The Ripper Affair

The cousin was a lean foxlike youth, a measure of rust touching his dark curls and no shame in his wide dark eyes. His cloth was indeed flash: a waistcoat very fine but the coat a trifle ill fitting, no doubt bought secondhand. His shoes were not quite fashionable but they were brushed very neatly, and the half-resentful courtesy he afforded the visibly relieved Finch was telling. A watch-chain that had certainly started life in a gentleman’s pocket before being deprived of such surroundings by quick fingers, the dove-grey gloves, and the pomade in his curls all shouted rough lad. The only question was whether he paid for his buggering–or was paid for it.

Just where the line was drawn between an Æsthete (or Decadent, for that matter) and a slightly circumspect Merry-Ann was difficult to tell, since those who affected to live for Arte and Beauty often dressed in imitation of the panthers of St Jemes or Jermyn Street. Often in finer fabric, though the end result was the same.

He passed the first inspection, and Emma motioned them further into the room.

“Mum.” Finch inclined slightly from the waist. “May I present my cousin, Mr Philip Pico?”

The drawing room was not the best setting for this lad. He belonged in one of the taverns the Merry-Anns frequented, or along the docks in the darkness wreathed by yellow greasy fog…

… or in some dark corner of Whitchapel, where the trade was less merry and far more rough. Where a gentleman might go to seek danger to spice his buggery, where the panthers, both of Sodom and murder, prowled.

“Mum.” The young man made the same motion Finch almost had that morning–as if to tug his forelock. He caught himself, and offered her a very proper half-bow.

“How do you do,” Emma murmured, not deigning to offer her hand, and examined him closely.

It was in the feet, she decided. Placed just so, his weight balanced nicely, one slightly forward. The fact that his shoulders were broad–though he was at pains to appear slender–was another indicator. He was not averse to violence, and he was alert.

“Your cousin has no doubt informed you of my requirements.” She nodded slightly, and Finch shuffled away to the sideboard. If she found the lad did not suit, she would give him a drink and send him on his way, with a guinea or two for his trouble.

“Discretion, loyalty, efficiency, so on, so forth.” He chanted it sing-song, and she almost missed the flicker of his gaze towards the door as Mikal entered, noiseless. She did not miss the sudden tension in his left hand.

That is where the knife will be, then. “Yes. You may be amusing, but I do not countenance impoliteness.”

“Your countenance is set very politely, madam.” Quick as a whip, and with a winning smile to boot.

She found herself measuring him against a Neapolitan with a sneer and dirty fingernails, and had to eye him afresh, so she would not find him wanting without reason. “I take pains to preserve it so,” she replied, dryly. “You have no objection to a blood-binding?”

He paled slightly, but set his shoulders. “None at all, mum. He—” A slight tip of his head took in the attentive Finch. “—tells me you do right by those in your service, and that I’m getting too old to molly much more. The gentlemen prefer younger, even with the rough.” A defiant tilt to his chin, watching to see if he could shock her.

Her estimation of his intelligence rose, even though he seemed very young indeed to her. “And just how old are you, Philip?”

“Old ’nough. I don’t enjoy the molly, mum. It’s just easy.”

Ah. She allowed herself to feel cautiously hopeful. “Your enjoyment of such things, or not, holds no interest for me. I wish to know if you are capable of discharging the duties of a minder for my mentath. He requires a companion of a certain… durability, discretion, and capability to deal with Londinium’s nastier areas. I require that you keep his skin whole and your mouth closed on the subject his affairs, and my own, to anyone outside this room. Mr Finch has no doubt negotiated your wages, should you be accepted for the position, and has also given you to understand certain… peculiarities… of said position.”

He waited. Mute and stubborn, giving nothing away.

Very good. “Mikal?”

The Shield was suddenly across the room, locking the young man’s wrist and striking the knife from his grasp. Finch did not move, a curious expression–part distaste, part amusement–flickering over his graven features. The youth actually almost managed to strike Mikal once, but the Shield finished by holding him by his scruff and shaking lightly, before dropping him to hands and knees and stalking away.

Her Shield retook his place by the door. “Amateur.”

Which was high praise indeed, coming from a fully trained Shield. At least he hadn’t said useless.

Emma found herself suddenly weary, and a sour taste had crept into her mouth. “Very well. You shall do, Mr Philip Pico. Do you wish the hire?”