The Black Boar tavern stank of stale ale, sweat, and the greasy remnants of countless unwashed meals. Eleanor Vance adjusted the frayed shawl around her shoulders, ensuring it obscured the fine quality of her borrowed dress. The dim, smoky interior made her eyes water, but she forced herself to walk with the weary shuffle of a woman accustomed to hardship, not the measured grace of a lady.
A hulking man near the door leered at her, revealing a mouthful of rotted teeth. "Lookin' for company, sweetheart?"
Eleanor ducked her head, letting her unbound hair fall forward. "Just a drink, sir," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
The man snorted but lost interest as she slipped past him towards the bar. The barkeep, a grizzled giant with a scar bisecting one eyebrow, eyed her with a mix of boredom and suspicion.
"What'll it be?"
"Small ale, please," Eleanor said, sliding a copper across the sticky counter. She kept her head down but her eyes sharp, scanning the room for any sign of Hemsworth's man.
Three tables away, a flash of familiar livery caught her eye—the dark green and silver of Hemsworth Shipping. A broad-shouldered man with a broken nose held court, his voice carrying over the general din.
"—like takin' sweets from a babe," the man bragged, raising a tankard to his companions. "Barton's too busy playin' lord to watch his own back doors."
Eleanor's pulse quickened. She took her ale and retreated to a shadowed corner, positioning herself within earshot but out of direct line of sight. The man—clearly the "hound" Jem had described—was deep in his cups, his tongue loosening with every swallow.
One of his companions, a rat-faced fellow with a perpetual squint, leaned in. "He payin' well for this little stunt?"
The hound smirked, tapping the side of his nose. "Well enough. And there's more where that came from. Boss says Barton's got other weak spots. That fancy wife of his, for one—"
Eleanor's fingers tightened around her tankard.
"—and that mousey bitch what just crawled back to his nest." The hound's gaze swept the room, passing over Eleanor's hunched form without recognition. "Hemsworth wants 'em all scattered. No more happy endings for Blackwood."
The rat-faced man whistled low. "Bold words. Barton ain't the forgivin' sort."
The hound shrugged, draining his ale. "Barton's got no proof. And without proof, he's just a beast with his teeth pulled." He stood, tossing coins on the table. "Tomorrow night, lads. Dock twelve. More work to be done."
Eleanor waited until the group dispersed before slipping out the back door, her heart hammering against her ribs. The cold night air hit her like a slap, clearing the tavern's stench from her lungs. She turned down the alley—
—and froze.
The hound stood blocking her path, his broken nose casting a grotesque shadow in the flickering lamplight. "Well, well," he drawled. "A little bird told me I had a shadow."
Eleanor's mouth went dry. She backed up a step, but the alley dead-ended behind her.
The hound advanced, cracking his knuckles. "Let's see who's under them fine lady's rags, eh?"
Eleanor's hand slipped into her pocket, closing around the cool metal of the derringer Paul had insisted she carry. She'd never fired a gun before. Never so much as held one until tonight.
The hound lunged.
The gunshot was deafening in the narrow alley. The hound stumbled back, clutching his shoulder, his face a mask of shock. "You bitch!"
Eleanor didn't wait. She turned and ran, her borrowed boots slipping on the wet cobblestones. Shouts echoed behind her, but she didn't stop until she reached the prearranged meeting point—a nondescript carriage waiting two streets over.
The door flew open before she reached it. Paul hauled her inside, his face pale under the carriage lamps. "You're hurt," he said immediately, his hands hovering over the blood splatter on her sleeve.
"Not mine," Eleanor panted. She met Sandra's wide-eyed gaze across the carriage. "Dock twelve. Tomorrow night. They're planning another attack."
Paul's expression darkened. "Where?"
Eleanor swallowed hard, the hound's words ringing in her ears. "I think... I think it's you they're after this time, Paul. And Sandra."
Sandra reached across the carriage, gripping Eleanor's shaking hands. The derringer, still warm, lay heavy between them. "Then we'll be ready," Sandra said softly.
Outside, the first drops of rain began to fall, washing the soot and blood from the city's streets. But the storm gathering over Blackwood had only just begun.