The Queen and the Knave, page 1
Other Proper Romances
by Sarah M. Eden
Ashes on the Moor
Hope Springs
Longing for Home
Longing for Home, vol. 2: Hope Springs
Savage Wells
The Sheriffs of Savage Wells
Healing Hearts
Wyoming Wild
The Dread Penny Society
The Lady and the Highwayman
The Gentleman and the Thief
The Merchant and the Rogue
The Bachelor and the Bride
The Dread Penny Society:
The Complete Penny Dreadful Collection
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Book design © Shadow Mountain
Art direction: Richard Erickson
Design: Heather G. Ward
© 2023 Sarah M. Eden
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This is a work of fiction. Characters and events in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are represented fictitiously.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Eden, Sarah M., author.
Title: The queen and the knave / Sarah M. Eden.
Other titles: Proper romance.
Description: Salt Lake City: Shadow Mountain Publishing, [2023] | Series: Proper romance | Summary: “For Dread Penny Society leader Móirín Donnelly and Constable Detective Fitzgerald Parkington to enjoy the romance growing between them, they must team up to stop the Tempest once and for all”—Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2023005386 | ISBN 9781639931521 (trade paperback) | eISBN 9781649331946 (eBook)
Subjects: LCSH: Penny dreadfuls—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Romance / Historical / Victorian | FICTION / Romance / Clean & Wholesome | LCGFT: Romance fiction. | Novels.
Classification: LCC PS3605. D45365 Q44 2023 | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20230313
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023005386
Printed in the United States of America
Lake Book Manufacturing, LLC, Melrose Park, IL
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Sammie Trinidad,
a light and a delight,
a woman I am honored to call my friend
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
The Queen and the Knave
Chapter 3
Posie and Pru
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
The Queen and the Knave
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Posie and Pru
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Posie and Pru
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
The Queen and the Knave
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
The Queen and the Knave
Chapter 14
Posie and Pru
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
The Queen and the Knave
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Posie and Pru
Chapter 19
The Queen and the Knave
Chapter 20
The Queen and the Knave
Chapter 21
The Queen and the Knave
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
The Queen and the Knave
Chapter 29
Posie and Pru
Chapter 30
Acknowledgments
Discussion Questions
About the Author
Chapter 1
London, 1866
Móirín Donnelly had been called a great many things in her twenty-seven years, but “naive” was not one of them. She knew more than enough of the world to realize ’twas a cruel place, and she’d lived long enough in its harsher corners to know how to navigate its labyrinth of uncertainty.
On a dark, fearful night, mere hours after the funeral of two of her closest friends, and even merer hours after learning of the betrayal of a man she’d thought of as something near to family, she moved with silent footfall along the corridor of an unlit home on King Street, one she knew well, though no one would guess that she did. Almost no one.
For five years, this had been the headquarters of the Dread Penny Society, a group of penny dreadful authors who secretly fought for the good of the poor and the voiceless, who undertook dangerous missions to protect lives that most people considered unworthy of acknowledgment. In so doing, the DPS had earned themselves some extremely dangerous enemies.
’Twas Móirín who’d begun it all shortly after arriving in London from Dublin, along with a chance-met author named Fletcher Walker and a philanthropic gentleman who’d wished to do good in the world without drawing attention. That gentleman had, shortly before his death, provided the funds for Móirín to purchase this house for use as the society’s headquarters. He’d believed in what they did, though no one but Fletcher and Móirín had any idea of his connection to the organization’s earliest days. Móirín had been the head of the Dread Penny Society over the years, but her role had been kept hidden even from the members. A lot was kept secret in the DPS.
Now those members were in hiding, and she, alone, tiptoed through this house to search out the mole who’d betrayed them all.
Holding aloft her shuttered lantern, she took hold of the door handle to the room Nolan Cook, the man who’d worked as butler and general caretaker, had called his own these past five years. He’d been a constant in the entryway, aware of all their comings and goings, privy to their membership and much of what they’d undertaken.
They’d trusted him with so very much. And he, in return, had offered their secrets to the most dangerous criminal London had ever known.
Móirín turned the handle and pushed the door open. Its hinges squealed as the door scraped against the floor. Her arrival would not go unnoticed by anyone who might be lurking inside. She pulled a long-bladed knife from her boot and held it at the ready.
No sound echoed from within the room. No movement. No breathing. No breeze from an open window.
Nolan had disappeared before his betrayal had been discovered. No one knew precisely when or where he’d gone. She’d searched the entire house, leaving this room to the last.
