34. I Cannot Accept

10 May 1892

Springtime sunshine broke through the usual dreary grey clouds of the London skies. Maximilian tucked his leather gloves into the pockets of his overcoat before shucking off the garment and folding it over one arm, though he kept his hat on to shade his eyes from the sun. A lady carrying a wide-brimmed parasol pulled her child closer to her side as he passed them. Although dressed relatively well–in a wealthy merchant's three-piece suit, with a bit of a flamboyant waistcoat–he supposed the pistol he carried did not lend itself to an aura of security and the image of a well-bred gentleman.

"Mr. Walker," came a breathless voice from behind him, as a small, lace-gloved hand tapped on his shoulder. It was Dahlia, his neighbour, the gloves hiding the many pinpricks on her hands from her profession. She was a seamstress by day who worked for Edgar Wakefield's criminal enterprise by night. "I was hoping to catch you here."

He gave her an appreciative smile. Dahlia Byrnes was eighteen–a year older than he was–but sometimes, she seemed taken with him. He wouldn't truly have minded if she was; she was pretty, and kind, and generous to a fault. Dahlia had only been caught up in working for Edgar's gang because her brother had fallen prey to them first, and she wished to help him leave. However, Dahlia's brother, Patrick Byrnes, was a good deal more prone to gambling and drinking than his family would like, and thus would likely be stuck in the gang for far longer than anyone would wish.

"You know, you could simply see me when we are both home, rather than running after me in the street," he teased, offering her his arm. They were of a height, allowing him to turn his head and admire the way the sunlight slanted down over her high cheekbones, green eyes and dark curls neatly tucked under a crisp, white handkerchief. There was no denying her beauty, but yet his heart could not bring itself to view her as anything more than a friend, or a sister.

Dahlia feigned a gasp of scandalized shock as she placed her hand in the crook of his arm. She was, as always, attired in the latest fashions, not due to any great scads of money she had lying around, but simply because of her own natural talent for creating pieces at a far cheaper cost than the markets. They often visited her when in need of livery to pose as a servant in some great manor, or when they required a police uniform to pose as a bobby. "Do you mean for me to visit a gentleman's house unchaperoned? Please, my family would simply shrivel up and die from the social faux pas."

They were both without family and he knew it, so her statement was simply a rather dark joke. He didn't bring up that both her parents and a few of her siblings other than Patrick, had already shrivelled up and died due to scarlet fever a few years ago. Dahlia had been lucky enough to escape the ailment, or perhaps unfortunate depending on how one looked at it.

"Yes, I could never imagine scandalizing the Byrnes so," he said. "Was there something you wished to discuss with me?"

"You've been awfully secretive lately," she said in a coy tone, and he did his best not to tense up, knowing she would recognize the change in his posture. "Any particular reason?"

"You caught up with me in the street to confront me, Dahlia? And here I was planning on buying you a hot roll," he said as they passed a bakery.

Inside, he could see a man in a white, flour-dusted apron who was kneading dough. Next to him was a boy hurriedly calling out for customers to come and buy their hot cross buns. Something about the boy's appearance seemed familiar beneath his too-large newsboy cap, which kept slipping beneath his brow. He paused in the street to look, causing people to make noises of annoyance and walk around him.

"Maximilian? What is it?" Dahlia asked, still clinging to his arm.

He gestured toward the bakery. "I would like to buy two hot cross buns, please," he said, producing a handful of coins from his pocket.

The boy looked up at him. "'Tis you, sir! Please, allow me to give these buns to you, free of charge!"

"That's very kind of you, sir, but I cannot accept," he said, bemused. Now, he recognized the boy. Last winter he had accosted him for money to buy food to eat, and now, he seemed to be working in the bakery. "In my line of work, they could very well be poisoned."

"Is little Frederick here over-charging you and the lady?" the baker asked in a gruff voice, his tan complexion and black, bushy mustache speaking of Mediterranean ancestry. "Freddie, we charge the customers as they are due. The buns are, as the song goes, one a penny and two a penny."

