Thorne Brothers: With All My Heart Part 3

"Why am I not surprised?" Decker said, advancing on Jonna. He carried the lacquered box under his arm.

Jonna gave him a sour look that deepened the dimple at the corner of her mouth. That made him grin at her.

Colin escorted Anderson and Berkeley back into the room. Mrs. Shaw was every bit as upset as her husband had predicted she would be. He had warned them privately that Berkeley would want no part of going to San Francisco. Seeing the proof of it now eased the last of Colin's concerns. He couldn't be sorry that Mercedes and Jonna hadn't kept the information to themselves.

"It's all been arranged," Colin told Mercedes. "In three days Mr. and Mrs. Shaw will travel on one of the Remington packet ships for San Francisco. We will receive regular reports of their progress from the Remington clipper masters who dock there. We've agreed upon an amount that will keep them in comfort, even at prices in San Francisco, for six months. If there is a satisfactory conclusion to the investigation, then there will be an additional reward."

Berkeley felt her husband's large hands tighten on her waist. She couldn't help herself. She had to know the terms from the Thornes. "In what way will this business be satisfactorily concluded?" she asked.

It was Decker who answered. "Proof that Graham Denison is dead or that my brother Greydon is alive. It may be that one outcome will make the other impossible." He paused. "Or it may not."

Berkeley simply stared at him. He could not know the consequence of what he had just said.

Decker opened the black-lacquered case and held it out for Berkeley to see. Three earrings lay on the bed of velvet now. "You've handled all of them," he said. "Choose again. This time carry Greydon's earring."

Berkeley drew a sharp breath. "You can't be serious. You'd trust us to take your family's heirloom to San Francisco?"

Decker's blue eyes narrowed as he considered her thoughtfully. "I trust you to make the right decision, Mrs. Shaw. This is the final test."

Chapter Two.

August 1850 San Francisco was rising out of the ashes. Grey Janeway stood just outside his canvas tent and watched the construction going on across Portsmouth Square. One of the workers, a man on a scaffold two stories above the square, saw him and shouted a good morning. Grey raised the cup that was holding his shaving cream in a half salute. Acknowledged, the man returned to work on the intricately carved sea G.o.ddess that embellished the front of the Phoenix like a ship's figurehead.

Grey brushed lather on his face, then applied himself to removing it with a newly sharpened razor. Using a cracked hand mirror, he concentrated on not cutting his own throat while the symphony of construction offered its peculiar musical accompaniment. Long planks of lumber slammed together as they were unloaded from a wagon. Hammers pounded out the percussion. The steady breeze off the bay whistled through the boards. Copper, bra.s.s, and lead fittings reverberated as they were struck and molded by the pipe fitters.

It was not only in Portsmouth Square that the construction had reached a fever pitch. It was happening all over as the city raised new storefronts, gaming halls, warehouses, and homes. Montgomery Street. Pine. Washington and Kearny. Grey Jane-way was grateful he liked the sound of all the activity because there was no getting away from it. That lack of an escape route was one of the reasons he had put up his tent right on the square, directly across from where his new gambling house and hotel was being erected.

His suite of rooms in the Phoenix had been finished more than a week ago, but Grey elected to wait until the entire structure was completed before he moved in. The mirrors he'd ordered from London still hadn't arrived, and he was expecting a shipment of draperies and linens from Boston. He was luckier than other owners, he realized, because his orders were late. He hadn't been a quarter done rebuilding after the May 4 fire when most of San Francisco, including the sh.e.l.l of his new establishment, was leveled by another fire on June 14.

On both occasions the rubble was cleared away as soon as the embers cooled, and the gaming houses, the lifeblood of Portsmouth Square, rose again like the bird of ancient myth. It was after the second fire that Grey decided his gambling palace was better described by the name Phoenix than Pacific Queen.

So he changed it. In San Francisco there was always the tantalizing possibility of something better coming your way. The great fires had a way of eliminating all evidence of the city's previous mistakes. Personal ones as well. Reconstructing a life here could be accomplished with almost as much ease as putting up a new building. No one remodeled or improved. They re-created.

There was no other place better suited to Grey Janeway than San Francisco.

Grey picked up the towel lying on the stool at his feet and wiped remnants of lather from his face. He examined his chin for nicks, found none, and tossed the towel aside. The mirror he placed more gently on the stool.

