Devil in Spring
Page 74
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“Oh.” A smile spread across Pandora’s face. “I like that much better. I’ll call you Dragon.”
His brows lowered. “It’s Drago.”
“Yes, but if we add that one extra letter, people would always know how to pronounce it, and more importantly, everyone likes dragons.”
“I don’t want to be liked.”
With that coal-black hair and his dark eyes—and the way he looked just now, as if he were actually capable of breathing fire—the nickname was so perfect as to be sublime. “Won’t you at least consider—” Pandora began.
“No.”
She stared at him speculatively. “If you shaved off your beard, would you turn out to be improbably handsome?”
The quick change of subject seemed to throw him slightly off balance. “No.”
“Well, in any case, footmen can’t have beards. I think it’s the law.”
“It’s not the law.”
“It’s tradition, however,” she said wisely, “and going against tradition is almost like breaking the law.”
“Coachman has a beard,” Drago pointed out.
“Yes, coachmen can have them, but footmen can’t. I’m afraid you’ll have to get rid of it. Unless . . .”
His eyes narrowed as he realized she was going in for the coup de grâce. “Unless?”
“I would be willing to overlook your inappropriate facial foliage,” Pandora offered, “if you let me call you Dragon. If you don’t, the beard goes.”
“The beard stays,” he snapped.
“Very well.” Pandora gave him a satisfied smile. “I’ll need the carriage ready at two o’clock, Dragon. That will be all for now.”
He gave her a surly nod and began to leave, but he stopped at the threshold as Pandora spoke again. “There’s one more thing I want to ask. Do you like wearing livery?” Dragon turned to face her. At his long hesitation, Pandora said, “I have a reason for asking.”
“No, I don’t like it. Too much cloth flying about—” He flipped the skirted hem of the livery coat contemptuously. “And up top, it’s cut too tight to let a man move his arms properly.” Glancing down at himself, he said in disgust, “Bright colors. Gold braid. I look like a great peacock.”
Pandora gave him a sympathetic glance. “The fact is,” she said earnestly, “you’re not really a footman, you’re a bodyguard who sometimes performs the duties of a footman. Inside the house, while you’re assisting the butler with dinner and all that, I’m sure they’ll insist on livery. But whenever you accompany me outside the house, I think it would be best if you wore your own clothes, as befitting a private bodyguard.” She paused before adding frankly, “I’ve seen the way street urchins and ruffians taunt liveried servants, especially in the more common parts of town. There’s no need to subject you to such annoyances.”
His shoulders relaxed slightly. “Yes, milady.” Before he turned away, she could have sworn that a faint smile had stirred within the depths of his beard.
The man who accompanied Pandora out to her carriage was a far different version of Dragon than the awkward footman bound up in livery. He moved with easy confidence in a suit consisting of a well-cut black coat and trousers, and a dark gray waistcoat. The beard that had looked so out of place on a footman now seemed appropriate. One might have even said he looked dashing, were he not so charmless. But then, dragons weren’t supposed to be charming.
“Where do you wish to go, milady?” Dragon asked, after he let down the step of the carriage.
“O’Cairre Print Works, on Farringdon Street.”
He gave her a sharp glance. “In Clerkenwell?”
“Yes. It’s in the Farringdon Works building, behind the—”
“There are three prisons in Clerkenwell.”
“There are also flower-sellers, candle-makers, and other respectable businesses. The area is being reclaimed.”
“By thieves and Irishmen,” Dragon said darkly as Pandora ascended into the carriage. He handed in the leather valise stuffed with papers, sketches, and game prototypes, and she set it on the seat beside her. After closing the carriage door, he went to sit up top with the driver.
Pandora had pored over a list of printers before narrowing down her choices to the final three. O’Cairre Print Works was of special interest because the proprietor happened to be a widow who had run the business since her husband’s death. Pandora liked the idea of supporting other women in business.
Clerkenwell was hardly the most dangerous place in London, although its reputation had been tarnished by a prison bombing nine years ago. The Fenians, a secret society fighting for the cause of Irish self-government, had unsuccessfully tried to free one of their members by blowing a hole in a prison wall, resulting in the deaths of twelve people and injuries to scores of others. It had resulted in a public backlash and resentment against the Irish that had been slow to fade. Which was a shame, in Pandora’s opinion, since the hundred thousand peaceful Irish-born residents of London shouldn’t be punished for the actions of a few.
Once a respectable middle-class area that had fallen to hard times, Clerkenwell bristled with tall, densely crowded buildings sandwiched between tumbledown properties. New road construction would someday ease the warren of congested alleys, but for now the ongoing work had created a series of detours that made parts of Farringdon Street difficult to access. Fleet Ditch, a river that had devolved into a sewer, had been covered by the roadway, but its ominous slushing could occasionally be heard—and unfortunately smelled—through grids in the pavement. The rumbles and whistling of trains cut through the air as they approached the temporary terminus of the Farringdon Street station and a large goods depot that had been built by the railway company.