"Quite the opposite, I assure you." He laughed, a spark of warmth searing his heart to see that Frederick now had a vocation to occupy him. "He attempted to give them to me for free."

"Whyever would he do such a thing?" the baker said, glancing between Maximilian and Freddie suspiciously.

"I, ah, did him a favour, a while ago," he said. "But, I assure you, I am prepared to pay full price for these buns, which I am assured are the best in all of England."

"That they are," the baker said, his chest puffing up. "It was my father's recipe, passed down from his father, and from his father before that..."

Freddie sighed, clearly having heard this tale many times before, as he passed two golden buns to Maximilian and Dahlia. He bit into one, tasting the spices on his tongue and the crumbly pastry used to make the cross on top.

At his side, Dahlia beamed. "Thank you kindly, Frederick."

"You are very welcome, Miss," he said with a small smile, before he looked down, suddenly bashful.

The baker nodded gratefully as Max dropped two coins into his palm. They exited the bakery with a little ding of the bell. Freddie's voice called out, "Come again!"

"What favour did you do the little boy?" Dahlia asked when they had left the bakery. "He seemed very pleased to see you."

"Oh, I suppose... I did what anyone would have done," he said, though he knew that was not the case. He himself had been ont he streets before, in a similar situation, and no one had done for him what he had done for the boy. "It is no great matter."

"Don't think I've forgotten about how you dodged my question earlier," Dahlia said suddenly, biting into her hot cross bun.

"You hadn't asked me a question," he replied deftly, finishing his bun in two bites and dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. "How could I answer it?"

"You have been acting rather strangely lately. I'm beginning to think that you are hiding something from me, Maximilian," she said primly, sounding like any fine lady having tea. "Are you, Mr. Walker?"

"Not at all," he lied, feeling a pang of discomfort at lying to her. "What would I have to hide?"

His shoulders sagged in relief when she spoke. "I do not know, perhaps you have a secret sweetheart stashed away."

"Dahlia, I hardly have time for friends, let alone sweethearts," he said and it was the truth. He was constantly running around the city of London, doing errands for Edgar. One day he would be at the docks, intercepting a smuggled shipment of fireworks, the next he would be attending some grand ball in disguise. How could he possibly be capable of finding time to properly court a girl or be a beau? "Where do you suggest I even meet this girl, or have secret rendezvous with her?"

"So you do not have a secret sweetheart, but you wish you do," she suggested.

"I cannot accept this false accusation against me," he said, shaking his head as they neared the street where they both lived. "If I did have a sweetheart, I assure you, Dahlia. You would be first to know."

"I suppose that shall have to be sufficient for me... for now." She smiled as they parted, him to the left, her to the right. "I will see you around, Max!"

He waved goodbye to her, feeling an odd, hollow sensation in his chest. Maximilian didn't quite know what to make of it, as the sky darkened and poured down rain. Going into the house, he hurried to dry off in the library, which boasted a pair of cozy armchairs next to a roaring fire that the maid must have lit. When he had taken a piece of paper, he began writing a series of reports to Redmond Flynn and his associates in code.

My dear friend,

I write to you now of my day. On the thirteenth of June, I will likely see my ship, HMS Virginia, dock on the south side of Dover, carrying with it many valuables. I have been reliably informed by Captain Oliviera that the ship's cargo of many pineapples from the West Indies will then be distributed to a reputable seller on the east bank of Thames.

Yours,

Roger Stone

He wrote the false name with a flourish before sealing the letter. Hearing footsteps, he quickly tucked the letter in with the rest of the post and, seeing the maid carrying a feather duster, asked her to mail it for him. She nodded, quickly scurrying out of sight before he could tell her that it was unnecessary for her to avert her gaze or avoid him, as so many servants were wont to do in grand houses. After all, he was no gentleman, landed or not. That would be Edgar, whose funds were insufficient for him to keep his home and had to resort to criminal behaviour.

Sighing, he began looking through the stack of pilfered correspondence that he had stolen today from several mailbags in rather wealthy neighbourhoods. One of them, a gilt-trimmed invitation, caught his eye...