dutifully rolled on the rubber goods last night. He didn’t know as yet, but it wouldn’t be long before the little pea in the pod quickened, then he was sure to sense the new life in her.
But how to tell him? The last time they had discussed children, he had made it perfectly clear he wished no child of his brought into the world. One who might suffer the same fiendish terrors and aberrations of his youth. Or his life.
“America is a beautiful name—of course you must be American ?” Ruby’s question brought her back from her worries.
She nodded. “American mother, British father.”
“She doesn’t sound American.” Ever vigilant, Cutter dipped his head to see more of the street on his side of the carriage. “She sounds . . . British, with a hint of island in her. Barbados, possibly?”
America smiled. “French Creole. I was raised in New Orleans, until my mother handed me off to my father; he was a sea captain. Eventually, he started a merchant shipping business—we were quite prosperous until he died last year. A nefarious business partner schemed to steal his ships away. Phaeton helped get them back.” How fearless and heroic Phaeton was, when he wanted to be. The thought caused a smile. “It’s rather a long story.”
In daylight the Nightshades’ robes actually had the appearance of long traveling coats. America noticed the split in Ruby’s cloak and had to ask. “Please forgive my rudeness, but I must know what you wear under those robes.”
Ruby blushed at the question but she unbuttoned her cloak. “I suppose you’d call these ladies’ trousers—a bit less fabric than pantaloons.” Underneath she wore a gray waistcoat over a dark, high collared shirt.
America leaned closer. “My word, those trousers look wonderfully comfortable.”
“I miss dressing up in gowns.” Ruby shrugged and closed up the robe. “Sometimes.”
“But not the corsets and bustles,” America teased.
Valentine and Ruby laughed, and Cutter winked. “You won’t hear much complaint from Jersey and me—especially during martial arts practice.”
“You train together?” Just as America asked the question, the carriage pulled up alongside a notorious shooting range establishment called Fairyland. Cutter studied the buildings to each side. “Pitt Brothers Machine Works can’t be far off.” He pulled his hood down and exited the carriage. “Wait for my signal.”
Ruby kept a lookout street side, while she and Valentine watched Cutter disappear inside the building next to the shooting range.
A sudden downpour of spring rain broke the silence inside the coach. The patter of drops on the roof was soothing somehow—something natural and real in her increasingly unreal world.
America squinted at a sign in a third-floor window. “Pitt Brothers—patentees and manufactures of the . . .” She wiped a bit of condensation off the window. “New and improved ‘Princess’ lock stitch sewing machine.”
Ruby snorted. “Not bloody likely.”
The sky had darkened considerably during the cloud burst. There were few passersby on the sidewalk—just one man, standing under a shop awning. America eased back from the window just as a bolt of lightning flashed past the carriage and struck the lone man full force, knocking him back against the building.
Horrified, America stared openmouthed as the poor bloke slumped over. A black cloud of particles, much like a swarm of bees, drifted up out of the body. So, he wasn’t an ordinary man—and that bolt of lightning had been deliberately fired at him. A shadow of movement raced toward them—Cutter was running for the coach.
“Take us round to Star Yard.” She recognized the raspy shout to the driver as the carriage lurched off. A loud thump and dip in the back meant that Cutter had jumped onto the footman’s perch of the town coach.
The carriage quickly picked up speed on Holborn, but slowed on the turn down Chancery Lane. They came to a jerking halt in front of
But how to tell him? The last time they had discussed children, he had made it perfectly clear he wished no child of his brought into the world. One who might suffer the same fiendish terrors and aberrations of his youth. Or his life.
“America is a beautiful name—of course you must be American ?” Ruby’s question brought her back from her worries.
She nodded. “American mother, British father.”
“She doesn’t sound American.” Ever vigilant, Cutter dipped his head to see more of the street on his side of the carriage. “She sounds . . . British, with a hint of island in her. Barbados, possibly?”
America smiled. “French Creole. I was raised in New Orleans, until my mother handed me off to my father; he was a sea captain. Eventually, he started a merchant shipping business—we were quite prosperous until he died last year. A nefarious business partner schemed to steal his ships away. Phaeton helped get them back.” How fearless and heroic Phaeton was, when he wanted to be. The thought caused a smile. “It’s rather a long story.”
In daylight the Nightshades’ robes actually had the appearance of long traveling coats. America noticed the split in Ruby’s cloak and had to ask. “Please forgive my rudeness, but I must know what you wear under those robes.”
Ruby blushed at the question but she unbuttoned her cloak. “I suppose you’d call these ladies’ trousers—a bit less fabric than pantaloons.” Underneath she wore a gray waistcoat over a dark, high collared shirt.
America leaned closer. “My word, those trousers look wonderfully comfortable.”
“I miss dressing up in gowns.” Ruby shrugged and closed up the robe. “Sometimes.”
“But not the corsets and bustles,” America teased.
Valentine and Ruby laughed, and Cutter winked. “You won’t hear much complaint from Jersey and me—especially during martial arts practice.”
“You train together?” Just as America asked the question, the carriage pulled up alongside a notorious shooting range establishment called Fairyland. Cutter studied the buildings to each side. “Pitt Brothers Machine Works can’t be far off.” He pulled his hood down and exited the carriage. “Wait for my signal.”
Ruby kept a lookout street side, while she and Valentine watched Cutter disappear inside the building next to the shooting range.
A sudden downpour of spring rain broke the silence inside the coach. The patter of drops on the roof was soothing somehow—something natural and real in her increasingly unreal world.
America squinted at a sign in a third-floor window. “Pitt Brothers—patentees and manufactures of the . . .” She wiped a bit of condensation off the window. “New and improved ‘Princess’ lock stitch sewing machine.”
Ruby snorted. “Not bloody likely.”
The sky had darkened considerably during the cloud burst. There were few passersby on the sidewalk—just one man, standing under a shop awning. America eased back from the window just as a bolt of lightning flashed past the carriage and struck the lone man full force, knocking him back against the building.
Horrified, America stared openmouthed as the poor bloke slumped over. A black cloud of particles, much like a swarm of bees, drifted up out of the body. So, he wasn’t an ordinary man—and that bolt of lightning had been deliberately fired at him. A shadow of movement raced toward them—Cutter was running for the coach.
“Take us round to Star Yard.” She recognized the raspy shout to the driver as the carriage lurched off. A loud thump and dip in the back meant that Cutter had jumped onto the footman’s perch of the town coach.
The carriage quickly picked up speed on Holborn, but slowed on the turn down Chancery Lane. They came to a jerking halt in front of
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