Colleen Gleason - The Clockwork Scarab

We settled in our seats as the man behind the counter brought over two tankards and slapped them onto the table. I caught the strong, bitter scent of ale as its foam sloshed over the top of my mug and wondered if Pix expected me to drink it.

Bilbo glared down at me. “Thought you was lookin’ fer Cap Mago.”

“I was,” I replied in my gruff male voice. “But not anymore.”

“Awright, sonny, then pay up. Five shillings.”

I fumbled through my pouch and produced the money. When Bilbo left us alone, I looked over to find my companion watching me from behind his mug of ale. The expression in his eyes sent a sharp bolt of heat through me. I tore my gaze away as warmth colored my cheeks.

“So ye couldna stay away from me, aye, luv? ’Ad to come searchin’ me out down in th’ stews.” He’d settled his elbows on the table, which brought his face closer to mine. “Were ye lookin’ t’do a bit o’ dabbin’ up wi’ me, then, luv?”

Although I wasn’t certain what the phrase meant, I had a sneaky suspicion it suggested something improper. I wanted to dump my ale on top of his head, but decided he’d probably enjoy that too much. And I did need information from him.

“That must be your fondest wish, considering how many excuses you’ve made to accost me in the last week.” My fingers curled around the mug, and I toyed with the idea of taking a drink.

Pix laughed, low and rumbly, sending pleasant shivers over my skin. “Go a’ead, luv, taste it. Ye paid fer it, din’t ye?”

“I’m not here to socialize.” Blast. I sounded an awful lot like the prim Miss Holmes. “And I certainly don’t intend to get drunk. I need some information.”

“Well, then, luv, ye’ve come to the right place. But I’m feelin’ mighty regretful ye’ ain’t ’ere jus’ ’cuz ye wanted t’swap a bit o’ spit. I promise ye, it’d be a right more excitin’ than turnin’ around a dance floor wi’ a dandy like Richard Dancy.”

So that bothered him did it? I placed my elbows on the sticky table, putting myself close enough to him that I could see the actual whiskers beginning to show along his jawline. In this proximity, even nearer than we’d been while arm wrestling, I became aware of that pleasant, minty scent I’d noticed before. “Right, then, Pix. I’m wondering something.”

“Wot’s that, luv?” A wicked smile twitched the corner of his mouth, making him appear dangerous and delicious at the same time.

“I’m wondering,” I said, forcing my voice to stay light as his eyes focused on mine, “if you have any idea how jealous you sound.” I settled back in my chair as his smile faltered.

Then he chuckled and eased back as well. “All right, then, luv. Ye’ve lammed me twice t’night. Per’aps I’d best take m’lumps and stop now. Wha’ can I do fer ye?”

“You told me you saw some men removing things from the museum the night we met. And that one of them was carrying something long and slender. Can you give me any other information?”

He retrieved his tankard of ale and took a healthy swallow. It looked so good that I reconsidered tasting mine. One sip wouldn’t hurt. I lifted the mug and drank.

Bitter.

Oh, ugh, sharp and bitter!

But then I tasted the nuttiness and the full, rich flavor, and warmth rushed to my belly along with the ale.

His gaze was dark and warm beneath his hat brim. “Right, then, luv. The drink—it takes some gettin’ used to. And so . . . ye want t’know about the thieves. There’s no’ much more t’tell ye, but they were movin’ a ’eavy box. Bigger’n a man. It was goin’ into a large wagon, wi’ no markin’s on it. “

“That’s it?”

He shrugged. “I ’ad other things to be attendin’ to, an’ it ain’t my concern wot them flimps was doin’.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Now that, m’luv, is no concern o’ yours. But I will tell ye I was lookin’ for m’bloke Jemmy. ’E’s gone missin’, and the trail led t’that particklar crib. ’Twas just yer good fortune I ’appened to be there that night.” His teeth flashed again.

I placed the scarab on the table. “Have you seen this before? Or anything like it? Someone tossed it in on a bet tonight, and there have been others found like it, related to . . . to the death of the girl who was found in the museum.”

“I did ’ear ’bout ’at. Sad business.” He picked up the scarab, holding it near the candle, turning it over. He had the perfect hands for a pickpocket: long, dextrous fingers and solid, strong wrists. The thought soured any soft feelings I might have begun to have for Pix. I was here to get information from him, and nothing more. I should not be enjoying his company, his jests and, most definitely, I should not be noticing the shape of his mouth. And the way the corner of it ticked up gently when he was amused. I straightened up in my seat.

“Well?”

“No,” he replied, and handed the scarab back. “But ye say it was in the pot t’night? I can find out.”

He lifted his fingers and gave a sharp, piercing whistle. Immediately, two men detached themselves from a group and approached.

Interesting. Pix, for all his easygoing ways, had respect and stature in this place. It couldn’t be simply that he was the champion of arm wrestling.

By now I’d seen enough of his face to confirm my earlier guess at his age. Twenty, twenty-two at the most. But here was a man who carried authority in a pub of thieves and pickpockets, who could whistle and summon them in an instant. And he could make his way into a Society ball, groomed and dressed like a neat servant who knew his way around the house and his tasks.

He was aptly named after an ever-changing, always on the move, sprite.

I took another sip of ale and didn’t wince at the bitterness this time. I listened as Pix spoke to the newcomers. Their slang-filled cant was English and mostly incomprehensible to me, but I understood he was sending them off to find out who had put the scarab in the pot. After taking a close look at the object, the two men nodded and left the table. I saw them make their way around the pub and assumed they were asking about the talisman.

Pix watched them for a moment, then took a drink. As he lowered the mug, I asked, “Why were you at the Roses Ball, sneaking around in Lady Cosgrove-Pitt’s—”

He covered my hand with his and squeezed, silencing me. “Not s’ loud, luv.”

My interest perked up, for my voice hadn’t gone any louder than before. “What were you after?”

“Now, why would I tell ye that? Ye already know wot I was after. Gewgaws an’ jewels an’ the silver, o’ course. Wha’ever I could stuff in me pockets.”

He was confirming exactly what I suspected, but I didn’t believe him. “You’re lying.”

He tilted his head and looked at me with an odd expression. “Right, there, luv. An’ a bloke’s gonna ’ave some secrets.”

“I suspect you have a multitude of them,” I said. “Like where you hide all the loot you’ve stolen. And who knows what else.”

“On’y me an’ the good Lord know, that’s f’sure.” One of the men approached, and Pix, reading something in his expression, rose to meet him. They spoke for a moment in undertones, then Pix turned back to me and bent over the table. “Yer in luck, darlin’. Ferddie o’er there was the one wot put the coin in the pot. ’E got it from Bad Louie, and—”

“Who’s that?”

“A bloke ye don’ wanna know. ’E’s been stealin’ girls offa the streets fer years. Even ye don’ wan’ ’im catchin’ a glimpse o’ the likes o’ ye, luv. Ye kin trust me on ’at.” His expression was fierce. “Ferddie says Louie’s got ’imself a right purty speck o’ a girl in fine, rich togs stayin’ with ’im. Stayin’ bein’ a kind way o’ puttin’ it, iffen ye get m’meanin’.” He looked at me closely, his voice still low. “Ye wouldna know anythin’ about a missin’ Society gel, would ye?”