No Earls Allowed (The Survivors #2)(68)

Prostitutes were another staple of the streets. Julia had learned stay away from them. She’d always thought them poor women forced into selling their bodies for blunt. Perhaps that was true, but they were not kind—at least not to her. She had the sense most of them would slit her throat and rob her blind before they’d ever consider any charity from her.

Not that she could blame them. A hard heart kept them alive in the rookeries of London. They could not afford to trust anyone.

Julia kept her head down and avoided the malevolent stares of the prostitutes, the pleas of the children, and the whines of the dogs. Neil must have known where the alehouse was located because he walked confidently past wipe shop after wipe shop—all selling stolen handkerchiefs. Julia clutched her own handkerchief—in her hand and ready should she need to cover her nose—tightly.

Finally, Neil stopped, and she squinted up at a low, dark building that looked to have been built at least two hundred years before. The small windows were grimy and the building’s paint had chipped off. The sign out front must have portrayed proud illustrations of an ox and a bull once, but they had faded to almost unrecognizability.

It was the sort of establishment Julia would have crossed to the other side of the street to avoid. Too late now. She swallowed. “Are we going inside?”

“Not yet.”

To her relief, Neil waited for a passing cart, then led her across the street. As she was about to inquire where he was taking her, a tall, fair-haired man with pale-blue eyes stepped into view. Mostyn. Julia could not have said where he had been a moment before, but his height and Nordic appearance made him stand out in the crowd of stoop-shouldered, dirty passersby. She had the sense that she would not have seen him until he wished to be seen. Clearly that was now, as Neil was leading her directly for him.

When they reached Mostyn, Julia looked up to meet his eyes. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Mostyn.”

He nodded at her, not speaking. In fact, he barely glanced at her before he returned his attention to Neil.

“Report,” Neil said, sounding very much like she imagined a general on the battlefield might sound.

“No one new in or out since I’ve been here,” Mostyn answered.

“The boy is still inside.”

Mostyn lifted a shoulder. “I can’t see the rear exit.”

Neil looked at her. “Then I suppose there is only one way to be certain. You have my back.”

It wasn’t a question, and Mostyn didn’t dignify the remark with an answer. But when Neil turned to lead Julia back toward the alehouse, Mostyn stepped in front of them. They had no choice but to pause. To do otherwise would be to attempt to walk through a stone wall.

“The lady,” Mostyn said.

Neil sighed, sounding weary. “I cannot leave her alone outside, and she refused to stay at the orphanage.”

Mostyn’s gaze flicked to her, then back to Neil. Whatever he saw when he looked at her must have convinced him persuading her to return to the orphanage was not an option. “I can go in alone,” he said.

Neil shook his head. “I considered that on the way here, but I want to attempt negotiation first. You are not known for your skills in that arena, my friend.”

“Why bother?” Mostyn asked. “Give Slag all the words you want. It will end the same way.”

“Are you implying violence is inevitable, Mr. Mostyn?” Julia asked.

He looked at her. “I never imply.”

“True enough,” Neil said. “But you have your orders.” He looked at Julia. “Revised somewhat, but basically the same. Are you ready?”

“I have my dancing shoes on,” Mostyn replied.

Julia wondered what that was supposed to mean. But she had no time to ask as, a moment later, she was ushered inside the Ox and Bull. It was even darker inside than she had anticipated, and it was rank with the smell of urine, smoke, and the odor of unwashed humans. She put her handkerchief to her nose, but even the rose fragrance she dabbed on the cloth could not disguise this stench. She coughed and attempted not to wretch. The sound seemed unbearably loud because as soon as they entered, all conversation ceased.

Julia looked at the low-ceilinged room packed with small tables and chairs. At each table sat men who looked more dangerous than the last. She suddenly regretted her decision to come along. That regret intensified when the barkeep called from the back of the room, where he stood behind a scarred and battered wooden partition, “We don’t serve your kind. Get out.”

“Want me to kill him?” Mostyn asked so low only she and Neil could hear.

“Not yet,” Neil said. Then louder, “I wish to speak with Mr. Slag.”

Julia was relieved Neil could speak. She could not move, much less form a coherent sentence.

“What do ye want with ’im?” a lad of no more than fifteen asked from the table closest to them. A weak lantern sat on top of that table beside several empty mugs, but the light did little more than illuminate the boy’s small features and dirt-streaked face.

“It’s a private matter,” Neil said.

“Oh, a private matter,” an older man said in a tone meant to mock Neil’s upper-class accent. “Well, la-di-da. I ’ave a private matter I’d like to discuss with your wench.” He grabbed his crotch, and Julia’s face flamed.

“Want me to kill that one?” Mostyn asked, this time his voice a bit louder.