Someone yelled to him, and Grey scanned the square to identify the source of the shout. He saw George Pettigrew standing outside the El Dorado, waving miners inside with promises of riches beyond their imaginings. Of course they would have to part with a small fortune if they were ever to reap any riches. George didn't explain that outright, but the miners weren't naive. They knew what to expect inside the El Dorado's rough-hewn walls and behind the muslin curtains. The gaming was run fairly most of the time, and the women were as comely as any in the city. For fifty dollars in gold dust a miner could be shown to one of the small interior rooms that were set off from the main gaming hall. A thin muslin curtain would drop back in place to provide a modic.u.m of privacy for the miner and his lady of the evening. The fact that the encounter lasted about fifteen minutes, and the lady would service a dozen more men before the night was through, really didn't matter. For a quarter of an hour the pan-handlers were able to forget their losses at the table, their sweethearts in Ohio, and their played-out mines.

Grey nodded in George's direction. "Get them while you can, George," he shouted. "When the Phoenix is done they won't step inside the El Dorado."

"That's a fact," George agreed good-naturedly. His teeth flashed whitely in his dark face as he smiled broadly. "Then I come work for you. People can't refuse Ol' George."

"That's a fact," Grey called back. "You come and see me in two weeks."

"Yes, sir. I surely will." He eyed a group of miners beginning to shuffle off to another gaming house and corralled them in. "Right this way, gentlemen. Don't mind sayin' the El Dorado will be happy to let you leave with more gold dust in your pockets than when you came. Just step ina""

Smiling, Grey turned away and opened the flap to his tent. When he had staked this small lot for his tent the other gambling-house owners just shook their heads at his folly. They elected to rebuild fast and add amenities as they became available. At risk was losing customers to the rival gaming h.e.l.ls.

There was nothing wrong with their strategy, Grey thought, but he wanted something that stood a chance of surviving the next inferno. That required more time than the usual three weeks it took to rebuild the city. He also believed there was more than enough gold dust to be scattered around, and that it would still be there when the Phoenix was ready. Proof of it could be found after every fire, when hundreds of tiny gold nuggets appeared under the charred foundations of the gambling houses. The intense heat from the fires fused the dust that miners dropped at the tables while they played. It filtered through the floorboards, and it was seldom recovered except after a fire.

Grey had considered that problem when he started reconstruction on the Phoenix. Carpets under the gaming tables were the answer. The gold dust could be beaten out and recovered. He was expecting his carpets from the Orient any day, along with the mirrors and draperies. He still remained hopeful that he would receive them because his cargo was being carried by Remington clippers.

The bay was littered with ships now. Prior to the discovery of gold two years ago, Yerba Buena Cove was not on the route of most shipping lines. Hudson's Bay Company had given up years earlier after trying to establish commercial trade there. In spite of the accessibility of its natural harbor, there was nothing to draw profitable enterprise or a population. The settlement was tents, shanties, adobe huts, and a Franciscan Mission two and one-half miles southwest of the cove. The few hundred citizens were managed by the Alcalde in those days and they were more aligned with Mexico than the United States. It wasn't until 1847, six months after the American flag was raised in the Plaza, that Yerba Buena Cove was renamed San Francisco, the Plaza was renamed Portsmouth Square, and the nameless thoroughfare along the waterfront was christened Montgomery Street.

The irreverent denizens wondered that G.o.d had taken six days to create the world when this city by the bay happened overnight. In a town where a significant fraction of the inhabitants went by nicknames and aliases, the fact that Yerba Buena Cove was now San Francisco seemed fitting and proper. Like most of her citizens, the city herself had a past.

The pace of life in the town was still slow back then. The occasional whaling vessel called at the harbor; there were merchants from the Far East at other times. All of that changed with the discovery of gold in the Sacramento Valley. It didn't take long for the bay to become overcrowded with abandoned ships as entire crews left their decks for the promise of a rich strike. Shipping lines made money bringing the forty-niners to the goldfields, but they could lose it when sailors jumped ship and no experienced crew could be found to return the clipper home.

