Inside the warehouse, two dozen strong men moved in unison, muscles straining under the weight of the crates they passed from down the line, from the hole in the floorboards to one of five caravans ready to move the product overland: two to a score of locations in London; one west, to Bristol; one north, to York; and the last to the Scottish border, where it would be redistributed for delivery into Edinburgh and throughout the highlands.
There were any number of moments in the life of a smuggler that brought danger and uncertainty, but these were the worst, knowing that once the goods left the warehouse, the transport was in more danger than ever. No one could prove the Bareknuckle Bastards were smuggling goods inside the ice ships they worked; there was no way to check the contents of the ships as they entered the harbor, nearly sinking for all the melted ice in their holds. In this moment, however, with untaxed, undeclared goods in the hands of their loyal men, no one would be able to deny the criminal activity.
On nights when they moved product, every able body in the organization helped to get it done as quickly as possible. The longer night hung over the rookery, the safer the product, and all their futures.
Devil made for Whit and Nik, shucking his coat and waistcoat, exchanging his walking stick for a great, curving box hook. He moved to the hole, coming alongside Whit heaving crates up and passing them to another man, then another, and another, and a second row of men immediately followed him, forming a new line, doubling the pace of the work.
Nik was down in the hole, marking boxes and barrels with white chalk as they passed, calling out their destinations and marking them into the small ledger that never left her pocket. “St. James’s. Fleet Street. Edinburgh. York. Bristol.”
It wasn’t the business of smuggling that made for salacious news; crates of contraband weren’t interesting until they were opened and used. But the purchasers of those crates? The most powerful men in government, religion, and media? Suffice to say, the world would be eager for even a glance at the Bareknuckle Bastards’ client list.
Devil hooked a barrel of bourbon headed to York Cathedral, and lifted it up with a loud grunt. “Christ, those things are heavy.”
Whit didn’t hesitate in pulling up a crate, his heavy breathing the only indication that the grueling task was impacting him. “Weakling.”
Nik snorted a little laugh, but did not look away from her list. Devil reached down for the next box, ignoring the way the muscles of his shoulders strained when he pulled it up and passed it to the man at his back. He returned his attention to Nik. “I’ll have you know that I’m the intelligent brother.”
She looked up at him, eyes twinkling. “Are you?” She marked a box. “Bank of London.”
Whit grunted and leaned into the hole. “And the books he insisted on reading when we were children continue to keep him warm at night.”
“Oi!” Devil said, hooking another barrel. “Without those books, I’d never have learned about the Trojan horse, and then where would we be?”
Whit didn’t hesitate. “I imagine we would have had to devise for ourselves that we could smuggle one thing inside another thing. However would we have done that?” he asked with a little grunt as he pulled up a cask of brandy. “Thank goodness for your primitive knowledge of the Greeks.”
Devil took advantage of his empty hook and offered a rude gesture to his brother, who turned to the men assembled with a wide, white grin and said, “You see? Proof I am right.” Whit looked back to Devil and added, “Though not at all a sign of intelligence, one might point out.”
“What happened to you being the brother who does not talk?”
“I’m feeling out of sorts today.” Whit heaved up a heavy crate. “What brings you out, bruv?”
“I thought I’d check on the shipment.”
“I’d’ve thought you had other things to check on tonight.”
Devil gritted his teeth and reached down for a crate of playing cards. “What’s that to mean?”
Whit didn’t reply.
Devil straightened. “Well?”
Whit shrugged a shoulder beneath his sweat-dampened shirt. “Only that you’ve your master plan to see to, no?”
“What master plan?” the ever-curious Nik asked from below. “If you lot are planning something without me . . .”
“We’re not planning anything.” Whit reached back into the hole. “It’s just Dev.”
Nik’s keen blue gaze moved from one brother to the next. “Is it a good plan?”
“It’s a shit plan, actually,” Whit said.