His brows lowered. “It’s Drago.”
“Yes, but if we add that one extra letter, people would always know how to pronounce it, and more importantly, everyone likes dragons.”
“I don’t want to be liked.”
With that coal-black hair and his dark eyes—and the way he looked just now, as if he were actually capable of breathing fire—the nickname was so perfect as to be sublime. “Won’t you at least consider—” Pandora began.
“No.”
She stared at him speculatively. “If you shaved off your beard, would you turn out to be improbably handsome?”
The quick change of subject seemed to throw him slightly off balance. “No.”
“Well, in any case, footmen can’t have beards. I think it’s the law.”
“It’s not the law.”
“It’s tradition, however,” she said wisely, “and going against tradition is almost like breaking the law.”
“Coachman has a beard,” Drago pointed out.
“Yes, coachmen can have them, but footmen can’t. I’m afraid you’ll have to get rid of it. Unless . . .”
His eyes narrowed as he realized she was going in for the coup de grâce. “Unless?”
“I would be willing to overlook your inappropriate facial foliage,” Pandora offered, “if you let me call you Dragon. If you don’t, the beard goes.”
“The beard stays,” he snapped.
“Very well.” Pandora gave him a satisfied smile. “I’ll need the carriage ready at two o’clock, Dragon. That will be all for now.”
He gave her a surly nod and began to leave, but he stopped at the threshold as Pandora spoke again. “There’s one more thing I want to ask. Do you like wearing livery?” Dragon turned to face her. At his long hesitation, Pandora said, “I have a reason for asking.”
“No, I don’t like it. Too much cloth flying about—” He flipped the skirted hem of the livery coat contemptuously. “And up top, it’s cut too tight to let a man move his arms properly.” Glancing down at himself, he said in disgust, “Bright colors. Gold braid. I look like a great peacock.”
Pandora gave him a sympathetic glance. “The fact is,” she said earnestly, “you’re not really a footman, you’re a bodyguard who sometimes performs the duties of a footman. Inside the house, while you’re assisting the butler with dinner and all that, I’m sure they’ll insist on livery. But whenever you accompany me outside the house, I think it would be best if you wore your own clothes, as befitting a private bodyguard.” She paused before adding frankly, “I’ve seen the way street urchins and ruffians taunt liveried servants, especially in the more common parts of town. There’s no need to subject you to such annoyances.”
His shoulders relaxed slightly. “Yes, milady.” Before he turned away, she could have sworn that a faint smile had stirred within the depths of his beard.
The man who accompanied Pandora out to her carriage was a far different version of Dragon than the awkward footman bound up in livery. He moved with easy confidence in a suit consisting of a well-cut black coat and trousers, and a dark gray waistcoat. The beard that had looked so out of place on a footman now seemed appropriate. One might have even said he looked dashing, were he not so charmless. But then, dragons weren’t supposed to be charming.
“Where do you wish to go, milady?” Dragon asked, after he let down the step of the carriage.
“O’Cairre Print Works, on Farringdon Street.”
He gave her a sharp glance. “In Clerkenwell?”
“Yes. It’s in the Farringdon Works building, behind the—”
“There are three prisons in Clerkenwell.”
“There are also flower-sellers, candle-makers, and other respectable businesses. The area is being reclaimed.”
“By thieves and Irishmen,” Dragon said darkly as Pandora ascended into the carriage. He handed in the leather valise stuffed with papers, sketches, and game prototypes, and she set it on the seat beside her. After closing the carriage door, he went to sit up top with the driver.
Pandora had pored over a list of printers before narrowing down her choices to the final three. O’Cairre Print Works was of special interest because the proprietor happened to be a widow who had run the business since her husband’s death. Pandora liked the idea of supporting other women in business.
Clerkenwell was hardly the most dangerous place in London, although its reputation had been tarnished by a prison bombing nine years ago. The Fenians, a secret society fighting for the cause of Irish self-government, had unsuccessfully tried to free one of their members by blowing a hole in a prison wall, resulting in the deaths of twelve people and injuries to scores of others. It had resulted in a public backlash and resentment against the Irish that had been slow to fade. Which was a shame, in Pandora’s opinion, since the hundred thousand peaceful Irish-born residents of London shouldn’t be punished for the actions of a few.
Once a respectable middle-class area that had fallen to hard times, Clerkenwell bristled with tall, densely crowded buildings sandwiched between tumbledown properties. New road construction would someday ease the warren of congested alleys, but for now the ongoing work had created a series of detours that made parts of Farringdon Street difficult to access. Fleet Ditch, a river that had devolved into a sewer, had been covered by the roadway, but its ominous slushing could occasionally be heard—and unfortunately smelled—through grids in the pavement. The rumbles and whistling of trains cut through the air as they approached the temporary terminus of the Farringdon Street station and a large goods depot that had been built by the railway company.
