Wake Me Most Wickedly

Book 0: Once Upon the East End

by Felicia Grossman

Genres: Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Legends & Mythology; Jewish Fiction; Regency Romance

Synopsis

“No one writes love stories with more heart, more swoons, and more sizzle” (Joanna Shupe, USA Today bestselling author) in this clever reimaging of Snow White, where a handsome businessman must decide whom to trust with his heart—but with danger looming, it’s his life, not his love, at risk.

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

May 1832

Whitechapel, London, England

Night was the best time to hunt—especially if you relied on stealth, not strength, to snare your prey. The few lamps flickered in the heavy fog, camouflaging Hannah Moses against sooty boards hastily nailed over a broken door. A sliver of light from an upstairs window made the cracked stones of the alley glitter.

A gust of unseasonably cold wind rippled through Hannah’s skirts as she moved toward the almost empty street, splashing damp debris through the moth holes in the bottom of her petticoats and the hem of her worn gray cloak. Her big toe, having burst through her hastily repaired stockings, burned as the chill seeped into her boots. With a grunt, she wedged herself between the slats of a rotting fence, the soggy wood high enough to conceal her presence.

Come on, come on. She tapped her half-numb foot against the ground and rubbed her hands together, her fingers still icy through her woolen gloves. Craning her neck, she peered onto the road just in time to see a weathered drunk toss up his supper. The man proceeded to keel over, face-first, giving the scavengers a good peek at his pockets.

They were upon him in a flash, mostly boys, with a few girls in the mix, jabbing and pulling at each other to get to the body fast enough. While some of the older ones shoved, a few smaller, cleverer ones slithered between the limbs, picking off buttons and laces—whatever could be sold the next day.

Probably to her shop or another of its ilk. Hannah’s lip twitched at the predictable cycle of London’s lesser neighborhoods, even as her boots pinched and another gust of wind rattled her bones. Gritting her teeth, she wrapped her cloak tighter around her arms.

Where was he? She’d been waiting almost a quarter of an hour and she had better things to do than—

“Hello, Hannah.” The dark rumbling whisper came right in her ear, along with his hot, whiskey-scented breath.

“Oy, finally.” With a scowl, she turned back into the alley that had only just appeared to be a dead end to find Ned Phyppers, leaning against the fence next to her.

“What have you got for me?” he asked, reaching out and tracing a rough finger down her cheek.

Hannah rolled her eyes at the gesture. “It’s a bit cold for that, isn’t it?” But she didn’t resist as he moved his body over hers, blocking their faces from onlookers.

When he bent to kiss her ear, she told him, “He’s in the tavern, two streets down. The Speckled Toad.” She gasped as he nipped at the lobe. Closing her eyes, she gave her best impression of a besotted moan—a little show for the benefit of any onlookers.

“He’s there now?” he murmured, taking full advantage of his position to kiss her again, this time on her neck.

“Will be until at least two.” She nodded, gritting her teeth as he slid the sleeves of her gown down her shoulders, exposing her to the damned cold. “The barkeep is making sure he’s in good spirits.” Biting back a sigh, she pressed herself against him as both a continuance of their charade and because it was truly freezing. “He’ll be alone, in the left corner, facing the fire. Go in through the side door and don’t make too much of a fuss,” she added as he placed a hand on the small of her back, before sliding up her stays.

“Since when do you tell me how to do my job?” he asked as his fingers teased her nipple. She cursed under her breath, forcing herself not to slap his hand away, and instead focused on excising the twinges of guilt she still somehow felt, even after all these years, over what would happen to the hapless people she located for Ned and his customers. A foolish inclination, but one that somehow lingered no matter how hard she sought to squash it.

“I’m not telling you how to do anything. I’m just conveying the owner’s message.” Hannah closed her eyes once more, this time striving to lose herself in the pretense of being wanted and being able to want someone back.

“Keeping him happy is your concern, not mine.” Ned pushed off the fence and crept toward the mouth of the alley, leaving her cold as she readjusted her buttons and cloak.

“It’ll be yours, too, if you ruin my contacts and have to use someone not as reasonable nor agreeable for your information.” She straightened her hood, shielding her face.

