A twitch of life. Perfect.

He motioned to the larger boy. "Head down to the kitchen and speak with Henry the Henfisted. He'll feed you and talk to you about opportunities. Peter will show you the way."

The boy nodded quickly, not waiting for the offer to be withdrawn, and ducked through the door like a large wraith, seeking the boy in the hall who had brought them there.

The remaining boy fastened beady eyes on his. "You have posts open in the kitchens?"

But Roman could see the way the boy's small body moved, the way the muscles of his face showed what he was thinking. Not that it was hard to deduce when one saw as many gaunt children as he did.

"Yes, but you can get something there to eat as soon as we are done-without pretending you want to work there."

The boy's eyes narrowed, yet he said nothing, watching, watching, watching, as Roman did to him, but without the added years, full stomach, and full sleep-well, full enough sleep-that Roman possessed. Still . . . smart, little, prideful beast. He'd have to keep him away from Andreas for a few weeks. His brother would kill the tiny b.u.g.g.e.r. Too much alike in disposition for his brother's peace of mind.

Roman allowed the boy to take his measure for a few moments. To try to, at least.

He likely wouldn't suss out exactly what this boy wanted yet. However, he could address an essential need. "Peter says you have a knack for thievery."

The flat, sure look in the boy's eyes said everything. "So's what if I do? You gonna hire me out?"

"We don't hire out , as such. Though Peter can tell you about what we do accomplish with men of your talent should you wish to pursue such paths. There are many. Thieves are especially good at catching other thieves." Roman shrugged. "Or for pursuing their pure skill, if they wish. Did Peter tell you the rules?"

There weren't many, but those they had were encased in iron.

The boy made a noise. "Yeah. We'll see."

And they would. Trust was hard wrought. Not every child-or man-wanted to play by someone else's rules. But most of them did want somewhere to belong. A natural feeling of having a place. It's what kept some so long in other situations-that they would lose their place in the world, even if that place was frightening or dangerous.

Roman gave the boy in front of him a fifty percent chance. There was brilliance there, but it would be the boy's choice. And sometimes the past was too difficult for some to overcome.

"When Peter returns, tell him to take you to Milton. He'll sh.o.r.e you up. He was a thief too before he became one of our managers." He kept his eyes locked with the boy's. Saw the glimpse of hope before it was ruthlessly squashed. He upped the boy's chances to sixty.

"Yeah? How many people you send his way?" he challenged.

Fifty-five, if the boy couldn't gain some control of his tongue. To know when to use it as a frontal a.s.sault and when to wait and lash from behind was an essential skill.

"Few."

The boy's eyes narrowed.

"It doesn't matter if you believe me." Roman shrugged, putting his elbow on the desk. G.o.d, he hated desks. So unnatural. "I'm neither stupid nor green to think you would. And you look neither of those things either. Meet the others. Talk to them. Live with them. See where you want to be."

The boy's eyes slipped, internal want showing through for a few precious milliseconds.

His score soared to seventy-five.

Belonging was also what kept the ranks together in their dysfunctional little empire. For internally it was a safe zone. The streets were still the streets, and sometimes things happened outside the walls, but the unit was fiercely loyal to itself and to them. It was a safer place to be and provided a haven where they could try new options.

The boy nodded, eyes returning to their distrustful state, as self-preservation dictated. Roman dismissed him.

Sometimes seeds needed careful nurturing, and sometimes they just needed a sprinkling of water and a good plot of land.

Unless he personally oversaw a case on the streets, he let the boys stock their own ranks by bringing in others who would work well within their units. That Peter, prideful, p.r.i.c.kly Peter, had suggested these two said volumes, both about how Peter was fitting in to the group and how he viewed these two potentials.

But, again, sometimes the past was simply too much for some to overcome.

Sometimes he saw it in Andreas's eyes. The pulling weight. The revenge coldly plotted for so long, too long. Warmth dwindling behind an iced wall.

Roman could only do what was within his power to keep that wall from turning into stone, pushing him out as well. But in someone else . . . cool blue eyes and wintry flaxen hair . . . he could melt it now. Or try. The urgent pull just made it more personal.

He tapped the note again. Yes. He had the perfect spot in mind.

He pushed away from the desk and left the room. Plans and decisions in his head.

He tapped a boy on the shoulder as he walked down the hall, not pausing, turning to walk backward as he rattled off instructions. "Round up One-eye, Travers, Johnson, Burns, Crowny, and Deuce."

