by a woman passing by his alley, her bright red skirts swirling as she dragged a willing gentleman behind her. She giggled, her hand cupped to the man's ear, as she pressed her lush bosom to the man's forearm. Moreland imagined it was naughty things on her lips, for the man growled, grasping her bottom, before they disappeared from sight.
A couple of dandies were next, and stopped, taking out cartons of snuff and inhaling the sweet and bitter grains, their laughter cocky. They turned about and saw him, despite the cloak surrounding Moreland's body and his ability to seep into the poor and deprived morals of the city.
Drunk from ale, noses dusted in powder, they wobbled, giving him narrow-eyed stares. Casting his person an intensified glance, looking to see how much blunt he might have upon his person.
It only took a straightening from his lean - a step, then two - as his half scarred face came into the light. They mumbled apologies, skittering away, their tailcoats tucked between their arses.
Even drunks knew when they were outmatched.
Moreland waited a little longer until a whistle sounded. He gave no reaction, moved not an inch, as the sound floated down the empty walkway. A tumble of trash and old cloth, a lone leaf, flew past his boots and he stepped on it with a crunch, as he moved to the end of the walkway.
He felt for the sliver between two rocks, and parting the loose brick, welcomed the scratching noise as he lifted it to remove a slip of foolscap in its hidden depths.
He shoved the rock back in and opened the missive. A distinctive scrawl by a shaking hand, illegible handwriting, marred the tanned paper.
It haz ben done.
Moreland inhaled, his muscles tensing in anticipation. Soon, he knew. Soon, he could finish the ruination that he desired most.
Smiling, he headed to the right, deeper into the poverty ridden streets. He was expecting a guest.
It would be rude to keep him waiting.
^^^
Henry alighted the carriage in the middle of St. Giles, trying his best to appear similarly unaffected. It was a fool's notion as a drunkard passed, his voice in high spirits as he chortled, the man's head leaning backwards, tipping a flask to his lips. He continued on, oblivious, swaying back and forth, his head leaning towards the right as his body tried to take him towards the left.
A cry sounded behind him, and Henry was hopeless. He could see forms moving in the shadows, a scuffle having broken down the alley next to him. Grunts of pain met cries for mercy.
On the other side of him, he heard the trilling giggles of women across the street, their hands straying to opened breeches, a man giving a disgruntled snort as he was fondled. Henry looked away, knowing what the upper crusts said might be true. It was a lost cause, no hope of rising above for these creatures. Perhaps God had smote them, condemned them into the pits of poverty and despair to which they would remain.
Henry hurried along to the building, its mass rickety and shoddy in the low light of the moon. It had broken windows in a bevy of places, the wood marred with holes and, upon closer inspection, what Henry could only classify as piss and spirits and blood.
Placing a handkerchief to his nose, Henry alighted the three steps - each groaning with his weight, shaking slightly with each hesitant movement - until he was at the door. It was starkly different from the rest of the residence. It gleamed a deep maroon to his eyes.
The door opened before he could knock and he was unceremoniously led inside, two men at his back, their hands pushing his shoulders. He stumbled over something in the dark, the light of the candle one man held not enough to distinguish one piece of furniture to another.
The scurrying of a rat or mouse reached his ears, and Henry cringed back.
"'Urry up, there. Sir does not like to be kept waitin'."
Henry resisted the scowl that settled over his features, keeping the cloth pressed to his mouth. His breath bellowed in the cavernous entryway, and then the trim hallway, where he was led to a room empty save for a single chair.
"Henry. Good of you to make it, old chap."
Moreland.
Henry glanced to the corner the voice had come from. He almost jumped seeing Moreland's large shadow on his right. He held a candlestick in his hand and it flickered over his chin and cheekbones, making it appear his eyes had become sunken pits and his brow heavy and forbidding.
"Have a seat." Moreland kicked the chair over to Henry, and it screeched, the legs stuttering beneath the impact of his boot.
Henry glanced about him, seeking for any place he might run. His perusal was cut short by the squeezing pressure on his arm. Moreland, having come to the limits of his patience, shoved him into the chair, and foreboding struck Henry.