Grey Janeway was counting on the Remington line to make the deliveries that were promised. As far as Grey knew none of their ships had been abandoned in the harbor. They lost a few of the crew on every call to San Francis...o...b..t never every man on board. It cost a lot to ship goods with them. There was a high price for their reliability, but it was no more than the market would bear. The profits to merchants were enormous if they could unload their wares in San Francisco. Where else in the country would someone pay one dollar for an apple or three hundred for a barrel of tea? Washbowls cost five dollars, shovels brought fifteen or twenty, and a good pair of boots required a miner to part with one hundred. Laudanum sold by the drop and a quart of whiskey couldn't be had for less than thirty dollars. Where a loaf of bread might sell in New York for four cents, it cost seventy-five on the Barbary Coast.

Grey shrugged into his shirt, tucked it in, and pulled up his suspenders. He raked his thick hair back with his fingertips, then slipped into his jacket. He noticed that the sun was already beating hard against the roof of the tent. In another hour or so the interior would be unbearably hot in spite of the winds churning up from north and east.

He nudged the pile of blankets covering the canvas floor. Five pink toes were revealed. "You told me not to let you sleep," he said. The toes curled and stretched, but there was no appreciable movement elsewhere. "You'll have a headache, remember? That's what you said."

"Hmmm."

"Don't you have to go to work?"

"I only just went to sleep."

"I don't think that will matter to Howard. He'll want you back at the Palace before the noon crowd tries to get away from him."

Ivory Edwards rolled over. She pushed the blankets down to the level of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. A view of her naked shoulders was as much as she was going to allow Grey Janeway. As far as she was concerned, this was a new day, and he hadn't paid for anything else. Muted sunlight glanced off her fair skin. Her deliciously full mouth was pulled thoughtfully to one side. "What do you think of Ivory DuPree?" she said.

"Who's Ivory DuPree?" Grey asked absentmindedly. He straightened the cuffs of his jacket and brushed a piece of lint from the sleeve.

"/ am," Ivory said somewhat indignantly. "Do you think it sounds better than Edwards?" She repeated her name first one way then the other. When she saw Grey wasn't paying her the least attention she sat up and kicked out at him. She connected solidly with his booted shin.

"Ow!" He dropped the lid of the trunk he was searching, barely getting his hand out in time. "What was that for?"

Satisfied, Ivory withdrew her weapon under the blankets again. "For taking me for granted," she said emphatically.

"I took you for a hundred dollars last night," he reminded her. "That means I don't have to pay attention to you today." He sat on the trunk lid, raised his right leg, and rubbed his injured shin. He felt the outline of the weapon he kept there. "It's less complicated. Now, what's this about your name?"

Ivory was too established in the working life to let Grey's comment sting her heart or her pride. He rarely requested her services, and from what she knew, he rarely requested them from anyone else. There were still forty men for every woman in San Francisco. She would have known if he had been regu-larly going somewhere else for his carnal pleasures. "Edwards or DuPree?" she asked. "I'm thinking of changing it. DuPree has a certain a je ne sais quoi a" She giggled when she saw one of his dark eyebrows arch dramatically. "You didn't think I knew any French, did you?"

"You're a source of constant surprises, Ivory." It was not usual for his flinty, blue-gray eyes to be touched by his smile. They were now. He held out his hand to her, and Ivory rocketed into his lap, blankets snapping around her like a clipper's sails caught in an updraft. He kissed her lightly on the cheek. "DuPree is a good choice. Were you thinking of an accent?"

"But of course," she said deeply, imitating as best she could the throaty accents of two or three Frenchmen she'd met. "Foreign girls get more." Ivory looked to Grey for approval.

"Not bad." He set her off his lap suddenly as something teased his memory. He concentrated to retrieve it but it proved as elusive as all the others that had ever come to him over the last five years. Was it the accent? he wondered. The woman? Or both of them together that prompted the sensation that this was a familiar scene? There was a mild throbbing in his head now, and Grey realized Ivory was looking at him oddly. He stood and laid a hand lightly on her bare shoulder. "Use DuPree. It has such an abundance of je ne sais quoi I won't be able to afford you."

Ivory was genuinely pleased by the possibility. Her cheeks flushed becomingly. In spite of current living conditions, Grey Janeway had ama.s.sed a fortune, even by San Francisco standards. If he couldn't afford her, she'd be a high-priced wh.o.r.e indeed. "You going to the wharf?" she asked, as he removed his hand. Ivory wished he had allowed it to linger there a bit longer. It wasn't often that she was touched with any sort of affection. His fingertips on her shoulder had felt a little like that. She was sorry to have the moment pa.s.s.

Grey nodded. "I'm expecting things to be delivered any day. I want to make certain I get them."