The boy nodded eagerly and ran to the stairwell. Roman turned and continued on-he hated to pause when he had a plan. He swiped up the papers he needed downstairs. Some marks required more convincing than others.

The men gathered quickly and received their instructions. It was a routine job-coerce and buy. And it had been one that had been hanging for weeks. Needing only a signal to begin.

Waiting for that certain something to slot into place.

The dice-chance and recklessness-in his pocket burned heavily. He reached in and tossed them to a boy in pa.s.sing. "Table twelve."

With a quick nod from the boy, Roman knew they would be returned to their proper place.

There were many who wished they could do the same with Roman. Upstart. All it would take was a few mistakes . . . a few opportunities for their enemies to exploit. And each opportunity had her name written all over it.

Roman walked to his destination in the heart of London, unable to send any of the others to this particular man. Some visits required a more . . . sensitive touch.

He waited in the shadows, watching as a well-dressed group pa.s.sed by. The men were oblivious to anything around them. Simply following their expectations. Unsuspecting. Unaware that someone lurked in the shadows. He could gut the first one and finish with the last of them before the first even realized he was bleeding. Stupid, not to pay attention, even out here during the day, where one might feel safe.

Charlotte no longer bypa.s.sed dark corridors, not for the last week now, without sending each one a searching look. He tapped the note in his pocket. Always looking for him, aware now of who or what could lurk in the shadows. It was a lost innocence, but far better than to be surprised by the monsters in the night.

The thought that she'd need to be prepared for far worse if she fully engaged with him tickled the edges of his conscience, but he flicked the thought away before it could sink in claws.

A man exited the building, and Roman slipped through before the door closed.

Darkness watched and waited. Always. But giving people options-watching their eyes widen at the knowledge that dreams were possible-was an addictive game. Especially since many dreams were well within his ability to grant. Going to school to become an esquire. Running a business. Becoming a cook.

One thing that their empire had wrought was the ability to allow those things to occur. Helping one was in the natural order of the other.

But undertaking tasks and desires outside of that . . . desires that threatened their very existence . . . desires that he couldn't justify rationally because they were solely gut-wrenching feelings . . .

He slipped into the inner sanctum easily. Evading the heavily guarded areas, choosing the lesser paths and shadows.

No guard stood inside the room.

Foolishly arrogant, those with power sometimes were. Roman himself was far too guilty of the failing. He clicked the door shut, letting the noise announce his presence.

"What do you want?" the man on the other side of the heavy desk asked, hand clutched around a pen, shrewd eyes unreadable, wealth and breeding in every line of his body, every accent in the room. He didn't bother to ask how Roman had gotten to him. They had been beyond such questions for a long time.

"Now is that any way to speak to an old friend?" Roman smiled and flipped the lock. Ah. The sweet knowledge of fear bled into the man's gaze before he capably stifled all visible emotion.

Roman smiled more broadly and sauntered forward, dropping into the opposing chair and kicking his feet up onto the desk.

"One of these days, Merrick, you are going to die with that c.o.c.ky expression upon your face." Dark promises. "What do you want ?"

Roman lifted a negligent shoulder. "Oh, nothing grand. Just a small matter I'm sure you can help me with."

The powerful man across from him went rigid under the tension of the lie-so unused to people demanding things from him. Other people, peons, didn't demand, they jumped to his commands, and nearly every citizen in England was a peon to the man across from Roman.

But, alas, Roman had always been terrible at knowing his proper place. "What do you know of the Chatsworth family?"

The man eyed him. "Upstarts. But the oldest daughter is considered unnaturally beautiful." His eyes narrowed. "What could you possibly want with them, Merrick?"

Roman smiled and flicked a paper containing Charlotte Chatsworth's possible future onto the desk.

Chapter 11.

S oon. Four simple letters in a word that caused her to tremble in antic.i.p.ation and dread.

Charlotte curled her fingers around the note in her fist, staring at the door before her. A riot of conflicting emotions flowed through her. Knocking would make everything real. Would take her imaginings and flights of fancy from the past two weeks and thrust her fully into motion.

Would take the enticement of words spoken from silken lips and make temptation tangible. Instead of finding her in the shadows, this visit would anchor something between them in rising daylight.

He had asked, amidst inked notes and freshly plucked, dewy flowers. And she had responded. Jumped to the call.