Did he know?
Moreland walked into his line of sight, that candle playing to each angle of his face, casting his scars into deep pock marks. "So, dear friend. I take it you have been in contact with the earl."
Henry swallowed. "Well - I...sent him a missive and I have an...ap...appointment -"
Henry's stumbling words were cut off by Moreland. He lunged towards Henry, his hands thumping on the end of Henry's chair. He leaned in, his voice laden with whiskey, on Henry's face. "Is that so?"
Henry nodded, bobbing his head frantically as if the bones in his neck had dissipated.
Moreland smiled, a smarmy smile that sent ants skittering down Henry's arms. "Good. So, then, my men can confirm that the earl has received this...missive, was it?"
Eyes shifting, Henry licked his dry lips, nodding.
"So the letter I received this morn then that not only have you not sent out any missives, but have in fact, used the time I have allotted to complete your terms of the contract to see a Runner, are not truth?"
He knew.
Henry sought a way to backpedal, to seek reparations for the line, when Moreland disappeared out of sight. The man stalked slowly around him, and a snick! Sounded before the cold prick of a knife, traced across his collarbone, up his neck, over his bobbing throat, to settle between its sinews.
Moreland was fully behind him, his presence a lurking scepter over Henry's head.
"I- I had every intention of doing as you...you commanded, Sir, but I ran into a problem -"
"One you thought far outweighed my demand, Henry?" The words were whispered, hot on his ear lobe. "Tell me, dear friend, what part of 'You don't want me to handle it," did you not understand?" Moreland's knife bit into Henry, a bead of blood dripping down his neck to settle into the white fabric of his shirt, marking it in sin.
"Perhaps the part where I threatened to skin the flesh from your bones?"
Henry shivered as the knife scraped smoothly along his throat. He could feel the splitting of his skin, the drops of blood as they flowed unfettered.
"Or, mayhap, it was the health of your niece that did not sink in?"
Henry fought the smirk that lit his lips. The runner was on her trail, would find her much faster than Moreland could ever hope. But the urge to smirk didn't last...
"Was my own missive unclear?" Moreland twisted to the front, squatting down in front of Henry's seated form. "The one delivered after Lord Simpton left your rooms, bloodied and beaten?"
The man had followed him, Henry realized. Knew each step he had taken. The knowledge sent ice in his veins.
"I see that it did. Did you think I was bluffing, then, when I offered to take the nuisance of a ward off your hands?"
Henry kept the truth close to his vest. The man wouldn't be able to find Charlotte because not even Henry knew her current whereabouts.
"I just need a little more time, Sir. I had a last minute problem arise with a buyer -"
"I believe I have been most lenient so far with you, Henry." The man's leather gloves landed on Henry's thighs and Henry jumped, his breath coming quick and fast. "I don't tolerate lying, Henry. Perhaps you would like to try again?"
How much did he know? Henry wondered. Hoping the man hadn't been watching as closely as they had, he shook his head, offering an apologetic look. "I don't know what you mean."
"Your niece has gone missing, Henry." This time, Henry couldn't stop his teeth from rattling in his skull. "Do you honestly think I would threaten someone and not have the wherewithal to do it?"
Henry wondered what he meant. He couldn't possibly have found Charlotte...
His runner had only been on her trail for mere hours...
"Ah," Moreland said, a gleam entering his eye as he set down his candle. "I can see I have hit the nail on the head, haven't I, Henry?"
Henry swallowed, fighting to retain his composure.
Focus.
An important rule in dealing with a monster was to never show fear. They thrived off it, gloried in the siphoned energy like the most expensive opium. As addictive as snuff.
"So, Henry, even if you have given time to the finding of your wayward niece," Moreland said, his hands landing on Henry's, "what have you done to appease me?"
Henry shook, glancing about him as if answers to the question could be found in the empty room. Only darkness greeted him.
He wondered if he stayed long enough within Moreland's clutches if he would go blind.