“If my men get too rough, I’m sure there are ways you could smooth it over.” He reached back and stroked her cheek.

She rolled her eyes again, this time plucking his hand off, as they were done. “I think I’m getting a bit long in the tooth for that.” More than a little. Funny how quickly time marched on when one always fought to live day to day. Her thirtieth year had come and gone, bringing little lines at the corners of her eyes and thin whisps of gray between the dark brown hairs ensnared in her brush. Not that she’d ever been a great beauty in the first place. Ordinary at best, without much else to recommend her besides her now well-honed sense of self-preservation.

“You still have your charms.” In three quick steps Ned was before her once more, leaning in, hand back on her breast—as if to translate the actual meaning of her “charms”—before continuing. “And if this goes well…” His lip curled as he fiddled with her collar.

However, he did not meet her gaze. Did not look at her face. Not that she expected more. After all, they were both using each other. An honest arrangement between fellow creatures of the night. Though he had all the power and needed to be handled with extreme care if she wanted to keep her other business open—and her heart still beating in her chest.

Another blast of icy wind swelled between the buildings, as if spring was just another promise the world would fail to keep.

“It’s late.” She drew back, before giving his arm a quick squeeze through his jacket. “And you need to be getting on with it. You have work to do.” Holding her head high, she brushed past him onto the street.

Leaving instead of being left.

“That I do. Next time, perhaps,” he called after her, and she forced herself not to turn around.

Next time. There would most certainly be a next time. And maybe, if she took a sip or two or three of whatever he’d been drinking, she could turn off her mind and just enjoy things. Something that had been a great deal easier when she was younger.

A drop of rain plunked on her head, and she pressed herself flush against the pavement beside closed shops and boardinghouses, avoiding the gutters as she traveled westward. Home. To the far edge of Whitechapel and the pawnshop her parents had built after fleeing Odessa, changing Moscovich to Moses. Before things had gotten worse—for all Jews, not just those of ill repute and poor girls whose parents had too many mouths to feed. To the shop they’d run together, as a family, until it was just her and her sister.

Only, unlike her, Tamar was made for something bigger. For the future that had nearly been hers once. With new gowns and fine food and pretty jewels. Not to mention respectability and reentrance into the Jewish community—a place that tolerated them when her parents donated enough money for a plaque on the synagogue wall, only to denounce them when they’d become the gentiles’ monsters to slay. Now they pretended the Moses sisters didn’t exist altogether.

And while she’d love Tamar to stay with her forever, the longer her sister lingered in Hannah’s world, the harder it would be for her to transform her path into something better. Which meant she really needed to get on with gathering the dowry she’d promised. One that would catch the eye—and hand—of a certain type of man. One that would erase all the unsavory bits of her family’s past and her own present.

Or at least blind her sister’s potential in-laws to them.

Shivering, Hannah rubbed her arms, hugging her body closer as a drenched rat skittered across her path. She moved forward and a second darted by. Followed by third and a fourth. Frowning, she crept behind a stack of crates to see what had frightened the creatures. She peered into the street and started.

Before her stood three men. Two she knew rather well. Unfortunately. Her shoulder still throbbed from their last encounter. She rubbed the spot on her jaw that had boasted a bruise for three days as well. They’d taken half what she’d made last week too. Something that would not happen again. Sheltering in her hiding spot, Hannah squinted at the sole stranger.

Young, probably closer to her sister’s twenty years than her thirty-two. She wrinkled her nose. A dandy. With a shiny top hat and golden buttons just begging to be ripped off his too bright wool coat.

“Now, let’s not be hasty or irrational about this,” he said, his gloved palms raised to the men in almost supplicant surrender, his voice surprisingly calm.

“Oh, no one’s being hasty. No, sir.” Mick, the one who had punched her full in the mouth when she refused to give him an extra cut of her earnings, gave a dark chuckle. “Cool and slow, we are.”

“Yes, we’re the most logical men you’ll ever meet,” George—Mick’s partner—the man who had twisted her arm so sharply behind her back, her sleeve ripped—added.