She stepped over the threshold, slowly sweeping the space with the focused light of her shuttered lantern. The small bureau to one side had no bits or baubles strewn atop it. The bed, up against the far wall, was neatly made. She raised the lantern higher and inspected the walls. Bare as a vulture’s head.
Móirín set the lantern on the bureau, not loosening her grip on her knife. She flipped back the metal shutters on the four sides of the lantern, allowing the flame to illuminate the room more fully.
It was empty.
She’d known the chances of Nolan still being in the DPS headquarters were slim at best. He’d probably stepped out the front door right after the Dreadfuls had assembled earlier that night and been on his way. ’Tweren’t likely that he’d’ve gone down to the belowstairs and cowered in the very first place he’d’ve been looked for. Still, she’d thought it best to be absolutely certain. Móirín hadn’t survived all she had by being reckless.
What clues have you left me, then, Nolan?
She pulled open each drawer in the bureau. All were empty. Nothing sat beneath the bed. The washbasin was dry as a bone. He’d scampered off, for certain, but something in the pristinely vacant room wasn’t right. ’Twas . . . too empty.
Nolan was forever reading newspapers, yet not a single one was in the room. He’d have certainly packed his things before running off, yet he’d left behind not so much as a stray thread or a bit of lint. Dust, yes. But nothing that’d lead anyone to believe this room had ever been lived in. ’Twas too thorough for Móirín’s peace of mind.
Movement in the corridor heightened her senses even further.
She heard footsteps. Ones made cautiously, quietly. Someone was attempting to sneak up on her. She hadn’t let anyone do that to her since she’d left Ireland; it certainly wouldn’t happen now.
Móirín adjusted her hold on her knife, then moved behind the door, positioning herself so she could see the person entering the room before being seen herself.
Then she waited.
She’d left footprints in the dust. Any housebreaker or cutthroat worth his salt would notice and track her that way. She was ready for that possibility.
A shadow fell across the threshold. Not a sound. Not even a breath.
The Phantom Fox was this stealthy, b eing a legend among sneak thieves. She was also a friend of Móirín’s. And she wouldn’t have made any noise upon approach. This was someone else, for sure and certain.
The Tempest, London’s criminal overlord and the person the DPS was currently hiding from, likely could have arrived relatively undetected, but her style was louder, bolder, more inclined to crowing than tiptoeing. So, ’twasn’t her stepping into the room either.
The new arrival moved forward, revealing a man’s boot and trouser leg.
“You’re either Ana or Móirín, and I know Ana ain’t here.”
Móirín lowered her knife. “B’gor, Fletcher Walker. Why’re you sneakin’ about the place?” She stepped out from behind the door.
“B’gor?” he repeated with a smirk. “Leaning a bit heavily into your Irish roots.”
“Anything else I might’ve said would’ve melted your ears.” She met Fletcher in the middle of the room.
“My dainty ears thank you.” Fletcher looked around the room. “Clean as a whistle, i’n’it?”
“Except for all the dust.”
Fletcher nodded. “Something ain’t right about it.”
“I’ve been feeling the same since stepping inside.” She shook her head. “It ain’t so much that it’s empty. It feels . . . abandoned. Dusty like no one’s been caring for it, not for a long time.”
“There ain’t no personal belongings anywhere to be seen.” Fletcher’s eyes darted about. “And the only footprints in the dust are ours. It’s been there quite some time, I’d guess.”
“Months, at least.” Móirín could see the truth clearly. “Nolan’s not called this room home for a long time.”
Fletcher met her gaze. “Then where has he been calling home?”
Móirín sheathed her knife. “’Tis a question we need an answer to.”
“I suspect we ain’t gonna like the answer we get.”
“More likely than not, we’ll full hate it.”
Móirín picked up her lantern and crossed to the bed. The dust on the floor and bed was thick and undisturbed. Nolan hadn’t moved his bed in ages. That was a helpful thing. The wall behind it hid one of many secret passages in this house, but Nolan hadn’t tucked himself in there when he’d flown.
“How much of the ol’ place have you searched?” Fletcher asked.
“All of it. He ain’t here.” She looked to Fletcher. “Did you send out your urchins?”
“Oi. Any Dreadfuls who weren’t here tonight will know the lay of things in no time.” Fletcher looked out for the street urchins of London, having been one himself and knowing the nightmare they often lived. “The Dreadfuls are being told to keep themselves as safe as they can and await instructions from you.”
“I’ll send instructions?”
“The Dread Master’ll send instructions.” Fletcher dipped his head. “I stand by what I said earlier: they need you now, Móirín. They need the confidence that comes from knowing who’s leading us.”
“And who’s to say knowing ’tis me hiding behind the fearsome mask won’t make them feel less safe?” She led the way out of the room.