What he did know, however, was that he couldn't take any chances that Moreland was telling the truth. Bluff or no bluff, the chance that Moreland had eyes on her even now sent his temperature spiking.
He prayed to God Moreland didn't find her before he did. For if his adversary reached her first...
Henry knew she wouldn't live long enough to scream.
And why? Henry thought morosely. Because Henry had chosen in one weak moment to barter away it all. The estates. The funds. The reputation of his family.
His very livelihood and that of his niece had been staked on the turn of a card. On a carriage accident. On Henry's own inability to confront his fury. And so, he had let Moreland slither in to fill the space he had no right to. Henry's title had been used for ill, a conquest of targets and revenge that bled into Moreland's eyes making them as green as they were black.
The world was at Moreland's fingertips.
Henry had to find her first.
If, that was, he could talk himself out of this damnable situation.
"I will get his ruin, Moreland. I will travel at first light -" Henry met the man's amused glance, his lips quirking at Henry's discomfiture, "but my niece. She hasn't done anything to you, M...Moreland. Let her be."
Moreland chuckled. The sound made Henry wish that he was a bigger man. A better one. One who could turn about and slam his fist in Moreland's open maw, hear the delightful crunch as it was broken so the man couldn't threaten another being.
"On the contrary, the chit had caused more than her fair share of trouble. Instead of focusing on what I want, Henry, you have fawned over the child." Moreland's right hand played with Henry's fingers, weaving from the pointer to the middle and the ring, tracing the delicate limbs between leather. Henry shivered in revulsion, wanting nothing more than to shake away Moreland's touch.
"But you see, Henry," the man whispered, his fingers wrapped around Henry's middle and ring fingers. "You have revealed your weakness for the gel. And damned if you think I will not use it -" Moreland twisted his hand and the crunch of Henry's fingers breaking interrupted his speech.
The burn in his two middle fingers tore a gurgling sound from his throat - a sharp cry. Henry's hand spasmed in the man's grip, the bones pinching against one another, intensifying the unholy burn. Henry's body shook - not only from the pain, but from Moreland's laughing body, his large palm sending shocks to every limb.
"Now, Henry," the man continued, taking his two broken fingers and squeezing, delighting in the way Henry's eyes teared, his throat working in a heavy swallow. "I believe I will give you another few days to rectify this slight you have done me. In three days, if I haven't received word, I will issue my men forward. Even now, they watch your niece."
Henry fought the urge to beg with Moreland, to plead for her safety, but he had already given away his care for Charlotte. The one thing he had tried to deny the man, tried to fool the man into thinking. How he had pushed Charlotte away from day one, offering her no comforts or tears. Not allowing her close. Moreland had reduced those dozen years into nothing.
He looked in Moreland's smiling eyes. "Loyal buggers, they are. And, at the moment, they have been much more successful in their endeavors than you. Better hope they don't finish the job you should be starting, hm?"
Henry was released abruptly, and he cradled his broken fingers to his chest.
"Go, Henry. And don't come back until you can give me an affirmative report."
Henry launched himself away from the chair, stalking as fast as he feet would allow towards the darkened corner. He was met by Moreland's same two thugs, each choosing a side as they followed his slow trek in the shadows.
"Don't test me, Henry. You won't wish to again."
The words had him halting, stumbling over his shuffling feet. He tilted his head to the right, nodding an acknowledgement, before he opened the door and was once more cast out into the wounded maws of London's streets.
Renewed in his course, Henry rubbed a hand over his abused fingers. It was imperative, now more than ever, that he cast his lot elsewhere - that he live outside of Moreland's thumbs.
He would obey Moreland's wishes for now, but it would be on Henry's terms. For he had every intention of finding Charlotte first. He knew the place where his niece had been headed - to Northumberland with Nessie's aunt. He only hoped she had made it there safely. That he wasn't too late.
For he planned to confess everything. Charlotte would forgive him. She had to.
Then they could move to the Americas. Or India.
Hell, anywhere but here.
But for now, Henry thought, surging into the dankness of the borrowed Hackney, he must call upon the earl.