Chapter 9

I can't help but sneak a glance at Tommy's face.

He's pulled the car over on the side of the road, nothing but moorland and quiet roads before us. Spangles is tied to the fence shortly past the trees, a spot where my sneaking around can't be discovered.

I pass Tommy the list of Spiegler's clients and he reads it intently, brow slightly furrowed in concentration.

I take in his side profile. The curve of his nose, the sharp line of his jaw, the trenches below his cheekbones. His eyelashes as he blinks. The way his neck perfectly meets the base of his jaw —

I haul myself back to my senses. "Anything interesting?" I ask, suddenly finding myself very absorbed in literally anything that isn't inside the car.

"They're all fake," he says.

My mouth drops in surprise. "What?" If we went through all that to get a list that isn't even real...

"The businesses. None of them exist. Except," he points at a line near the bottom of the page, "for one. Horton's Pleasure House."

"Of course you'd know that," I mutter.

He doesn't look at me as he replies evenly. "I'm not a patron, Kimber, I'm using common sense. The worker in the shop referred to special services, and there's no way Spiegler's a legitimate business. It's a money laundering front for a brothel."

I turn this information over in my mind. I can't imagine Tommy's lying. It seems an oddly specific, and colourful, way to go about it.  "You're certain?"

"No." He looks directly at me with those blazing eyes. "But I've given you enough to be getting on with."

It takes me a moment to take the hint. "You're breaking up the partnership?" I ask, scowling. Again, he'll use me to get what he wants, then cast me aside.

Though it hasn't been an entirely uneven transaction. I doubt I would have survived the ordeal at Spiegler's house without him.

"You helped me at the store. I'm helping you now. Consider us even." He tries to pocket the list.

"Give me that." I snatch it from him, scanning it myself. But it makes sense. Most of the addresses aren't real — at least I've never heard of them. Nor have I heard of a single business.

"May the best man win," Tommy says curtly, drawing from a cigarette. A cue for me to leave.

But then a thought occurs to me, and I release a quiet laugh. "Our next lead means infiltrating a strip club and brothel, and you think you have the advantage?" I don't miss the way his jaw tightens as my words sink in. "Oh no, Thomas Shelby. May the best woman win this one."

And I leave the car, climbing over the fence to Spangles. Toby will be mad I took her — I assume it interfered with her strict training schedule while he readies her for the races — but there's no other horse to ride, and my father would rather live as a pauper than allow me my own transport.

But all this sneaking around keeps taking me further and further afield from my home on the outskirts of Coventry. I'll need to find a more permanent solution.

***

I slip from the saddle in a neat dismount as I weave along the driveway through the trees, hoping I'll look less conspicuous if I lead her back to the stables. The property's quiet. Birdsong in the air, no shouting or muttering or cars roaring to life. I suppose everyone must be busy with the thieving bookies still.

I supposed wrong.

A big, beefy guard bears down on me as soon as I break through the rustling trees. He clamps down on my arm, so tight I can already feel the bruising beneath his fingers. A wince breaks over my face at the pain.

"Found her," he calls out to the front of the house, where two more guards stand waiting. "Tell Billy."

"Get your hands off me!" I insist, twisting and trying to tug myself free from his grip. If only I'd kept the fucking hammer.

But my attempts at attacking the guard are no more successful than a fly buzzing around an elephant, and he drags me all the way to my father's office without issue. The heels of my riding boots scuff along the floor, my wind-tangled hair matted about my face.

"Careful, miss," he warns me, knocking on the large mahogany double-doors. "Your father's in a bad mood. I wouldn't anger him further."

"Oh. But I would," I spit, shoving the doors open without waiting to be asked in.

My father's office never changes much. Gleaming desk, velvet armchairs, pretentious artwork on the walls. His bookcases contain no novels, only history books and diagrams of different guns. There are a few books about horses I can remember perusing as a child, taking care not to get caught. I'll be in trouble. I have that same, sinking feeling now as he glares at me with all his wrath.

"Where the fuck have you been?" He snaps before I can say anything.

I clasp my hands behind my back. I will not lose my temper. I will not give him a reason to burn me again.

"Good afternoon, Father. Lovely to see you too."

He jabs at me with his pointer finger. "Don't fuck around with me today, girl, I'm not in the mood. You've got five seconds to start talking."

I count slowly to five in my head before answering, while his face turns a deeper shade of purple. "I took Spangles for a walk."

"For five fucking hours?" he asks. "While my Boys were screaming your name?"

I could very well make a comment about boys screaming my name, but decide not to voice them in present company.

"We went out to the moors," I say instead. "Toby says you plan to race her. I wanted one last trek."

"Yeah, I do plan to fucking race her. Plans that'll be thwarted if she's injured, maimed, or stolen."

I suck in a breath. Controlling my temper and swallowing my pride. "You're right," I say. "It won't happen again. I apologise."

But that isn't good enough for him. Clearly, he doesn't give a fuck about Spangles. He doesn't care if I apologise. He won't be satisfied until I'm absolutely miserable. "And you're not to leave this house."

I stare at him in outrage. "What?"

"I'm tightening security measures round the place. Alfie Solomon reckons the London gangs might be behind them bookies. Probably the gypsies' fucking guns, too."

"Don't call them that," I say sharply, too sharply, before I know what I'm doing.

Father narrows his eyes. Shit.

"Where did you go on this trek, then?" He asks.

"I told you. Across the moors."

"For more than five hours?"

"I lost track of time."

He considers my words for a moment, then nods towards my sleeve. "What's all that, then?"

I glance down. Spots of blood, remnants of attacking the thug with the hammer.

"I found an injured bird," I lie easily. "Had to put it out of its misery."

Father stands. He strides across the room, and for a moment I fear the worst, that he will inspect my sleeve more closely.

Instead he throws out his arm, and a resounding blow collides with the side of my face. Searing pain erupts through my skull as I gasp for air, thrown backwards. My cheekbone feels like it snapped beneath his knuckles, and blood trickles from a split in my lip. I can't work out how he managed to damage me so badly, until I remember his signet ring. That did all the work for him.

"You lie to me again, you'll be sleeping in a stable covered in horse shit," he hisses into my ear.

Retorts spring to my lips, but I swallow them down. They'll do no good now, and if he gets much angrier... well, I've seen the injuries he inflicted on my mother. I'm in no hurry to endure them.

"Get the fuck out of my sight," he hisses.

I'm all too happy to oblige.

I take the stairs to my room. And as I sit on the floorboards, wincing and dabbing tenderly at my injuries, I can't help but wish I was still out on the moors with Tommy. He might be a prick, but he doesn't punch me. Doesn't burn me with cigars.

I wonder what it says about me, that I find more comfort in my enemy than in my own home. I decide not to think about, and instead, to plan my next move.