The Dark Discovery of Jack Dandy

London traffic was always a nightmare, and today was no different. The narrow streets, particularly in the East End, were congested with carriages—both horse driven and steam—velocycles zipping in and out, bicycles, omnibuses, pedestrians, livestock. The air was filled with the scents of flowers for sale by young girls, horse excrement, steam and sweat, and the vaguely damp “chamber pot” scent that could only belong to the East End after a rain.

He loved Whitechapel, despite its poverty and violence. Or perhaps he loved it because of those things. There was a desperation to life that didn’t exist in the West End. A desperation and a sharpness that brought everything into clear focus. You lived or you died—those were the only certainties—and the odds of each changed from moment to moment. That was what made life worth living, wasn’t it? The fact that it could end at any second.

Or maybe he simply hadn’t found anything, or anyone, to live for.

Maybe he should start reading Jane Austen novels so he’d know what young ladies really wanted in a man. Bollocks on that. His head was not going down that road. He was only thinking about it because Finley lived in Mayfair—at Griffin King’s fancy mansion. Self-pity and self-inflicted mental anguish was for poets and artists. Jack had neither the time nor the spleen for it.

And he knew himself well enough to know that part of Finley’s appeal was the fact that she was unavailable. A woman was never quite as attractive to him as she was when he knew he couldn’t have her—or would have to work for her favor. It was the conquest, because after that the shine soon wore off.

A horse-drawn cart cut him off at an intersection. Bloody idiot. Jack blasted the horn of his carriage at the driver as he swerved to avoid colliding with the cart and the dirty-faced children and adults in the back of it, who stared at him with a mix of hostility and vacancy.

The rest of the drive happened without incident and at a snail’s pace. He arrived a few seconds early for his appointment, however, which made him punctual but not overeager.

The gravel drive was equipped with a couple of automaton footmen for guests who were gauche or scandalous enough—which one you were obviously depended on the wealth and connection of your family—to drive their own vehicles. Jack steered his shiny pride and joy onto the special track, got out, and took a punch card spit out by the brass clockwork man standing sentry. There was a clunk followed by a grinding noise, and his carriage began to move along the track, guided and pushed by wheels that fit into the notches on the tires. Ingenious—and entirely pompous.

He slipped the punch card into his inside jacket pocket. Then he placed his hat on his head, straightened his coat and cuffs, and swung his walking stick. It was the ebony-handled one with a blade concealed inside. He never went anywhere without a weapon, and Mayfair would be no exception just because its inhabitants were from old, inbred families with more debt than sense.

Slowly, he climbed the steps, an odd fluttering in his gut. Nerves? Impossible. Nothing unsettled him. Nothing. It was merely digestion; he’d eaten several biscuits before leaving the house.

Jack raised his hand to pull the bell. A loud squawk burst from the wall near his ear. Years of Whitechapel noises—screams and the like—had made him almost impossible to frighten.

“Name and business, please” came a shrill voice that could only belong to a housekeeper of a certain age. Chuckling, Jack removed his hat and looked up. There, just about eye level, was a mirror. No doubt it revealed his countenance to the person on the other side of the door. Since that person was a woman, and a pinched-sounding one at that, he put on his most charming smile—not the flirty one, though. No, he used the one that made him look young, slightly self-deprecating and very, very sincere.

“Jack Dandy, missus. Here to see the master of the house.”

“Good gracious, don’t you know anything?” This wasn’t said with much sting; still...it stung. “Use the servants’ entrance around back.”

Jack’s back straightened. By blood, he was this woman’s social superior. It was only that his father had no honor that made Jack a bastard. Had his father been a better man, Jack would have been raised in a house just as old and imposing as this.

Those were things he made himself remember when shame had him wanting to run off with his tail ‘twixt his legs.

“No,” he said, very calmly. He gazed directly into the glass—could almost imagine the woman’s slack jaw. “I will not go around to the servants’ entrance, for I am not a servant. I am an invited guest of your employer, and you can either open this bloody door or explain to him why the meeting he requested was delayed—by you.”

There was a rather pregnant pause. And then a click as the lock on the door was disengaged and the heavy oak swung open.

Jack stepped over the threshold with a bored air. Of course he’d gotten his way. There was no greater threat to the working class than their employer’s wrath. That was why he hadn’t been in any employ other than his own for the past six years.

The woman who greeted him was indeed pinched looking. She was barely five feet tall—he spied the box she had to stand on to inspect visitors on the step—and just shy of being considered “sturdy.” Her gaze was downcast as she bobbed in a slight curtsy before him. “This way, Mr. Dandy, if you please.”

He did indeed. He walked behind her as she led him from the hall to a corridor lined with portraits that dated back several hundreds of years, given the dress of the individuals. The rich hung on to family as if they were currency—unless they were illegitimate like Jack; then they were tossed away—while the poor couldn’t spend theirs fast enough.

