My Own True Love (5 page)

"Her father," Toma replied while she racked her brain trying to remember what the word meant.

She didn't suppose this was the time or place to explain the wide gaps in different Romany dialects and that it wasn't exactly her first language anyway. So all she said was, "Hi," when he turned a winning smile on her. She smiled back gratefully, sure that Beng had nothing to do with Toma's showing up to escort her.

"The girl's scared, Cummings," Toma spoke to the guard. "She's never worked for your lot before.

Won't hurt to have one of her own to keep her company."

Cummings grunted in answer. "It's a long way to St. Giles," he said. "You know the missus doesn't like to
linger in her bawdy house too late in the day."

"Dangerous neighborhood," Toma agreed. "No fit place for a virtuous woman."

Cummings looked as if he didn't know whether to be pleased or insulted at the remark. From behind her Sara heard a repressed snort of laughter from Bill.

She tugged on Toma's sleeve. "If it's not fit for a virtuous woman," she whispered, "what am I?" All the things she didn't know were making her nervous.

Toma took her hand in his. It was comfortingly warm, and she could sense his wiry strength. "My lady," he answered reassuringly. "Your father," he added in Romany, "should never let you deal with Mother Cummings alone. He thinks it's all right because she's only a
gajo
woman. When we're married—"

"Toma!" she cut him off. She didn't want to talk about marriage; she wanted to go home. To deflect him from the subject she said, "I don't want to talk in front of the
gajos."

He nodded his understanding and they walked on in silence. Sara welcomed his comforting presence by her side, but she was too cautious and confused to try to explain her predicament to him. The streets were narrow, and the upper stories of the buildings they passed leaned inward, blocking the smoke-filled daylight. Garbage and human waste filled the gutters, giving off an almost visible wall of smell. The people they passed were filthy, furtive, unlike human beings at all, really. Sara began to feel as if she were walking through an endless, reeking tunnel populated by suspicious-eyed wraiths, beggars, and the squalling young of an indeterminate species. The ring had brought her to a fantasy world, but the fantasy was dark and threatening—a Regency novel by Stephen King. In this grim setting she forgot about the sweetness of Toma's kiss, the worshiping look in his eyes, the sure strength of his touch.

"Own true love isn't worth the hassle," she muttered as Cummings came to a halt before a narrow, three-story building. ,

"'Ere we are, darling," Cummings said cheerfully, opening the door. Loud conversation and the concentrated stench of a hundred unwashed bodies spilled out and covered her like a fetid blanket.

By the time she was shown through the low door Sara was shaking with apprehension. Her only consolation was that her sense of smell had finally gone numb with overload. The room was barely lit with smoking lanterns widely spaced along the walls. She noticed a rickety staircase and a great many doors, all of them unpainted and sagging. There were tables and rows of barrels lining one wall. Numb as her nose tried to be, she could still pick out the aromas of sour wine and stale beer.

Mostly she was aware of the thick crowd of people, not as individuals, but as a great wall of obstacles. Cummings plunged into the wall of bodies and plowed through, shouting and thrashing his great arms as he went. She and Toma followed in his wake, with Billy continuing as a rear guard. They were in a back room with the door closed behind them before Sara realized how many of the crowd outside had been hard-eyed girls, some no older than Beth. Cummings had called this place a bawdy house. Surely those girls weren't whores, were they?

She didn't want to think about it.
1811 is not a fun place to be,
she told the ring silently.
You can
take me home any time now.
She tried rubbing her thumb against the stone, hoping to get its attention.

Perhaps, like a genie in a bottle, it needed a little tactile stimulation to get its attention. "I hope you're ticklish," she murmured.

"Someday I'll let you find out," Toma answered.

She jumped, having forgotten her surroundings for the moment. When she looked up Toma was cheerfully grinning at her. She looked quickly away from her charming companion and looked at the room instead. The outer room was bare and shabby; this room was luxurious in contrast. The furnishings included a sphinx-footed table, a pair of gracefully curved chairs, a love seat upholstered in gold brocade. The soft glow of candlelight lit the room. A woman in a high-waisted gown was seated at the table. She had sharp eyes above a prominent nose. Her mouth was pursed in a disapproving frown. Sara was willing to bet their hostess wasn't going to invite anyone to sit down.