If she were the Charlotte she had been born to be, it would have grated against her pride and her judgment, that she was falling so easily. Falling into whatever her role was in his patiently crafted plan.

But today, she was someone she hardly knew, alive, and on edge. Expecting him to emerge from the shadows-for he always knew where she'd be, as if she were a blooming flower in a bare field instead of the bare flower in the blooming field.

A bud really, desperate to bloom, desperate to open herself to the hot sun. Sucking in water, air, and soil in order to do so. Planting herself in places best designed for the sun to appear. Allowing the sun to stalk her slowly, to push away the dark shadows. Waiting.

Every evening she gambled on that bloom, putting herself dangerously in reach of Bethany's clutches, cursing the way her heart jumped each time she caught a flash of golden hair-feeling disappointment curl alongside the relief when the head belonged to someone else.

Yet every once in a while, the Charlotte of old peeked through, demanding an explanation. Demanding decorum. Demanding accountability.

It was that Charlotte whose hand paused atop bra.s.s and painted wood.

That Charlotte who was responsible for far more than her own reputation.

That Charlotte who rebuked the new Charlotte when she drew too near the shadows or the blazing sun. Not yet allowing the patiently waiting hand to pull her through to either sunlight or unending darkness.

That Charlotte who demanded an answer- why was she here?

She curved her fingers around the note.

Seven in the morning. Your park. Wear a cloak. Bring this note.

There had been a hack. A driver. An already paid fare. A trip to the north of town. A brick house surrounded by a profusion of pink flowers, delicate and feminine.

It was the old Charlotte who didn't know if she would actually rap the knocker her fingers rested upon.

And suddenly the decision was made for her. The door opened, her fingers gripping air, and there he was, leaning against the frame, arm stretched, holding the edge of the swinging wood.

Darkness underlined his eyes but didn't diminish his attractiveness. It simply provided a more accurate representation of a deeper part of his nature, bringing it to the surface. She wondered how much sleep he had caught and why he wasn't currently abed.

"Good morning." His lips quirked. "I nearly expired from old age, waiting to see if you would actually knock on the d.a.m.n thing. My heart couldn't take it any longer."

She lifted her chin and stepped inside, brushing past him as she did so. "So you are saying that if only I had had a few beats more, I would finally have been rid of you?"

She caught his lazy grin as she pa.s.sed. "I plan to haunt you even in the afterlife," he whispered, the air of his words brushing her ear, the door engaging behind her.

She swallowed, then lifted her chin. "You haunt me now. I doubt you will have trouble then."

His lazy grin grew. "I had wondered if you would come," he said, leaning back against the door.

She had wondered that quite keenly herself. For she could no longer use the excuse of him seeking her out. She had made the choice to come.

"Rather c.o.c.ksure of you to think I would find your note. That I will find each of them."

Pressed up against the wall of a cupboard. Stroked in the fronds of a back garden. Lips and hands on hers.

She tipped her head in order to keep the blood firmly from her cheeks.

She could feel the echo of those hands and lips each night as she closed her eyes, and each morning as the shadows slipped away. Could feel the whisper of them on her now even though his body wasn't touching hers.

He pressed back against the door, shifting, smiling. "I am rather fond of that feeling."

A pair of children scrambled down the stairs, one screaming after the other, hair on both in extreme disarray.

"Give it back t' me, ya b.l.o.o.d.y b.u.g.g.e.r!" the little girl yelled.

"You'll have t' catch me, wench!" the little boy yelled back, leaping down the last four steps in one go, then racing around the corner. The girl tore off after him, pushing a swinging door wide as she raced through. The door hit its apex, revealing a woman inside the room. The door swung the other way, showing the woman still standing there, dressed in pink with her hair pulled back. Their eyes met, and the woman's widened, then narrowed. The door hung for a moment, then swung closed, its next jag not opening far enough to show her again. Only bits of blank air and nondescript cupboards.

Charlotte stared at the swinging door as it gave its final death knell, something in her freezing. Stupid, girl. To make a.s.sumptions based on whispers in the dark.

"Yours?" Her voice was calm, even. Polite inquiry her refuge, as always.

"Good G.o.d, no." He shuddered, pushing away from the door. He couldn't have seen the woman to know that Charlotte was asking about more than just the children. But the thought of her presumption was still accurate. What difference did it make if they were his, all of them? None. Silly, stupid girl.

"Come. The fleabags will be back soon." He held a hand toward the stairs. "After you. First door on the right."