that case, how are we to sort out the matter of the inheritance?”
Robert took her hand in his and patted it gently, but not reassuringly.
“As a family, cousin. As a family.”
Chapter Seven
London
The removal of Jones and his gang had greatly improved the Old Jago Pub. Luka was almost inclined to find it pleasant, despite the stale air and the smell of cheap beer. And within easy reach of Osborne Court, it was an ideal base of operations. At Luka’s insistence, the barman had even agreed to stock a private supply of decent wine. Luka had to pay for it, of course, but he didn’t mind. The funds that Doctor Varanus had left behind for him were more than enough to pay for both his needs and his caprices.
That evening, Luka sat in silence at the table he had chosen for his own—one backed into a corner with an easy view of both the bar and the door—sipping a glass of claret and reading a daily newspaper. The news was lurid and debauched, but at least it was in keeping with Luka’s surroundings. The papers might try to sensationalize crime, but in the East End it took very little effort.
Luka glanced up as he sensed someone approach the table. It was Bates, whose band of local toughs Luka had seen fit to employ as observers. There was only so much he could see and do himself. It helped to have some of the local color willing to do the looking and listening for him. Bates steadied himself with a tall stick as he limped across the taproom.
“Yes, Bates?” Luka asked, lowering his paper.
“Trouble, Mister Luka,” Bates said. “It’s Jones’s boys. They’re back.”
Luka growled a little. That was irritating, but it had only been a matter of time. It was surprising they had taken a full week to return, but they had probably needed that long to reinforce and recover after the beating they had received.
“Where are they?” Luka asked, maintaining an air of calm. It wouldn’t do to panic his underlings. Bates’s boys had run afoul of Jones’s Old Jago gang in the past, and they were instinctively nervous.
“That’s the trouble,” Bates said. “They’re ’eaded toward Osborne Court. I think they mean to do the Doctor a mischief.”
“The Doctor isn’t present tonight,” Luka said. “She is away from the city on business.”
“Not that doctor,” Bates said. “The other doctor. With the beard.”
That was right, Luka thought. Varanus had asked that friend of hers, Doctor Constantine, to mind the clinic in her absence. She would be angry if something happened to him. Of course, she would be equally angry if the clinic were damaged, so it made little difference.
“Well done, Bates,” Luka said. He drained the remainder of his wine and set the glass down on the table. Standing, he said, “Stay here and rest your leg. In ten minutes, send a couple of your boys around to watch the clinic.”
Should have put a guard on it yesterday, he thought.
“Ten minutes?” Bates asked. “Oughtn’t I to send ’em ’round with you?”
“I require no assistance,” Luka replied. “But I want them to guard the place when I am not there. I have a whole neighborhood to watch. I cannot be everywhere at once.”
Bates nodded and said, “’Course, Mister Luka.”
“Barman!” Luka shouted, snapping his fingers. “Bring my friend here a glass of whatever he wants.”
Luka walked quickly to the door and stepped outside. It was still light out but only just, and the smoke in the air made the looming shadows that much worse. Turning up the collar of his long leather coat and tipping the brim of his shabby top hat down over his eyes, he began moving along the edge of the street in the direction of Osborne Court. He walked as fast as was possible without drawing undue attention to himself. There was no telling if more of Jones’s men were lurking along the path, and he could not afford to be delayed.
He reached Osborne Court in only a few minutes, hopefully little enough time that Jones’s men would not have started their work. As he turned down the passage leading into the court, Luka saw a handful of men, led by his old friend with the bad smile. They were all bruised and cut, but after a week of recuperation, it seemed their injuries now did little but anger them. They had formed in a cluster around the door of the clinic, their entry barred by the diminutive figure of Doctor Constantine, who stood in the doorway impeccably dressed, one hand resting on the top of his walking stick, and looked at them like a Roman general gazing with disdain upon the barbarian hordes.
Luka approached with quiet steps. It was like stalking game, but with less cover and less challenge.
“This is a private clinic,” Constantine said, his tone measured. “If you are not here for aid, I must ask you to leave. You are disturbing my neighbors.”
“Shut yer face,” the lead ruffian said. “Where’s the frog?”
“Doctor Sauvage is away on business,” Constantine replied. “Possibly for a considerable amount of time. Perhaps I may relay a message for you? If you would care to give me your calling card, I will make certain to pass it along when she returns.”
The ruffian scowled and snapped, “I don’t take kindly ta toffs like ya talkin’ down ta me.”
Constantine was doing a wonderful job of antagonizing the men, Luka thought, but at least he was keeping their attention. Luka continued his careful advance. One of them men turned his head and coughed, and Luka quickly stepped away to avoid being seen.
“I don’t much care what you take kindly to,” Constantine said. “You are no longer welcome here. Be gone.”
The ruffian looked at his fellows and they all shared a laugh. He turned back to Constantine and pulled a knife out of his pocket.
“Try no’ ta make too much noise, yeah?” he said. “Don’ wan’ ta disturb ya neighbors, eh?”
Luka knew that he couldn’t reach Constantine in time—Varanus would be disappointed—but at least he had reached the two men at the back of the group. He grabbed them each by the ear and smashed their heads together. Their bodies jerked and shuddered, and they dropped to the ground where they lay motionless. They would probably live, though alive or dead made little difference to Luka.
Ahead, the leader rushed at Constantine, knife raised. Well, Luka thought, that’s the end of him.
But, to Luka’s great surprise, it wasn’t. As the ruffian came at him, Constantine tossed his walking stick into the air, caught it, and swung. The large metal head connected soundly with the ruffian’s jaw and knocked him sideways. He stumbled and ran headlong into the wall. Constantine swept his foot out from beneath him with another swing of the walking stick, and the ruffian hit the ground hard, spitting blood as he did.
Two men remained. One turned to look to his leader while the second rushed at Luka. Evading the man’s sloppy punches, Luka bobbed back and forth for a moment, enjoying the thrill of the exercise. Then, tiring of the game, he caught the man by the collar and punched him once, twice, three times in the stomach before throwing him to the ground. The last man, now caught between the two men who had laid low his comrades, hesitated for a moment before bolting for the street. Luka let him go.
“And don’t come back!” Constantine shouted. He advanced toward Luka, prodding the men on the ground in passing. “Come along, on your feet,” he barked at them. “Clear off! I won’t have you hanging about the place when I have patients to attend to.” Reaching Luka, Constantine gave him a quick appraising look and nodded. “Neatly done.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Luka said, nodding. “And you.”
“It was nothing,” Constantine said. “Had you not come along,