“Drop your weapon or I’ll have to fire, and I’m not as good a shot as you.”
Slipper dropped the pistol, eyeing Dobson cautiously.
“I didn’t think you hurt women,” Dobson said. “Your mam wouldn’t like to hear you’ve been mistreating ladies, Slipper.”
Slipper sighed. “Why won’t nothin’ go right for me anymore? Since I took up with the duchess there’s been nothin’ but trouble for me.”
Marietta picked herself up, feeling dizzy, as if she might faint. The fireworks were still exploding in the sky but they seemed inappropriate now, an distraction from the important business of the night. Max was standing a little way from her, staring at the man Dobson had called Slipper, and his face and body were rigid.
“Duchess?” he whispered. “What duchess?”
Slipper shifted his feet, his ugly face turning from Max to Dobson, as if he didn’t trust either of them. “I call her that,” he explained, “because she looks like a duchess, not because she is one.”
There was only one woman Max thought looked like the perfect duchess.
Slipper eyed him slyly. “You wanna know who she is, right? If I tell you, will you let me go?”
Dobson laughed. “Still the same old Slipper. Tell us anyway.”
Slipper hesitated, but after Dobson had another little talk with him, he told them.
Dobson squeezed Marietta’s arm gently as they stepped from the hansom. “Are you all right, miss?”
“I think so. I’m worried about Max.”
“Max is tougher than any of us, don’t worry about him.”
But she couldn’t help it.
Dobson
had explained that Slipper had been one of his sparring partners when they both spent some time bare-knuckle fighting. It was useful sometimes, he said, having grown up in Seven Dials; it meant he knew just about every villain in London, and just about every villain’s mother. Slipper’s mother was a fire-breather and he was more afraid of her than any policeman. It had been fear of his mother that Dobson had used to convince Slipper to finally tell them who had paid him to kill Max.
Marietta glanced at Max now, but his expression revealed nothing to her. Since he had heard the name he had been silent, holding his emotions inside, preparing for the confrontation.
The house they had come to was not as grand as his own. Lights blazed from the windows and the sound of a piano drifted from one of the upper rooms. Max walked up the steps and knocked, loudly. Marietta followed more slowly, dreading the next few moments. They had argued in the hansom—Max had wanted her to go home and wait for him, but she had refused, and after a short, tense battle he had given in. She needed to be with him, to support him or simply to watch over him. Marietta had almost lost him tonight and she was caught between elation that he was alive and unharmed, and dread of what might have happened. What might still happen.
Max strode past the servant who opened the door. “Mr. and Mrs. Valland are not receiving visitors,” the man began, his gaze sliding to Marietta and Dobson. “Sir, I’m sorry but you—”
Max ignored him and climbed the stairs with barely a pause, heading toward the sound of the piano. Dobson took Marietta’s arm and they followed in his wake. By the time they reached him, Max had already flung open the door, sending it crashing back against the wall.
That was when Marietta realized how angry he was—Max had the Valland temper after all.
“Max!” It was Harold, staggering to his feet. He had been half asleep in front of the fire and he looked bewildered, his hair on end, his shirt sleeves rolled up.
Max said nothing. He looked at Harold as if he had never seen him before, and then he turned his head toward the piano. Susannah was seated there, her hands still resting on the keys, but her face was blank, as though she was seeing a ghost.
“Yes, it’s Max,” he said quietly, grief meshing with the anger in his voice. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“Disappoint us?” Harold echoed, puzzled, coming forward. He saw Marietta then, and behind her Dobson, and his expression grew even more confused. “What is this about, Max? What are you doing here? And why have you brought these people—”
“Susannah can tell you what it’s about. Why don’t you ask Susannah?” Max moved toward his sister, his eyes never leaving her.
Marietta had expected to hate Susannah, to be so angry she wanted to strike out at her and hurt her as she had hurt Max. But now…she was confused. Susannah was picking out some notes on the piano, trying to recapture the tune she had been playing a moment ago.
“Harold likes to be played to in the evening,” she said, as if to excuse herself, as if Max regularly forced his way into her house.
“Susannah—”