Ivory knew it was always possible that someone would try to take Grey's orders by bribing the cargo master. "That's some fancy palace you're building, Mr. Janeway. I've heard about the mirrors. Folks say you plan to put them right above the beds."

"Folks say that, do they?"

He sounded amused, Ivory thought. He was very handsome when he offered up that small, half smile of his. The problem was, he didn't make the sacrifice often. Her short, glossy black curls bounced as she nodded. "That's what I hear. It will be as splendid as any bawdy house back East."

"It would be more splendid," he said dryly. "If that was my intention."

"You mean the mirrors aren't going to hang above the beds?"

He almost laughed outright at her disappointment. "Why don't you wait and see?"

"Does that mean you'll be needing some girls like me, Mr. Janeway?"

This time Grey tapped Ivory on the tip of her upturned nose. It was a pretty face, he thought. With the exception of her well-shaped mouth, her features were not refined or exotic. She was just plainly pretty, but that was still worth something in San Francisco. "I believe I will, Ivory," he said. "But don't tell your friends. I intend being very particular about who works for me. And there will be certain conditions. You may not like them." She looked as if she was going to ask him to explain them now, so Grey shook his head before she opened her mouth. "Later, perhaps. I have to be going."

He ducked out of the tent into the bright morning sunshine.

The bay wharf hadn't been enlarged in spite of the demands placed upon it since the gold strike. In the past it could accommodate a vessel or two for unloading, but now it wasn't possible for a ship to get that close. Scows and rowboats were used to bring cargo in from where the clippers anch.o.r.ed farther out in the bay. It was probably possible, Grey mused, to walk to an incoming ship on the bows and beams of all the abandoned ones. He doubted such an undertaking would even require getting one's feet wet.

A few enterprising souls saw the potential in the ghost ships. They turned them into gaming dens and brothels and hostelries and did a fair business until the underbellies rotted out. The June fire had claimed almost half the hulks. Bright orange and yellow flames leaped from mast to mast like a h.e.l.lish Jack Frost, icing the bowsprits and taffrails with an eerie, glowing light. The capricious wind carried the fire so one ship might become a torch and its neighbor might be largely spared. The bay waters reflected the scene, magnifying the destruction, not diminishing it.

It wasn't a sight Grey thought he was likely to forget. Unless, of course, someone kicked him in the head and chest a dozen or so times. That might put it out of his mind. Tipping the brim of his hat back a notch, Grey smiled thinly at his own black humor.

He casually leaned sideways against a pyramid of empty barrels and lit a cheroot. He savored the flavor of the tobacco and exhaled slowly, his eyes wandering the wharf through a blue-gray wreath of smoke.

There was considerable traffic crowding the small wharf, but Grey kept coming back to the boy. The only thing more rare than a woman in San Francisco was a child. Male or female, it didn't matter. Shooting stars were more frequently sighted than children. The influx of harlots and mining-camp followers hadn't produced many burgeoning bellies. The abortionists were kept busy while figures were kept slim and profitable.

The boy looked old enough to take offense to being called one. He might accept the vague "young man'' distinction, Grey thought, but he wouldn't like it. He was of a sc.r.a.ppy appearance: denim trousers belted by a frayed length of rope; a faded flannel shirt with shoulder seams that hung several inches below his shoulders; and a popular slouch hat that covered far more than just the top of his head. Most of the boy's face was hidden in shadow, but there was a hairless chin that jutted forward from time to time, leading the way as the boy paced the length of the wharf.

At least Grey thought he was trying to pace. It was the sort of activity that could not be accomplished easily on the crowded dock. Flicking ash from the tip of his cheroot, Grey watched the boy dodge carts and hurdle a cask that rolled in his way. He avoided obstacles like the fishmonger's wagon, a dray sagging with its load of lumber, and a stack of crates that kept shifting location because the owner couldn't decide where to unload them. The boy agilely skirted the pyramid of barrels that Grey was leaning against and neatly stepped over a tabby cat basking in the sunshine. At the end of the wharf the boy paused long enough to scan the horizon, then he did an about-face and started his worried journey back again.

His shoulders were hunched and his eyes downcast as he pa.s.sed in front of Grey. He kept his hands in his pockets. Occasionally he paused to kick a stone into the bay. Once he stopped long enough to pet the tabby. The cat followed him after that.