“I can see that,” the stranger responded, his full lips twitching. Shockingly, he stepped toward them, not away, his posture bold, almost relaxed. “And I have a great respect for that logic and for both of you. Which is why I answered you honestly. I do not have any funds on my person. However, perhaps, if you provide me your addresses, I could send a card and we could agree to a mutually convenient meeting time and place for me to pay the very reasonable fee I owe you both for…” He raised a finger, cocking his head. “What did you call it?”

“Walking out of our territory alive,” George growled.

“Yes, that’s the terminology.” The stranger nodded, threading his fingers together, not even flinching at the menacing noises emanating from the other men.

Oy. The dandy was certainly brave. She had to hand it to him on that front. Foolish, but brave. And probably soon to be quite injured. Not that she’d feel sorry for him. There was no good reason for someone like him to be on these streets at this hour. This was his own doing.

“An excellent, succinct description of the service you’re offering me,” he continued, “a very valuable service indeed. A—” The man’s words cut off as he broke into a hasty, slightly clumsy sprint in the opposite direction.

Hannah’s lip twitched as he darted around a trough and into an alley, making enough noise to wake the dead, if not half the East End. Though the way he jumped over a fence, clearing it completely as the tails of his rather audacious blue frock coat flapped in the wind, was rather impressive. Especially as he managed not to get his ridiculous long gold watch chain caught.

However, his pursuers knew the area a great deal better and were already traveling around the corner to head him off. Hannah rubbed her sore arm.

She should go home, get in bed, and forget about all of this until they inevitably pulled the stranger’s body out of the Thames in a few months. That would be the best course of action.

And yet… she bit her lip.

Yes, the stranger likely had earned whatever was coming to him, dressing like that this far east, not to mention wandering alone in the middle of the night. But the idea of those two momzers taking her blunt and getting his as well… she balled her fists before ducking and skirting down another alley, cutting through the troughs and racks behind the goyishe butcher’s shop, near tripping headfirst on the latch to his cellar door.

Oy. She was a draikopt, always looking for trouble, wasn’t she?

Though looking at that now broken latch gave her an idea. Speeding her steps, she made it around the corner just as he emerged and, better, before Mick and George cut him off. Grabbing his arm quicker than he could cry out, she pulled him down with her, into the darkness.

They landed on the floor of the cellar in a heap, the door still ajar.

“What the—” he started before she clamped a hand on his mouth as muttering drifted from above.

Heart in her ears, she held as still as she could, barely registering the warm sensation of the stranger’s body against hers. Nor the woody, yet somehow rather pleasant scent of whatever undoubtedly expensive cologne he was wearing.

No, she didn’t dare move until his pursuers’ voices had long ceased and the chittering of rats once again filled the air.

Only then did she remove her hand.

“Thank you for that,” he said, straightening his jacket.

Shielding her eyes, she squinted, pointing above. “Don’t thank me just yet. We still have to get out of here.”

“Oh, I think that can be arranged,” he murmured. And before she could inquire as to what he meant, he’d wrapped his arms around her waist. With an almost achingly gentle touch, he hoisted her up through the open door, keeping her skirts smooth and intact.

Hannah scrambled to her feet and backed away just as he leapt upward, catching the edge of the opening, and swung his legs past the edge so he landed neatly on his feet. Graceful as a cat. A large one. With a wolfish grin.

“There we go.” He brushed his hands together and removed his hat.

A ripple of emotion she couldn’t quite identify tingled through her veins as they stood face-to-face, until the moon finally peeked out from behind the clouds to give her a full view of him.

Hannah bit back a gasp. Handsome wasn’t the half of it. Cropped brown hair beneath his neatly clipped and properly inconspicuous yarmulke; full red lips; deep, near black eyes with impossibly long lashes; a strong, firm jaw—if not for his rather outsized, thick eyebrows, he’d have seemed almost unreal, a storybook prince instead of a man. However, even those were not a flaw. They suited him. Somehow.

More than any feature on her face had ever suited her. Even when she was young and fresh and naïve enough to believe fairy tales were real. Or that she could thrive as anything but a villain.

Oy, she needed to leave. She coughed into her arm as she worked to stare at the debris-filled cobblestones instead of him. “Yes. Well. I would, um, advise you to move along.” She indicated westward, to where she presumed he was traveling, or at least where he belonged. In Aldgate proper, or farther, where the princes among their people had started settling alongside the gentiles they tried to emulate. Something at which he almost succeeded. “Stick to the populated streets. Ones with taverns,” she added.

