The Dark Discovery of Jack Dandy by Kady Cross Page A

better than a debauched cretin such as himself. Tough as she was, his Treasure needed someone strong enough to look after her. Jack was strong enough for the task; he just hadn’t the heart for it. Still, she was possibly his best friend—if anyone could claim that title—and he liked to use their relationship to poke at King, who was entirely too easy to make jealous. It was barely even sport.
    And, if he admitted it, she was the closest to love he’d ever come. That was reason in itself to leave her be.
    “Brought your carriage ‘round, Jack,” called a young man from his parlor.
    Jack turned his head and smiled at the lad. This one wasn’t an aristo’s brat. This was Henry, who had been born into circumstances much like Jack’s. Only, Henry had been tossed out of the brothel when the madam had caught him with one of the girls.
    A boy after Jack’s own black heart, he was. Thirteen years old, smart and eager. Someday, he’d challenge Jack’s position in Whitechapel, but for now he was one less boy on the streets.
    “Fanks, mate. Help yourself to luncheon in the pantry, but keeps your dirty fingers out of me absinthe, or I’ll cuts ’em off, do you forstand?”
    The youth nodded, but he grinned. “Aye, Jack. Be there cake?”
    Jack rolled his eyes. Other than girls, all the boy seemed to think of was cake. “On the sideboard. Save me a slab. I’ll be back for tea.” Normally he wouldn’t have dropped that last bit of information, but sometimes Henry worried if he was gone too long. That’s what happened when fathers and whores abandoned their sons.
    Jack opened the door and stepped out into the overcast afternoon. A warm breeze kept the damp from seeping into a fellow’s bones.
    His motor carriage was indeed waiting for him as he stepped down to the curb. It was a beautiful black-lacquered vehicle that gave him a sense of satisfaction every time he saw it. It looked out of place in front of his home. No one would guess that he lived in relative splendor given the condition of the outer shell of the building, but he preferred it that way. He’d once read that a person’s home was a reflection of his own self. Perhaps there was some truth to it, or perhaps it was all bollocks.
    He opened the door and slipped into the carriage. The boiler was hot and the engine keen to go. Sometimes he had a hired driver to squire him about, but not today. Today had to be handled correctly. If he arrived in too much style he’d be seen as trying to outshine his “betters” but if he didn’t display enough style and breeding, he’d be dismissed as uncouth.
    Normally, he’d chafe at such strict foolishness, but Jack had not amassed a fortune by letting pride get in his way.
    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