Page 12 of Razors & Ruin

But it’s her smile that’s the stuff of nightmares.

6

The next morning…

Nellie

Spitalfields Market isn’t the most welcoming merchant’s row—there are as many fences as they are honest traders—but if you need something, you’ll find it.

It doesn’t take Sweeney and me long to find exactly what we want.

The barber’s chair is more than a little bit shabby. The seller, Paulie, pumps his foot on the rear pedal, sending the chair upward with a tortured squeak of the ratchet.

“I’ve had this thing for ages,” he says. “I can give it a clean and grease and deliver it to your place, Mrs. Lovett, if that’ll do the trick.”

I glance at Sweeney as he runs his hand over the upholstery. It’s his decision, not mine.

“What is needs most is new leather, my friend.” Sweeney taps the frayed stitching. “But I suppose that’s too much to ask.”

“No can do for the price, sir. But I’ll throw in some extras. Basins, towels, a mirror. All in for the charge, and I can bring them by carriage.”

“Done,” Sweeney says, handing over some cash. “We’re going to get some food. I want to see a bundle made up when I return.”

Paulie doffs his cap. “My pleasure, mister. See you anon.”

I’m so proud to be seen with him. I can’t tell if people recognize him, but they certainly look. Sweeney has the demeanor of a man with a purpose and a scalding energy that slows people down as they pass; their eyes are drawn as though by magnets.

Such a presence is intoxicating, and as much as I enjoy the feel of my arm through his, I know he could be lured away. There are prettier faces than mine on these streets.

As if summoned by my thoughts, a voice trills from behind us, and we turn to see a woman in a lemon day dress, her white petticoat billowing gaily from beneath the taffeta. Her straw bonnet is bright and adorned with forget-me-nots.

“Mr. Brook!” She scurries toward us, her gaze fixed on Sweeney’s. “My days, sir! I did not expect to see you again!”

Sweeney’s expression is unreadable. “I don’t rightly recall, madam. Forgive my ignorance.”

The woman giggles. “Go on with you. It’s Marianne. You remember me—Ms. Veronica’s maid?”

Ms. Veronica. The wife of the barber. The woman with whom Sweeney had an affair, fathered a child, then killed her husbandfor taking her life when the cuckolded man discovered the deception.

I slide my hand into Sweeney’s and squeeze it. He squeezes it back hard enough to hurt, but it’s Marianne who has his attention.

Frilly, flighty Marianne, a little older than me, but not by much. Marianne, with her smooth skin and eyes as cool and blue as the sky.

Not Nellie.

“Let’s go,” I say.

“Hello!” Marianne says, finally acknowledging me. “Are you his sister or something?”

I grow still, seething, and hold her stare. “No, I am not. That’s not?—-”

“Marianne, do you know what happened to my little Johanna?” Sweeney asks suddenly. He releases my hand and clutches Marianne’s arm. “Because I need to know. I understand I cannot go to her, but I must have peace.”

Seeing my man’s hand on another woman’s body makes me want to do something terrible. How dare he. Only hours ago, I patched up his sliced stomach and sponged his blood from my body.

He can’t do this to me. He justcan’t.

“The bastard baby of a murdered mother and a criminal father?” Marianne whispers. She’s caught in his orbit now, her breathing ramping up as he pulls her closer. “They took her to the workhouse, of course.”

---