He cocked his head, almost as if he was trying to read her thoughts. “Sound advice.” But he stepped toward her, close enough for her to study the shape of his ears and the flecks of ash in his brown hair, and the smooth planes of his face.

“I—” Any and all words caught in her throat as his eyes bored into her, smoldering despite the chill, taking her breath.

“Thank you for that as well.” He pulled off his gloves, stuffing them in his coat pocket. “And for rescuing me. It’s not every day the damsel rescues the knight.” His lips settled into a rather self-satisfied grin, which shouldn’t have made her stomach flip, but for some odious reason it did.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m hardly a damsel. And you’re no knight.”

“How do you know that?” He reached out to stroke her cheek.

An action done by another man less than an hour ago. However, this time, it sparked not merely desire inside, but something akin to longing. Not for the past and the opportunities she’d missed, but for now. For him. This handsome stranger.

Which was ridiculous. She didn’t know him. And what she did know of him, of his set, made it clear that if he knew who she was, what she had done, what she continued to do—

Pulling herself backward, Hannah indicated to the white edge of his tzistzis, which had presumably popped out from beneath his trousers during his jump. “They don’t make us knights. Even if we try to dress like Beau Brummell on the outside.” Blood pounding in her ears, she turned away from him. “Go home.”

And before he could respond, she broke into a run, racing around the corner, not stopping until she reached the door of her pawnshop.

Quick as she could, she scrambled upstairs, past her softly snoring sister. Fingers trembling, she managed her buttons and stays, before splashing water over herself at the basin. She didn’t dare meet her own reflection in the glass.

When she slid into bed, pulling the prickly, faded wool blankets over her head, she forced herself to sleep and not give him another thought.

There would be no dreams about the past, the present, or the Jewish prince she’d left behind.

November 1832

Aldgate, London, England

What was the point of having a day of rest when one never enjoyed that luxury? When one needed to plot and plan and judge every situation, every interaction to extract the greatest benefit? When one’s family’s future depended on a compelling performance that never ended?

Conversation rose within the packed center of the synagogue at Duke’s Place even with the concluding prayers having not quite finished. The men swarmed, done with half listening, ready and eager to argue and debate over food and drink. An activity enjoyable in theory, but a field of snares for one without a scholarly pedigree and with only the frailest of fortunes. Not to mention a distinct lack of firsthand knowledge of a world that was supposed to be his birthright.

But when one needed to hobnob with the community’s most venerated, well… he’d make do.

Rising along with the throng, Solomon Weiss neatly folded the tallis that had belonged to his grandfather and slipped it into its thick, embroidered brocade bag. The prior “Solomon” had been his mother’s father, a man who’d died in Frankfurt before he was born. A man who, no doubt, had been a great deal more accustomed to playing his role in the community.

Or one would suppose. Solomon had never met the man, but considering the only prayers he’d ever heard in their house as a child had come from his mother’s lips, the assumption seemed reasonable. His grandfather’s knowledge would probably come in handy now.

Tucking the object beneath his arm, Sol smoothed the front of his newly remade velvet-lined frock coat. It was a rich deep blue—bold enough to garner attention but not so flamboyant to appear desperate—or at least that was the concept.

Cracking his back, he turned to the closest person he had to a friend, his hopefully soon-to-be business partner’s husband, Aaron Ellenberg. “I thought that would never end.”

“It’s the same length every week,” the other man muttered, straightening his fine silk cravat, his gloved hands a touch awkward. Though that was to be expected. After all, until six months ago, Aaron had been a mere custodian in this same synagogue. Now, however, he’d married the wealthiest heiress in Europe, securing his future and the future of any relations to come. A position Sol had sought. Though, in the end, even he had to admit that Aaron was better suited for both the role and the woman.

Damned lucky momzer. Especially as—though his salary was nothing to sneeze at—he’d not yet received the business partnership offered by Aaron’s wife when she’d turned down his suit. And wouldn’t until he snared more clients of his own. A task that had proved difficult when he still had responsibilities to grow and maintain his family’s bank. Hence his repeat appearances at the synagogue. Even if the visits hadn’t been quite as fruitful as he’d have liked.

