Standish coughed into his fist. “I shall assume you will be in contact with me.”
“And Rachel.”
Standish coughed again. “Yes. Of course. I can leave a message for you-”
“With Rachel or the Evening Mirror.” Poe turned his attention back to Dearborn.
Rachel saw Eddy frown as he observed Hugh Larney reach out and pat the child’s knee. Eddy and Hugh Larney had not said much to each other, giving Rachel the distinct impression of mutual hostility. She found Larney weak, offering only surface charm and the self-serving efforts of the devoted social climber. If he and Eddy disliked each other, it was because Eddy was the more honest man. Or was it because of Dearborn Lapham. Dear God, what a horrible thought! Both men somehow involved with this beautiful child, this child who appeared far more knowing than her years warranted. No, such a thing was unimaginable. Eddy would not-
Eddy. She’d sent a note to him at the Evening Mirror, apologizing for the horrid things she’d said to him yesterday, inviting him to call upon her as soon as possible. He had done so, still in the company of the stern-looking Mr. Figg. She had been deeply sorry for what she’d done and Eddy, dear Eddy, he had been a gentle, forgiving man, making her feel as though nothing had occurred, telling her she was ever on his mind, in his thoughts. Dear Eddy. He was the only man since Justin that she had wanted to be with, talk to, had looked forward to seeing.
If he disliked Hugh Larney, so be it. Rachel watched Hugh Larney cross his legs, fingers toying with Dearborn’s waist-length blonde hair. Larney’s niece. Rachel wasn’t so sure about that.
She saw Poe’s brow furrow and she knew he did not like the idea of Larney touching the child. Larney smiled as though Poe’s displeasure had been his goal all along.
The food merchant, never one to miss an opportunity to parade his possessions, leaned his head back, staring at Poe through slitted eyes. “Mr. Poe, I ask you: Do you believe Dearborn has a chance of becoming a successful performer. I myself have a rather personal view of how well she performs but I wonder how you feel about her chances to succeed in a field you seem to know so much about.”
Figg thought: He’s baiting you, mate. Catch it early on and handle it. But you won’t, will you? You’ll let him set fire to you, which is what he’s tryin’ to do.
Poe said nothing. He looked down at his black coat, stroking its lapels with his thumbs.
Larney said, “You are a critic, sir. Surely you can venture an opinion in this matter.”
Standish stepped away from the fire. “I think we should be leaving, Hugh. We have learned what we came here to learn, which is that there has been no contact between-”
“Mr. Poe.” Larney smirked, a hand kneading Dearborn’s neck. “Give us your opinion, sir.”
Poe, chin on his chest, looked across at Larney with brooding gray eyes that penetrated anything in their path. Rachel held her breath, fearful of what was to come.
Fool, thought Standish. We came here to learn how to reach him so that we could kill him and you, Larney, have to challenge him. Dolt. Ninny. Baboon. There are not words enough for you, Larney. Standish, with Thor on his mind, kept silent.
Larney said, “Mr. Poe, you are usually a gentleman of no hesitancy when it comes to revealing your impressions of the world around you. Yet now, you hesitate and methinks you are in awe of Dearborn’s, oh let us call them, possibilities.”
Poe’s drawl was soft and deadly. “You sand your sugar, you sell tea composed of wood shavings and dried leaves-”
Larney’s hand froze on Dearborn’s neck.
Poe said, “The butter you sell is rag pulp and lard. One could make a towel from it.”
Larney’s voice was soft, too. “I have taken all I intend to from you. I shall go to the door and when I have called Thor-”
Figg said, “That would be your manservant, the one whats in the cold talkin’ to the gent in the fancy red fur.”
Larney said nothing.
Figg stood up. “Leave him be, Mr. Larney. Let him enjoy the fresh air.”
Standish stepped between the two men. “Gentlemen, please remember where you are!”
Larney swiveled around on the leather couch until he could see Figg. “Sir, are you addressing me?”
Figg said, “I don’t wants no trouble ‘ere. But you call your man into this ‘ouse to harm Mr. Poe and the first thing I shall do is deal with you, Mr. Larney.”
Larney inhaled, exhaled, not moving a muscle. When he stood up, his back was to Figg. “Mrs. Coltman. Miles, we shall wait for you in the carriage. Do not bother to show me out.”
Rachel, her face tense, walked over to him. “I shall have a servant give you your coat and the child’s wrap.”
As Larney turned to leave the room, Poe said. “You seek recognition, sir. It is the talk of Gotham, your courting of your betters. Your search for accommodation among the respectful is tantamount to sprinkling rose petals on a dung heap.”
Larney stopped, his back to everyone in the room. He held both of Dearborn’s hands. Then he continued walking until he’d closed the study door behind him.
Rachel looked at Poe. “Oh, Eddy. Did you have to do that?”
“I did. And I shall live with it.” He looked at Figg, then looked away.
Miles Standish coughed. “I must go.” Poe deserved killing. Larney would only reaffirm that now and Miles was glad. For once, he was glad that Poe had opened his insulting mouth. He’d just dug his grave with it. Larney would never forgive these insults.
As Rachel stood alone in front of the fireplace, hugging herself, Poe and Figg stood at the window looking out at Larney, Volney Gunning and Miles Standish as they leaned close together and talked in the cold, sending steamed breath into each other’s face.
Poe spoke in a small, sad whisper while he stared at them. “That lovely child is Larney’s whore, Mr. Figg, a most lamentable business. Once or twice I have seen the two of them from a distance. However, to be in her company magnifies greatly my discomfort regarding any claim of Larney upon her.”
“You has men in the world, Mr. Poe, what fancies little girls. Never seen the appeal in it meself.”
“This little girl is a startling reminder of my late wife when she was that same age.”
Figg scratched his bulldog chin with the back of a blackened thumbnail. “Wondered why you was diggin’ at that little fop, Larney. He seems to place great store by that huge blackamoor what drives him around. I know the look of men who do bodily harm and the big black fits into that selection. Anyway, you best keep your mind on things at hand. We gots to look up them Renaissance Players-”
“You do, Mr. Figg. I shall point you in the right direction, but the business of slaying I leave to you.” Poe watched Miles Standish climb into his carriage and reach for the reins.
“Fair enough, Mr. Poe. Sun comes up, sun goes down and what happens in between ain’t usually worth what you scrape off the bottom of yer boot. Things is bad in the world, always has been. Change ’em and you only make ’em worse. I know you worries over women like a mother hen but I have the feelin’ that this little girl whats with Larney can handle herself.”
“I do not want Larney to have her.”
“From where I sits he already does.”
A vein throbbed on Poe’s high, wide forehead. Figg watched the writer and slowly shook his head. Little Mr. Poe getting himself all worked up over a tiny judy. You’d have thought God died and left him in charge of the welfare of all the ladies in the world. Beatin’ his breast, sobbin’, gettin’ a lump in his throat every time a petticoat and laced boots come strollin’ by. Hope the rest of the bleedin’ men in bleedin’ New York ain’t like this.
When Hugh Larney’s carriage, with the huge Thor sitting up top on the driver’s seat, pulled away onto snow covered Fifth Avenue, Poe let the green curtain fall into place and turned to look at Figg.