Bancroft - Peaky Blinders Reverse Harem x Reader

Chapter 3

We don't make small talk on the drive. I'm thankful the roads to Birmingham are bumpy and unfinished, and the rattling of the car frame makes enough noise to excuse us. I have three suitcases in the back, bringing everything I need for the next... how long? Two years? Less if I get married, I remember glumly. I picture my father smirking at that clause, happy to be causing me some final strife and misery. Because apparently ignoring me my whole life wasn't enough.

"Small Heath," Tommy says, as we come into the city.

It's nighttime now, and Birmingham's as polluted as London, and possibly even more cramped. Everything is dark, from the road to the buildings, and raucous laughter erupts from a pub door swung open or cracked window. I can hear glass bottles smashing against stone, the screams of somebody fighting, and even a baby's cry. My eyes widen slightly.

"You're not in Wiltshire any more," Thomas says drily.

I try not to be a princess, as he'd mockingly called me, and ignore the barbarity as much as I can. "What do you do for work?" I ask, trying to keep distracted.

"The usual," he replies. "Races. A few other things in the pipeline."

"Races?" I ask in surprise. "I'm surprised our paths haven't crossed before."

"You attend them?" he asks.

"I'm a bloodstock agent," I answer. "I help owners with their thoroughbred portfolios."

Or at least I did. I hadn't worked in almost six months, not since father got sick. As though it made any difference in the end, I thought bitterly.

"Full of surprises, aren't you?" Tommy says.

But mercifully, we have come to a stop, and I can busy myself getting out of the car and trying to yank my suitcases from the back seat. They're stuck, but I keep tugging, determined to get them.

Tommy's strong, steady arms gently move me aside, and he lifts them out easily, even with a cigarette between his lips. His suit blazer lifts a little, following his torso as he stretches across the back seat, revealing the white shirt beneath that follows the contours of his body. I glance away guiltily.

"Thank you." I go to pull the cases to the house, but Tommy does that, too.

He doesn't so much as glance at me as he knocks on the door with his knuckles, announcing our presence before he opens it and enters anyway.

"Michael?" He calls out. "John?"

The house is... warm. There's no other way to describe it. The unmistakeable heat of lit fires has permeated the whole place, like a warm embrace as soon as I enter. Even the colours here are earthy — browns and creams, wallpaper and rugs. I feel like I've stepped into a giant cushion. A place where nothing matters, and nobody needs to worry.

"They're out," says a slightly familiar, gruff voice. A tall, lean man approaches us down the hall, his hair longer than Tommy's, his moustache perfectly proportional. His eyes aren't as intense as Tommy's, but they're still piercing, giving me the same sense of being x-rayed as he glances me up and down. "Well. You fucking came, after all."

"Arthur," Tommy warns.

But Arthur merely extends a glass full of brown liquor to me. "You like whiskey?" he asks.

I take the glass, sniff it. I've never had anything stronger than wine. "Should I?"

"You'll learn to like it. Have to, if you're living here."

Feeling both sets of eyes on me, I take a sip. It feels like swallowing liquid magma. My lips still burn, my tongue, my throat, a trail all the way down to my stomach, long after I've pulled the glass away.

"It's good," I say, praying neither of them will notice the way my eyes threaten to water.

It's like I've passed some intangible test.

"The McGuffins's have kicked off again tonight," Arthur explains, leading us through to the kitchen. "John was gonna take care of it alone, but Michael insisted. Think he was hoping to get a bit of glory with you out of the picture."

"Expect he was," Tommy says evenly. He pours himself a glass of whiskey, gestures for me to sit at the table. "And what a victory it'll be."

"Irish clan," Arthur says to me by way of explanation. "Always gotten on well with them, and all, until they started acting up recently. Ah, well. Nature of the business, I suppose."

"Careful, Arthur," Tommy warns with a glint in his eye. "Bancroft here's in bloodstock. I daresay she knows our enemies even better than we do."

I clear my throat under Arthur's curious glance. "I don't know any McGuffin," I say. "My clients were mostly in the south-east."

"It's a small world, ours," Tommy says, stamping out a cigarette and standing to his feet. "Sooner or later someone'll come up. I won't give you a house tour tonight, as it's late. But help yourself to food from the kitchen."

"You're leaving?" I ask.

"You haven't met John and Michael," he says ominously. "They'll need reining in."

"Smacked around the head, more like," Arthur adds.

"Arthur can show you to your room."

But Tommy pauses before he leaves. His eyes darken as they meet mine, and something stirs in his jaw. I'm aware of my stomach falling a little, and I'm frozen in place.

But then he disconnects, leaving the room and followed by only the front door swinging shut behind him.