However, he was starting to enjoy the rhythms and the company. Same with the daily morning prayers Aaron had started dragging him to a few times a week. He still couldn’t forget his purpose.

Sol wagged a finger at his once rival, now friend. “That’s what they want you to think, but I have it on good authority that the rabbi’s sermons are getting longer.”

Aaron’s lip twitched as he adjusted his top hat over his yarmulke. “’On good authority?’ What authority is that, pray tell?”

“I have my sources.” He moved toward the aisle, searching for an opening to enter the river of exiting congregants. Sol winced as the fabric of his breeches rubbed against the nasty scrapes and bruises that he’d received the prior morning. This was what he got for permitting his horsemanship to get so rusty.

“Flesh and blood, or figments of your imagination?” Aaron grumbled. The other man then reached out to right an elderly gentleman whose cane slipped, before giving him a silent nod.

“Details, details.” Sol glanced toward the now vacant raised bimah. “The point is, they never should have been permitted to lecture us in English.”

“Why?” his friend asked as they finally found a spot in the shuffling sea of bodies.

“What?” Sol stopped short with the crowd nearly trampling two gentlemen debating a point about Abraham and his father.

A tap on his shoulder returned his attention to his friend. “Why shouldn’t sermons be done in English?” Aaron gave him a soft nudge with his elbow. “Enlighten us with your wisdom.”

“There is no ‘us,’ there’s only you.” Sol rolled his eyes. Glancing around first, he lowered his voice. “And if you must know, it’s because sermons are much easier to sleep through when I understand nothing, instead of having to block out drivel. And god knows, given my schedule, I need the sleep.” He put an arm on his friend’s shoulder and guided him around the group that was still holding up the flow outward. “Now come on, your wife is probably waiting for us.”

Aaron released a small snort though his expression became a touch wistful. “My wife is probably preening for compliments in her new gown, but if you want to spoil her fun…”

“No, I want you to spoil her fun as she loves you and merely tolerates me. I’m hungry and tired and don’t see anyone useful to charm—” He craned his neck just to make sure he wasn’t missing any opportunity. “Nope, no business to be had or connections to make. At least not at the moment so…”

“Please, she sings your praises. But I’ll go fetch her.” The other man gave him a brief nod before scurrying off, so the couple could leave and eat, and he could… well… lie down, he supposed, as his brother didn’t exactly observe Shabbos in their home.

Not that he could judge Frederick for it—it hadn’t been as important to his brother’s mother, their father’s first wife, and observance certainly had limited use, especially given the new, primarily gentile clientele his brother had acquired. Besides, as the elder and head of the family, Frederick had a great deal on his mind and more responsibilities than Sol could imagine, and certainly didn’t need him questioning his choices.

Sol rubbed the back of his neck as he searched for Aaron and instead spotted a group of bankers congregating near an alcove. Ones whose favor he and Frederick could certainly use.

Straightening his collar, he turned and—thwack.

A cloaked figure, head bent, flew right into his chest, stealing his breath. Planting his feet to hold his ground, he reached and grasped the falling form before him.

“Whoa, careful now.” As gently as he could, despite the rather sharp pain in his ribs, he worked to steady what now appeared to be a woman. “Are you all… right?” he asked, the last word breaking off as her hood slipped from her head.

Wide eyes, set off by heavy lower lashes, blinked at him in surprise, and a jolt of recognition blasted through his body. The wispy dark hair; the firm pointed chin; the full, plump, very kissable lips, pursed in determination—in an instant he was back in that alley, nearly six months ago, when, snooping in the shabbier sections of town had almost turned deadly before a rather quick-thinking stranger had saved him.

“You,” he whispered. “It was you—”

But his pronouncement was interrupted by her lurching away, until a horrifying rip snicked through the air. “Fuck. I’m stuck.” She glared at him before yanking at her shoulder seam, the scruffy wool fibers tangled with a gold button on the cuff of his coat.

“You most certainly are,” he murmured, pleased by the rather fortuitous turn of events. After all, while he. . .