Shaking his head at the sight, Grey flicked what was left of his cheroot into the bay. The tip of it arced brightly before it fell in the water. Grey unb.u.t.toned his jacket, reached inside, and withdrew a small telescope. He extended the length of it and held it up to his right eye. Adjusting the sight, Grey also scanned the horizon, but with a lot more power than the boy had had. Seeing nothing like a Remington clipper, Grey folded the scope but didn't put it away. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the young sc.r.a.pper was watching him. Grey turned his head in that direction, but the boy ducked his head immediately and moved on, almost tripping over the cat, which was wending in and out of his legs.

Noticing the youngster slowed as he made his next pa.s.s in front of him, Grey considered offering the telescope to him to use. He thought better of it when he realized he would probably have to chase the boy all the way up Montgomery Street to get it back. Grey wasn't of a mind to expend that much energy this morning.

He tapped the scope lightly against his leg as he waited. He could afford to be patient. The man he had hired as foreman for the Phoenix construction was doing a good job. Grey almost regretted pitching his tent across the square to keep an eye on the progress. Donnel Kincaid's attention to detail and his firm approach to managing the laborers gave Grey more time to devote to his other enterprises and oversee some things personally.

A movement on the horizon caught Grey's eye. He raised the scope again and held it in place until the object in the distance was fully in focus. The clipper's white sails were fully extended. Men lined her yardarms waiting to take them in as she came toward the harbor and prepared to drop anchor. Grey straightened, lowering the scope, and caught sight again of the boy watching him. He spoke just loud enough for his voice to carry to the youngster. "She's flying an American flag," he said. "And the purple-and-gold banner of the Remington line. Could be it's what you're waiting for."

The boy hurried on without giving any indication that he'd heard Grey. Grey watched him go and saw trouble coming right at him.

The Sydney Ducks were the primary reason Grey was at the wharf himself this morning. The Ducks were a loosely organized gang of felons who had tickets-of-leave from the English penal colony in Australia. They had served their time in Van Dieman's Land and the tickets-of-leave gave them opportunity to get out from Down Undera"as long as they didn't try to return to England.

It was hard to know what manner of crime they had committed to receive transportation as their punishment. Grey knew firsthand that some had offenses no more serious than stealing food to feed their families. There were others, though, who had learned how to use a shiv before they knew the proper use of a fork and spoon. Highwaymen and murderers, forgers and sneaksmen, the Sydney Ducks had someone of experience in every aspect of the roughest criminal trade.

In response to the gold strike, the Ducks began arriving in just enough numbers to cause problems. Feared and shunned at the outset, the Sydney Ducks capitalized on it, turning it into their strength. They organized, set up shanties and tents near one another, and moved about town in pairs or groups, but never alone. There were exceptions, but in the main the Ducks didn't fare well in the goldfields. Mining didn't come naturally to men who had been felling pine as punishment on Van Die-man's Land. They tended to look for something less physical, or at least some trade that required them only to use their fists.

The Sydney Ducks specialized in extortion and theft, and when these couldn't be accomplished with finesse, they fell back on brawling.

A pair of Ducks were patrolling the wharf now, waiting to see what cargo would be unloaded today, and how their fortunes might be increased by permitting the rightful owner to collect it. They had seen the Remington ship and knew they had time before she put down her anchor. They were at loose ends till then. That's when they decided to have fun with the boy.

The first thing they did was close ranks as the boy tried to slip between them. When he attempted to skirt them, they parted. The dance frustrated the boy and amused the men. Above the general commotion of traffic on the wharf, Grey could hear them laughing.

He looked around to see if anyone else noticed what was going on. He sighed. Where a number of people on the dock had been interested in the boy's antics for the better part of a half hour, they were now studiously avoiding looking in his direction. In general, because of their rarity, children were afforded the protection of the community. Grey once heard of a miner who paid fifty dollars in gold dust simply to hold a baby in his arms. Traffic halted on Pacific Street, in the heart of the roughest quarter of town, to permit a wayward toddler to cross the street without harm. This boy, however, wasn't an entirely defenseless child, and Grey imagined that's what the others were telling themselves. No one wanted trouble with the Sydney Ducks.

Confronting two of them was the same as having to face all of them. Two now. Four tomorrow. The entire population of Sydney Town the day after.

