Having made my point, I relaxed the pressure, and he whipped my hand backward, up and over and down. My knuckles slammed flat onto the table.
"Winnah!"
Miss Stoker
Miss Stoker Is Paid with a False Coin
Congratulations, both genuine and jeering, abounded. Many hands reached out to grab their winnings, and a small pile was thrust in my direction.
I looked up and saw Pix shoving another healthy gathering of the loot: coins, small metal pieces, a slender gold chain, and a watch toward me. His gaze glinted with self-deprecating humor-an acknowledgment that I was the true winner.
That was the most fun I'd had in a long time. I grinned back and picked up the pouch to scoop in my winnings. I wasn't paying attention until I felt one of the coins. It was an odd shape, with a raised texture, and I looked down.
It was an Egyptian scarab.
Blooming fish! I snatched it up before anyone else noticed and turned it over. On the bottom was an etching; it was too dim for me to see the details, but I was certain it was a drawing of Sekhmet. Shoving it in my pocket, I stood, and Pix rose as well.
"An' 'ow about a word, there, boyo," he said. He reached out and closed his fingers around my arm as if expecting me to bolt. "Two ales over 'ere, Bilbo!" He made a gesture to a table in the shadows. "The lad 'ere's payin'!"
"Let go," I said as we made our way between the last few people of the crowd.
To my surprise, he released me, and we settled at a table in the quietest corner of the place. My medievaler heart appreciated the simple bare-flamed candle sitting on a saucer, but the warrior in me recognized the danger of an open flame in a place such as this. Its flickering circle of light illuminated the very center of the table, and from below, up onto Pix's chin, jaw, and mouth. I still didn't know what color his eyes were. Although this was the third time I'd met him, I'd be hard-pressed to pick his face from a crowd. That was probably the way he wanted it.
We settled in our seats as the man behind the counter brought over two tankards and slapped them onto the table. I caught the strong, bitter scent of ale as its foam sloshed over the top of my mug and wondered if Pix expected me to drink it.
Bilbo glared down at me. "Thought you was lookin' fer Cap Mago."
"I was," I replied in my gruff male voice. "But not anymore."
"Awright, sonny, then pay up. Five shillings."
I fumbled through my pouch and produced the money. When Bilbo left us alone, I looked over to find my companion watching me from behind his mug of ale. The expression in his eyes sent a sharp bolt of heat through me. I tore my gaze away as warmth colored my cheeks.
"So ye couldna stay away from me, aye, luv? 'Ad to come searchin' me out down in th' stews." He'd settled his elbows on the table, which brought his face closer to mine. "Were ye lookin' t'do a bit o' dabbin' up wi' me, then, luv?"
Although I wasn't certain what the phrase meant, I had a sneaky suspicion it suggested something improper. I wanted to dump my ale on top of his head, but decided he'd probably enjoy that too much. And I did need information from him.
"That must be your fondest wish, considering how many excuses you've made to accost me in the last week." My fingers curled around the mug, and I toyed with the idea of taking a drink.
Pix laughed, low and rumbly, sending pleasant shivers over my skin. "Go a'ead, luv, taste it. Ye paid fer it, din't ye?"
"I'm not here to socialize." Blast. I sounded an awful lot like the prim Miss Holmes. "And I certainly don't intend to get drunk. I need some information."
"Well, then, luv, ye've come to the right place. But I'm feelin' mighty regretful ye' ain't 'ere jus' 'cuz ye wanted t'swap a bit o' spit. I promise ye, it'd be a right more excitin' than turnin' around a dance floor wi' a dandy like Richard Dancy."
So that bothered him did it? I placed my elbows on the sticky table, putting myself close enough to him that I could see the actual whiskers beginning to show along his jawline. In this proximity, even nearer than we'd been while arm wrestling, I became aware of that pleasant, minty scent I'd noticed before. "Right, then, Pix. I'm wondering something."
"Wot's that, luv?" A wicked smile twitched the corner of his mouth, making him appear dangerous and delicious at the same time.
"I'm wondering," I said, forcing my voice to stay light as his eyes focused on mine, "if you have any idea how jealous you sound." I settled back in my chair as his smile faltered.
Then he chuckled and eased back as well. "All right, then, luv. Ye've lammed me twice t'night. Per'aps I'd best take m'lumps and stop now. Wha' can I do fer ye?"
"You told me you saw some men removing things from the museum the night we met. And that one of them was carrying something long and slender. Can you give me any other information?"
He retrieved his tankard of ale and took a healthy swallow. It looked so good that I reconsidered tasting mine. One sip wouldn't hurt. I lifted the mug and drank.
Bitter.
Oh, ugh, sharp and bitter!
But then I tasted the nuttiness and the full, rich flavor, and warmth rushed to my belly along with the ale.
His gaze was dark and warm beneath his hat brim. "Right, then, luv. The drink-it takes some gettin' used to. And so . . . ye want t'know about the thieves. There's no' much more t'tell ye, but they were movin' a 'eavy box. Bigger'n a man. It was goin' into a large wagon, wi' no markin's on it. "
"That's it?"
He shrugged. "I 'ad other things to be attendin' to, an' it ain't my concern wot them flimps was doin'."
"What were you doing there?"
"Now that, m'luv, is no concern o' yours. But I will tell ye I was lookin' for m'bloke Jemmy. 'E's gone missin', and the trail led t'that particklar crib. 'Twas just yer good fortune I 'appened to be there that night." His teeth flashed again.
I placed the scarab on the table. "Have you seen this before? Or anything like it? Someone tossed it in on a bet tonight, and there have been others found like it, related to . . . to the death of the girl who was found in the museum."
"I did 'ear 'bout 'at. Sad business." He picked up the scarab, holding it near the candle, turning it over. He had the perfect hands for a pickpocket: long, dextrous fingers and solid, strong wrists. The thought soured any soft feelings I might have begun to have for Pix. I was here to get information from him, and nothing more. I should not be enjoying his company, his jests and, most definitely, I should not be noticing the shape of his mouth. And the way the corner of it ticked up gently when he was amused. I straightened up in my seat.