“Because they know you—Móirín Donnelly—and not a one of them wouldn’t trust you to lead them through purgatory itself and back.”
“And if that’s precisely where this path is leading us?” They climbed the servants’ stairs, landing themselves on the ground level and the corridor leading back to the entryway.
“We’ve set ourselves up for a fight with the devil for years now,” Fletcher said. “I’d’ve been shocked if we hadn’t eventually found ourselves there.”
They stopped in the entryway, dark except for her lantern. Shadows danced and mocked and hinted at things not seen, things meant to be noticed but hidden from view. This house held a great many secrets, many of which the Dreadfuls didn’t know about, not even Fletcher.
Móirín wasn’t entirely unlike the house. She knew the burden of secrets, knew the dangers that came with them.
The Tempest had killed before, and she’d do so again. Móirín hadn’t a doubt in the world that the Dread Master was high on the Tempest’s list of people she’d enjoy snuffing out. Keeping her identity a secret wasn’t a matter of mere self-preservation. If the Dreadfuls didn’t know the identity of their leader, and if the Tempest knew that information couldn’t be tortured out of them, they would be safer. And that mattered to Móirín. It had always mattered.
“I’ll send word around to all the Dreadfuls,” she said. “But this secret needs keeping a touch longer. It’ll keep the Dreadfuls safer, and it’ll safeguard my network of informants. They only know me through this mask, and it’s crucial it stays that way.”
He nodded. “I’ll trust you on this, Móirín. But I’ll also warn you. This ain’t the time for one of your stubborn stands. With the DPS scattered and the Tempest claiming victory, this ain’t a war that can be won alone.”
“I don’t intend to be alone, just anonymous.” She nodded to the front door. “Lock it up, Fletcher. No one’ll be coming through that blue door any time soon.”
He pulled a heavy iron key from his waistcoat pocket. “Cain’t say I like doing this, knowing it might mean it never opens again—not to the DPS, leastwise.”
“There’re other doors,” she said. “Other ways in.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re being poetic and not just literal?” he said dryly.
“I ain’t a poet.”
“Most think you ain’t a writer at all, but we both know that ain’t true.” He slid the key into the lock and turned. The bolt slung into place with a thud that felt far too final.
Móirín pushed forward the topic at hand to distract herself. “Members of the DPS have to write penny dreadfuls,” she reminded him. “Couldn’t’ve run a society I wasn’t eligible to join, now could I?”
“We also all thought a person had to be male to join.” He shot her a look as they walked toward the back of the house. Her lantern continued being their only source of light, but they knew their way around, she even better than he. “That put me in a bit of a bind with my Elizabeth, though she found a way around that, clever as she is.”
“Clever enough that none of us knew she was the famous ‘Mr. King’ for quite a long time.” Móirín’s footsteps were slow and steady, but her mind raced ahead. “Make certain she closes down her school, and the two of you stash yourselves in my safe house on Riding House. The Tempest knows you’re the acting head of this organization, which makes you a target. The Tempest also knows Elizabeth is Mr. King. I don’t doubt she’d use that to blackmail Elizabeth.”
“The school’s already being emptied,” Fletcher assured her.
“Have Barnabus and Gemma relocate to the Riding House safe house as well,” she added. Those two were already in hiding, but having them in the same location as Fletcher and Elizabeth would simplify things.
“I will,” he said.
“When you reach the back of headquarters,” Móirín said, “take the hidden passageway from the cloakroom rather than the door. It’ll be safer.”
“And how do you mean to get out?”
“A secret passage behind the pub.”
His brow hooked upward. “There’s a secret passage behind the pub?”
“I chose this place for a reason,” she said. “It’s served us well. And if we don’t all get murdered in our attempt to bring down the Tempest, it’ll do so again.”
“‘If we don’t get murdered . . . ’ You never were one for mincing words.”
Móirín motioned him down the servants’ stairs once more. “You and Elizabeth get yourselves situated. I’ll meet you at Riding House once I’ve seen to another bit of business.”
“And what’s that?”
“There’s someone else who needs some information whispered in his ear, and I suspect he’ll not be terribly pleased about it.”
Indeed, were she to wager, she’d put every penny she had on her soon-to-be confidant disliking everything about their coming encounter, not because of what she would be telling him but because she was the one doing the telling.
Chapter 2
The filchpurse dropped down on t’ other side of t’ wall!”
Fitzgerald Parkington acknowledged his colleague’s shouted report by shifting his aim to that very wall and running at it, full tilt. On his last step, he sprang into a jump and flung his arms atop the stones, then pulled himself up and over the wall. He landed on the spongy ground and continued his pursuit.