"About time," the woman said. She aimed an annoyed look at Cummings. "Did he stop at a flash house along the way?"

"No, Mother Cummings," Billy said quickly. "We come right back."

"Girl didn't want to come," Cummings said. "'Er pa said she's been sick."

"She doesn't look sick to me. Did you ask her why the delay?"

"No, pet," Cummings answered. "You just tol' me to fetch 'er and to try not to turn up 'er skirts. So I didn't, and 'ere we are, my lovely."

Who were these people? Sara wondered. Why were they discussing her as if she weren't in the room? She wondered if anyone would notice if she left.

At that moment, Mother Cummings looked at hei and rapped out, "Well, girl?"

"Well, what?" Sara questioned back. There were gasps of shock from Cummings and Billy.

Apparent™ Mother Cummings was only in the habit of asking rhetorical questions. "What is going on here?" Sara asked. "Who are you? What do you want with—"

"Don't you take that tone with me, gypsy," Mother Cummings cut her off. "I've sent the runners after better than you for forgetting their place. Haven't I, lads?" There was agreeing laughter from Cummings and Billy.

/
really could use a translator,
Sara thought at the ring.

Toma stepped in front of her. "No need to frighten the girl, Mother Cummings," he soothed. "She's biddable. You just tell her what you want. I'll make her understand. Gypsy girls are always obedient to their menfolk." He turned his head to give her a reassuring look.

"Biddable?" Sara asked Toma softly.

She disliked the sound of the word. Nor did she like the way Toma just smiled and nodded at her before turning his attention "back to the Cummings woman. Sara stared at the back of Toma's head and resisted the urge to tap her foot in annoyance. Or kick him in his cute little butt.
Biddable, eh?
she thought angrily.
Pliable? Obedient? Maybe the other Sara was, but, honey, this Rom girl don't put
up with nothing from nobody.
"I think we need to have a little talk," she muttered. She rubbed the ring again.
Just what kind of own true love are we talking about here? One that needs to be
housebroken?

"What I want;" Mother Cummings said, "is for your gypsy friend to get back to work. I can't afford for the best cracksman in London to claim she's sick for a month. You owe me, girl."

"Huh?" Sara asked. "What?"

"Well, Sara?" Mother Cummings demanded, "when do I see the gold beetles from Lord Philipston's?"

Sara stared at the cold-faced woman while everyone else in the room stared at her. Except for Toma, their looks were openly hostile. Toma caressed the hilt of his knife with his thumb as he switched his gaze from her to the other men.

"What?" Sara asked again. "Gold beetles?" She looked helplessly at Toma. "What's a gold beetle?"

"Lord Philipston's Egyptian scarab collection," he explained. "I told you about it. Don't you remember?"

Sara shook her head. "Remember what? What am I supposed to do with scarabs? Do they have something to do with the ring?"

"Ring?" Toma asked.

"Steal them," Mother Cummings ordered angrily. "You've kept my buyer waiting long enough."

Steal them? Sara thought. "Oh, no," she said, "I'm not stealing anything."

"She's holding out on you, Mother," Billy said. "Can't trust a gypsy." Both Billy and Cummings took a threatening step forward.

Sara wished she'd kept her mouth shut as the men bore down on her.

From behind the desk Mother Cummings said, "You'll change your mind fast enough when the lads are done with you."

Toma put himself between her and the men. "Now, lads," he said soothingly. Sara noticed that his knife was in his hand, but not exactly pointed at anyone. The men backed off a few steps. "Keep your tempers," he advised, "and leave Sara to me."

"You said she'd do as she's told," Mother Cummings reminded him.

"So she will," Toma said soothingly.

"Are you holding out for a higher price, girl?" the woman asked. "Are you trying to play a deep game with me?" She banged the flat of her hand on the tabletop. The sound cut across the tense air in the room. "Well?"

"No!" Sara spoke quickly. She didn't know if it was the right answer or not. She did know she was willing to say whatever she had to to get away from this woman, her enforcers, and whatever crazy scheme they were trying to push her into. She rubbed her fingers nervously across the ring. "I have to go," she said. "I really have to get out of here."

"Shall I take you home?" Toma asked without turning his head to look at her. Her protector was keeping his attention on Billy and Cummings. Sara had a distinct impression of the two of them being barely leashed guard dogs. "You shouldn't have brought her here," Toma told Mother Cummings. "She's too valuable to damage and you know it. You don't treat the finest dab in the city like one of the bawds in your knocking shop back there."

