Free The Mysterious Case of Mr. Strangeway (The St. Croix Chronicles) by Karina Cooper Page B

pounded, dry and hard in my throat. “You cannot lay a finger on me.”
    “This is my garden.” Hawke’s eyes filled my gaze as he leaned closer, his even white teeth bared in a smile that I would have sworn contained the fangs of a viper. Opium could be so ambiguous on a body’s senses. “Collectors operate here with my goodwill. Patrons attend because I choose to allow them. I may do exactly as I please, when I please, for as often as I please. Never mistake that again.”
    “Hawke.” A hand curved around his arm, and I did not dare look away from Hawke’s measured stare to weigh Mr. Strangeway’s features, a pale blur over my captor’s shoulder. “Leave her, mate, she’s no risk to me.”
    “She’s a nuisance.”
    I held my tongue, but barely.
    “Nuisance, perhaps, but she’s too young for your brand of attention and too British for mine.”
    I winced. “Why are you so focused on my place of birth?”
    Hawke did not touch me, turning away with an impatience I could all but feel lashing off him in razor-sharp edges.
    Strangeway frowned at me. “You are no factory girl, am I right?”
    “I told you, and I cannot make it much plainer.” Now I displayed impatience, more than I should have, given my injured status. “I am a collector, working for a Mr. Chattersham, to whom your debts are owed.”
    I must have touched a nerve, perhaps made him realize the gravity of his own situation, for Strangeway went still. The skin about his eyes tightened, and he seized my arm in his ungloved hand. So grasped, I had no choice but to stumble in pace as he dragged me to the table, beyond, and all but tossed me into a carved chair. I bit back a yelp of pain as the abrupt settling of my backside against unyielding wood jarred my wound. “Tell me everything you know,” he ordered sternly.
    Hugging my side, I met his gaze, a simple dark hazel with none of the devilment he’d displayed only moments ago, and weighed my options.
    I had none, naturally. Hawke was right.
    I slumped, fighting back tears of frustration as they welled behind my gritty eyes. I was tired, the ache of my injury battered at the fringes of my concentration, and I truly had no conception how to deal with these men. “Very well,” I said, not graciously. “Since you are obviously no more a popinjay than I am a boy, I suppose I’m curious enough to help.”
    As if I’d been given a choice. Hawke’s arched eyebrow suggested as much.
    Try as I might later, I would never be able to master the art of lifting a single eyebrow in such a derisive fashion. I deliberately ignored him. “What do you care to know?” I asked, as politely as if I were serving tea.
    Fanny would have been so very proud.
    “Your name?” Hawke asked, only to shrug his shoulders when Strangeway deftly interrupted with, “Unimportant.”
    I did not like the feeling of relief that caused me. In defense to the unwelcome softening of my dislike, I volunteered a different bit of information. “Your name was given on the collection wall, Mr. Strangeway, as well as the knowledge that you make your home in Chelsea, as—” I almost added as I do , and caught it in time. “As well as,” I amended, “enjoying the company of the stews.”
    He did not look pleased. “So the role I’d chosen was fashioned,” Strangeway said.
    “Did you not intend to play the reprobate?” Hawke asked. “A job well done.”
    “Too well, obviously. I’d meant to be taken in to the fold, not collected by it.” My quarry looked to me with none of the proper deference he should have for his collector. I bit back a sigh. “You say for debts?”
    “Enough debt that Mr. Chattersham is willing to accept payment of your skin. The notice claimed you are to be taken dead or alive.” And because I could not bear the skepticism in either man’s face, I added sharply, “I would choose your life.”
    “You are too kind,” replied Strangeway, his voice so understated as to be practically dust. “Have