The trouble might start with an irksome loss of inventory. If you were a merchant, you might discover broken windows in your storefront. If you were a miner, your claim could be taken over. There might be a fire of unknown origin or a crippling injury from a fall. Or, if they weren't of a singular mind to create accidents, you might just get a shiv poked in your side and yanked across your belly so you were gutted like a fish. It was a hard way to die but a good lesson to your friends.

As Grey watched, the Ducks took up position on either side of the boy and lifted him by his upper arms. His feet dangled several inches above the dock, and when he kicked at the bullies one of his shoes flew off. It sailed in the air, spinning end over end before it landed squarely in the fishmonger's cart.

Even without witnessing the look that pa.s.sed between the Ducks, Grey knew what was going to happen next. They hoisted the hapless lad a full sixteen inches off the dock and carried him like a trophy in the direction of the fish wagon. The boy realized what was going to happen as well, and he renewed his struggles. He was unexpectedly silent throughout the ordeal, squirming and wriggling like a hooked worm and with just about as much sound. Somehow his hat had been pushed even lower on his face, and now it covered his eyes completely. If they changed direction suddenly and dropped him in the bay instead of the cart, the boy wouldn't know it until he heard the splash.

There was some laughter on the wharf now, a chuckle here and there as the merchants and dockworkers realized the Ducks weren't intending any real harm. There was relief in the low rumble. A few men coughed behind their hands or cleared their throats, trying to disguise their amus.e.m.e.nt. No one really wanted to encourage the Ducks. There was no telling when their playfulness would turn vicious and who their next victim might be.

Grey's small smile wasn't prompted by relief. Although he wasn't particularly proud of it, he was being genuinely entertained at the boy's expense. He could just make out the boy's mouth opening and snapping shut again as his ankles were grabbed. The Ducks began swinging him by his arms and legs, back and forth, higher and higher, until they started their count.

Onea twoa threeeeea Grey's gunmetal glance narrowed as the boy was sent flying. At its apex the boy's lean frame reached a height of about ten feet before he dropped like a stone, headfirst, into the fish cart. Fish flopped over the sides of the wagon and landed on the wharf. The monger scrambled to save his catch, getting down on his hands and knees to pick up the fish and toss them back. The boy came up, gasping for air, and got slapped in the face with a mackerel for his effort. The Ducks thought this was funny in the extreme. They laughed hard and loud until one of the fish came spinning tail over dorsal in their direction.

The bigger of the two Ducks made a better target. The fish struck him in the center of his chest and he actually had to take a step backward to keep his balance. His mate saw the humor in the situation but not the fish that eventually whacked him in the side of his head.

The boy was on his feet now, standing in the middle of the wagon, knee deep in fish, hefting them like knives and hurling them like darts. His a.r.s.enal was extensive, and the Ducks weren't of a mind to take the attack until he ran out of ammunition. With a great roar of Kill the b.u.g.g.e.r! they mounted a frontal a.s.sault, charging the wagon so the boy was shaken off-balance.

Grey took a step forward as the boy toppled and the Ducks scrambled onto the cart. With a casualness that belied any urgency he felt, Grey tucked his scope into his jacket and removed the blade from his boot. He concealed it in his sleeve and began walking toward the wagon. He stopped when the boy, owing to superb reflexes or dumb luck, managed to writhe free of eighty pounds of fish covering his torso and vault himself over the side of the cart. The Ducks came up holding fishtails but no boy, and their angry stomping soon mired them to mid-calf in slippery, stinking fish.

Grey shook his head at their adult-sized temper tantrum. He supposed the fun was definitely at an end. They were glaring at him now, not because they'd seen him smilea"because he hadn'ta"but because the boy was running at him full tilt as if seeking his protection.

He sidestepped the boy, grabbed him by the collar of his flannel shirt, and put him at his back. "Stay right there," he ordered. The child was breathing hard. Grey supposed he couldn't catch his breath to answer, but he felt the brim of the boy's hat rub up and down against his spine. He took the motion as agreement.

The Ducks had freed themselves of scales, gills, and fins and were advancing on Grey. Behind them the fishmonger salvaged what he could of his load and hurried to lead his horse and wagon out of the way.

"Gentlemen," Grey drawled. His voice was like honey over velvet. "Can I a.s.sist you in some way?"

They knew him. Grey Janeway was not someone they would purposely set out to bother, but neither could they back down. "G'day, Mr. Janeway," the brawnier of the two men said. "Name's Bobby Burns. My mate here's Jolly."