The house was decorated at the height of modern fashion, despite the obvious age of its exterior. Floral prints in a dizzying array of colors, shining brass and polished wood. He even saw a maid putting a small sweeper automaton away in its cupboard.

Jack had three of the little devils. Not because he was particularly dirty but because he thought them cute. And also, because he could.

Hmm. There was something familiar about this place, something tugging at the back... Bloody hell. He’d robbed it. Oh, this was a fine kettle, now wasn’t it? Not that Abernathy had any way of knowing who’d filched his silver and jewels that night, but the realization made Jack feel a little dirty all the same. He didn’t often have to look his marks in the eye.

This was Finley’s fault, this sudden attack of conscience. He was going to have to send that girl a bill or something. Or perhaps demand that she give him back his spine. Guilt was not a good look for him—it gave one unsightly lines.

And now he felt bad for being rude to the housekeeper, as well. Damnation. He was going to have to cheat at cards and seduce a married woman just to get his equilibrium back.

The housekeeper stopped at a closed white-washed door, knocked and, when bade, entered. Jack heard her announce him, and then he swept into the room.

Abernathy was older—perhaps in his late forties or even early fifties. He wasn’t very tall, had thinning blond hair, pale blue eyes and a nose that could only be described as...British. He was dressed in gray-striped trousers, a puce waistcoat and a dove-gray jacket. His shoes were so polished they were like mirrors—not that the viscount could see his shoes past the prodigious curve of his belly. Jack didn’t think he’d ever met anyone who made him so keenly aware of his own height and slight build.

The viscount’s expression when he saw him was terribly amusing. Either Abernathy hadn’t known of Jack’s parentage or he was a very fine actor, because all the color drained from his face, save for the blue of his eyes.

Jack waited until the housekeeper closed the door, sealing the two of them in the study alone to speak. “I’m a busy man, your lordship—fings to do and peoples to see and all that. To what ‘onor do me boots muddy-up your prett-ee rug?”

The man winced at his atrocious accent. Jack narrowed his eyes. Perhaps he’d laid it on a bit too thick. Of course it was a horrible way of speaking—he’d worked hard to perfect it. Sounding the way he did ingratiated him to the people of Whitechapel, but it also made people from other parts of the city underestimate him. For the most part, he liked being underestimated. People said and did all sorts of things in front of you when they thought you were more thug than brain.

Viscount Abernathy, however, would do well not to underestimate him. Did the older man think himself better just because he had a big house and a lofty title? The aristocracy wasn’t what it used to be, and Jack reckoned his fortune was as large, if not larger, than the viscount’s.

Bloody hell. What was wrong with him? Next thing he knew he’d suggest a pissing contest just to see which of them had the longest reach.

“Would it give less offense, my lord, if I spoke to you in a manner of conversation to which you are more accustomed?”

The older man’s eyes widened. Perhaps he noted the change in Jack’s demeanor as well as his speech, or perhaps Jack resembled his estranged pater in more ways than his good looks. “You may speak in whatever manner you choose, Mr. Dandy.”

Jack shrugged. “You, as well, my lord.” He glanced at a black leather wingback chair. “Mind if I sit?”

Abernathy gave his head a shake. “Yes, of course. Please, do. Would you like a drink?”

“Coffee, if you have it.”

The man blinked. “Coffee?”

Jack nodded as he set his hat on a small table and propped his walking stick nearby—within reach, of course. “Yes, please. I never imbibe when I’m discussing business. It’s bad...for business.”

“Yes, I see how it would be.” It was obvious, however, that he didn’t “see” it at all. Judging from the gin blossoms on the man’s beak, Jack would wager the man spent most of his time half-pickled.

The viscount pressed a switch on a little box on his desk. A second later the housekeeper’s voice came out of the box. “Yes, Lord Breckenridge?”

“Coffee, please, Mrs. Dean. And some sandwiches. And some of those little cakes you make that are so delicious.”

Good God. Was Abernathy flirting with his housekeeper?

“Of course, my lord.” And she was being all coy in return.

Jack eyed his walking stick and wondered if jabbing the blade up his nose and into his brainpan might take away the image of the two of them trying to put their parts together around their notable middles. Instead of testing the theory, he sat down in the chair—it was as comfortable as it looked.

When Abernathy was done cooing to Mrs. Dean, he came and sat down in the chair opposite Jack’s. “First of all, I want to thank you for responding to my request for a meeting so quickly.”

“You have impeccable timing. This is my only free afternoon for some time.” It wasn’t, of course. His business happened mostly at night, in the dark and shadows, but Abernathy didn’t need to know that his afternoons were open for at least the next three to four days.

“Oh, very good. I suppose you are wondering why I requested a meeting as we’ve never been introduced.”

“I rarely wonder at anything, my lord. And it’s not as though we’re totally ignorant of one another, is it?”