“I ain’t interested in that bit of your education, girl. He taught you skills far more valuable to me.”
She could hold her own against a lot of people in a fight, but not Uncle Silas. He was far bigger than she was. And he was as cold as an icehouse in December, too well acquainted with death to be bothered by the possibility causing it. Among the Kincaids, loyalty was demanded, but love didn’t exist.
“You’re wasting your breath,” she said. “I want none of that life.”
“You’re a cleaning woman at a wax museum. You grunge up coins to buy carrots on the street. We can offer you far more.”
She knew the Kincaids’ purse was heavier than usual, but she didn’t mean to tip her hand. “The resurrection game ain’t never made a Kincaid wealthy.”
“We’re in fine feather, girl,” he said, crowing a bit. “Could be in finer still iffen we had more skilled hands.”
Gemma shifted her knife, keeping it fight-ready. “These hands won’t never be put to that work again.”
Far from intimidated, he pulled out his own knife, a sinister, self-assured smile tipping his mouth. “Think you’re above us now, do you?” He spun the knife casually. “You ain’t never been worth a groat without a shovel in your hand. You’ll be taking it up again.”
“Take yourself off, Silas. I ain’t going nowhere.”
“I can be very persuasive,” he drawled.
From behind Gemma came a welcome and familiar voice filled with the sound of Ireland. “I think you’ll be discovering, sir, that we can be quite persuasive ourselves.” Móirín’s presence would tip the balance.
But Móirín hadn’t come alone. Parkington walked beside her, looking as menacing as she did. His focus was on Uncle Silas, and his expression held unwavering determination. Gemma had known a few bobbies in her time; this one still worried her a little. He seemed to have a good heart, but there was no doubt he could be fearsome.
Her uncle eyed the two of them, then looked back to Gemma. “We know where you work, mop, and we know the streets you frequent. You’ll be seeing us again.”
He pocketed his chiv once more, then tugged his oil-stained, mud-encrusted jacket and tipped his green hat. Rather than walking back in the direction he’d come, he stepped to the pavement and hopped over a wrought-iron fence into the churchyard. Quick as a flash, he was gone.
Móirín and Parkington reached her in the next moment.
“Did he hurt you?” the policeman asked.
“He hadn’t had a chance to,” Gemma said. “I suspect he would’ve in another minute or so.”
Móirín was eyeing Gemma’s knife. “You hold that like you know how to use it.”
Gemma returned it to her pocket. With familiarity borne of practice, she slipped it into its sheath sight unseen. “That were my uncle Silas. He’d kill a person soon as look at ’im.”
“Never you fear, Gemma,” Móirín said. “We’ve a high-and-mighty blue-bottle with us.” She hooked her finger in Parkington’s direction. “Never safer than when you’re with a policeman.”
“One of these days, Móirín Donnelly,” Parkington said, “you’ll confess I’m a fine person.”
“Do you mean to make the same confession about me?”
He shook his head. “I’ve a strict policy against lying.”
“And I’ve a strict policy against being too friendly with Peelers, so seems we’re at an impasse.”
Parkington dipped his head in her direction, then turned and left.
“Why is it you dislike him?” Gemma asked.
“I don’t.” Móirín tossed that out like it made perfect sense. “But ’tis a fun thing indeed watching him go red around the ears.”
With a laugh, she nudged Gemma toward the open street. Together, they walked a roundabout way to Sackville Street and Piccadilly and then inside the flat.
Gemma made her way directly to her room. She sat on the low pallet and emptied her pockets of the knife she’d not had to use and the carrots she’d forgotten she had. Lastly, she pulled out the papers Peter had given her. She unfolded them, carefully, nervously.
The top was a letter of recommendation. It tossed out a heap of lukewarm praise like an employer often gave an adequateservant. The letter said she’d be a good pick for whatever position she applied for as she worked hard and didn’t cause mischief. The letter identified her as Kate Mitchell. She’d need to call herself that after leaving London.