Unease threaded through Devil, and his retort stuck in his throat. It was a good plan. It was the kind of plan that punished Ewan.
And Felicity.
There was only one way to respond. Another rude gesture.
Whit and Nik laughed, before she interjected from her place below, “Well, as much as I am loath to end this fascinating conversation, that’s the last of it.”
Devil turned to watch the men on the line tuck the last of the product into the large steel wagons as Whit nodded down and said, “All right then. Tell the lads to send up the ice.”
Passing his hook down to Nik, Devil received another, cold as the product it held—the first of the six-stone blocks of ice. Turning, he passed the hook and its capture to the next man in line, who handed him an empty hook, which Devil passed down to catch its frozen prey. The second block was passed up, and Devil passed down another empty hook, and so it went, rhythmic and backbreaking, until the backs of the steel caravans were filled to the roof with blocks of ice.
There was a pleasure in the grueling work, in the line of men working in unison, toward a common, achievable goal. Most goals were not so easily reached and, too often, those who aspired to them found themselves disappointed in the reaching. Not this. There was nothing so satisfying as turning to discover the work finished well, and the time ripe for an ale.
But there was no satisfaction to be had that day.
He was reaching down into the hole when John shouted out for him; turning, he found the big man crossing from the back entrance to the warehouse, a boy trailing behind him. Devil’s gaze narrowed in recognition. Brixton was one of Felicity’s watch.
He dropped the hook to the dusty floor, unable to keep himself from moving toward them. “What’s happened to her?”
The boy lifted his chin, strong and proud. “Nuffin’!”
“What do you mean, nothing?”
“Nuffin’, Devil,” Brixton replied. “Lady’s right as rain.”
“Then why are you off your watch?”
“I weren’t, until this stroker pulled me off it.”
John cut the boy a warning glance at the insult, and Devil turned to the head of the warehouse’s security. “What were you doing in Mayfair?”
John shook his head. “I wasn’t in Mayfair. I’ve been on guard outside.” They were moving a shipment tonight,
so the roads leaving the rookery were monitored by a team of men in their employ. No one came in or out without the Bastards’ approval.
Devil shook his head. He couldn’t have understood. It wasn’t possible. He narrowed his gaze on the boy. “Where is she?”
“At the door!”
His heart began to pound. “Whose door?”
“Yours,” John said, finally allowing the smile that had been threatening to break through. “Your lady’s tryin’ to pick the lock.”
Devil scowled. “She’s not my lady. And she sure as hell shouldn’t be in the rookery.”
“And yet, here we are.” This, from Whit, who had appeared behind Devil. “Are you going to get the girl, Dev? Or are you going to leave her out there like a lamb to the slaughter?”
Goddammit.
Devil was already heading for the back door. A low rumble of laughter behind him that could not have been his brother’s, as Whit surely did not want murdering.
He found her crouched low at the door to the warehouse, a sea of barely visible pale skirts billowing around her, and the flood of relief at discovering her unharmed quickly dissolved into irritation and then unwelcome interest. He pulled up short just around the corner of the building, not wanting to alert her to his presence.
Giving her a wide berth, he approached her from behind. Her head was bowed toward the lock, but not to see it—it was the dead of night and even if it hadn’t been cloudy, the moonlight wouldn’t have been enough for her to see her workspace.
Lady Felicity was talking to herself again.
Or, rather, she was talking to the lock, presumably without knowing that it was unpickable—designed not only to guard, but to punish those who thought themselves better than it.
“There you are, darling,” she whispered softly, and Devil froze to the spot. “I shan’t be rough with you. I’m a summer breeze. I’m butterflies’ wings.”
What a lie that was. She threatened to incinerate every butterfly in Britain.
“Good girl,” she whispered. “That’s three and—” She fiddled with the picks. “Hmmm.” More fiddling. “How many have you got?” She fiddled again. “More importantly, what is so important inside this building that something as beautiful as you is protecting it . . . and its master?”