"Say what?" Sara asked, but Toma didn't answer her.

Mother Cummings ignored Toma and glared fiercely at Sara. "Tomorrow night, girl, do you hear me?

I want those beetles tomorrow night."

Sara backed toward the door, while the woman's malevolent gaze bored into her. Mother Cummings didn't need to speak the threat out loud. Sara read in the woman's hard expression all the nasty things that would be in store for her if she didn't steal the scarabs. Discussing the matter wasn't an option. She'd been brought here to have the fear of God put in her by someone who judged herself an expert in getting her own way.

Sara said, "I won't argue."

Mother Cummings nodded emphatically. "Just do it."

Go to hell, Sara thought. "Let's go," she said to Toma. He was by her side instantly, a guiding hand on her arm, his knife back in its sheath. She let him lead her out the door and through the crowd in the main room.

Afternoon had faded into night while they were inside. Sara was glad of Toma's company, though she still dreaded the journey back through the narrow, dark streets. Toma put his arm around her waist as they walked away from Mother Cummings's establishment. Though the night was warm, she still found the heat from his body comforting.

She had no intention of being in 1811 London tomorrow night but she was curious to find out just what was going on. "I thought," she said as they hurried along, "that Sara was a pickpocket."

Toma chuckled. "Say 'I am a pickpocket,'" he instructed.

She needed explanations, not an English lesson, so she repeated, "I am a pickpocket. Does this Philipston person keep his beetles in his pockets?"

He shrugged and she felt the rippling of his wiry muscles all along her side. Before she could ask him to do it again, he said, "Picking pockets at the fair is a lovely hobby, but it is time you got back to cracking houses, the old slut's right about that."

"Cracking houses?" she repeated. She had an image of rolling up to a house driving a large crane with a big steel ball attached to it. He probably had something a bit more subtle in mind. "Breaking and entering?" she guessed.

"And snatching and grabbing," he concluded. "Imagine my surprise to find out you're the best in London." He stroked her hair, then dropped a quick kiss on her forehead. "Did you really learn the trade from your mother?"

Sara didn't answer and they walked on in silence while she absorbed the knowledge that the ring had dropped her into the body of a famous burglar. A burglar involved with some dangerous characters, from the looks of it. "Mother Cummings is a fence, right?" she guessed. "Not just a fence, but the brains behind the whole operation."

"'Course she is," Toma agreed. "Fever addle your memory?" he asked.

He sounded concerned. She was going to miss him.
You can take me home now,
she thought at the ring. To Toma she said, "There's all sorts of things I don't know."

"It's all right," he answered. "I'll take care of you."

His words were meant to reassure a young girl adrift in London's criminal underworld. He meant to be kind and reassuring. Sara recognized his intention, but she didn't like the idea of needing anyone's protection no matter how out of her depth she felt. Then again, considering the respect Cummings and Billy had shown for Toma's knife she had to admit she might have need of a little protection if the ring didn't get her out of this mess soon.

They were close to the river now; their footsteps rang on uneven cobblestones and echoed off the walls of warehouses lining the street opposite dockyards. Sara got a distinct impression of people moving in the shadows near the warehouse walls, contesting rats for the right of way, she thought, if the scurrying sounds coming out of the darkness were any indication.

Every now and then they passed old men carrying lanterns; Sara assumed the old men were the warehouse guards. Not exactly first-rate security teams, she thought. Maybe that was why a teenage girl was a famous burglar, because the guards would all have coronaries trying to catch her.

A nearly full moon was doing its best to shine down through the smoke haze blanketing the city, managing to spark the waters of the Thames into a dull silver ribbon. Sara loved nothing better than water in the moonlight, and the sight drew her. She stopped at a break in one of the dockyard fences to look out across the wide river. The dark shapes of several large, decrepit vessels loomed up on the opposite side of the water, casting ominous shadows across the moonlit water. She could hear the creaking of old timber, and other, darker sounds drifted to them from the ships. Human sounds, like a kind of low, collective moan coming from many voices. There were a few lights on the old ships though they looked as if they ought to be abandoned. There was something very wrong and evil about the boats; just looking at them sent a shudder through her.