The Earl and the Pickpocket. Helen Dickson

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      ‘Rob me again and I’ll hurt more than your arm, you young whelp,’ Adam promised direly. He held out his hand. ‘My watch, if you please.’

      The youth’s clear blue-green eyes glared hotly back at Adam, and he continued to fidget beneath his close inspection. He felt anger towards the stranger for catching him, but most of his anger was directed against himself for getting caught. He was aware of the painful gnawing of his stomach, and the dinner the proceeds of selling such a fine watch would have provided—after Jack had had his cut.

      ‘I repeat. Give me back my watch.’ Adam’s eyes narrowed when the lad remained mute, and there was a glint in his eyes that warned the youngster against pushing his luck further. Taking him by the front of his jacket with both hands, Adam lifted him so the toes of his ill-fitting boots barely brushed the ground, thrusting his face close to the slim, arrogant nose. ‘I dare say a constable will bring you to your senses, lad.’

      Adam had the satisfaction of seeing his captive squirm uneasily and his face blanch. To be publicly conveyed through the streets by this tall stranger, and subsequently brought before the magistrate and thrown into prison for thieving—the utter humiliation of this ordeal would be so mortifying that it had the lad delving into the pocket of his baggy breeches and producing the purloined watch.

      ‘Here, take it. I—I am sorry I took it,’ he muttered, the apology almost sticking in his throat.

      Adam released his hold on the jacket and retrieved his timepiece, noticing how small the lad’s hands were—a necessary asset to any thief, he thought wryly. He was certain this young scamp possessed a healthy concern for his miserable hide, and knew fear was the determining factor in his decision to return his watch.

      ‘Being sorry won’t undo what you’ve done.’

      Silent and antagonistic, the lad looked up at the stranger, meeting eyes of vivid blue set in a face tanned by the sun. The man was tall, his body hard, lean and muscular, giving the appearance of someone who rode, fenced and hunted. Beneath his tricorn hat dark brown hair was drawn back and fastened at the nape, accentuating his leanly covered cheekbones and firm, angular jaw. His nose was aquiline, and beneath it were generous, but at present, unsmiling lips.

      The lad guessed him to be at least twenty-eight. There was an aggressive confidence and strength of purpose in his features, and also something serious, studious, almost. He detected an air of breeding about him, a quality that displayed itself in his crisp manner, neat apparel and austere mien. The man’s stern eyes, holding his captive, seemed capable of piercing his soul, laying bare his innermost secrets, causing a chill of fear to sear through him and his eyes to dart about, looking for a means of escape, but the man barred his passage.

      Adam was calmly giving the lad the self-same scrutiny, seeing a boy of no more than thirteen or fourteen. Feeling a stirring of compassion—an emotion that was completely alien to him—he gradually allowed his anger to recede and his stern visage softened. The small, slight form was clad in ill-fitting garments, and he was as dirty and undernourished as any other juvenile who inhabited St Giles, but there was an air and manner about him that held his attention.

      Adam’s look became enquiring as he continued to study the lad—and realized he was educated, recalling how he had blistered him in French in so diverse a manner when he’d hoisted him out of the puddle by his backside.

      ‘Now, what shall I do with you? You’re naught but a boy. It’d be more fitting to give you the spanking you deserve than to deliver you up to the magistrate.’

      A feral light gleamed in the lucid depths of the lad’s eyes. ‘You lay one finger on me, and I promise you you’ll live to regret it,’ he ground out in a low, husky voice.

      In the face of this dire threat Adam leaned forward deliberately until his eyes were on a level with the lad’s, little more than a foot apart. His eyes were hard and ice cold, yet when he spoke his voice was soft and slow.

      ‘Be careful, boy. Don’t you dare me, or I’ll administer the punishment you deserve. I abhor the abuse of children—so don’t tempt me, otherwise I might change my ways.’ The lad stared at him, and when Adam considered he was sufficiently chastened and humbled, he drew himself erect. ‘Do you make a living out of stealing other people’s property, knowing you could land in gaol—or be hanged for it?’

      A brief, reluctant nod gave Adam his answer. ‘Better than starving,’ he mumbled.

      Adam suppressed a smile and directed a stern countenance at the young rapscallion. ‘And do your parents know?’ he enquired, knowing as he asked the question, being a student in human nature, that his parents would more than likely be the receivers of their son’s stolen goods.

      Still glaring his defiance, the lad raised cold bright eyes to Adam’s and his chin came up belligerently. ‘What’s that to you?’

      Adam shrugged. Re-attaching his watch to the empty chain and shoving it inside the breast pocket of his waistcoat, he continued to study him thoughtfully. ‘Do they know where you are?’

      Thrusting his hands deep into his pocket, the lad scuffed the dirt with his oversized boots and averted his angry eyes. ‘They’re both dead,’ he revealed in sullen tones.

      ‘I see,’ Adam said with more understanding. Hearing a low growl come from the lad’s stomach, he took pity on him. ‘I was about to get something to eat. Would you care to join me—or will that pride of yours stand in the way of allowing your victim to put food in your belly? You look as if you haven’t had a decent meal in a month or more.’

      The lad’s eyes betrayed a large measure of distrust and he held back. A thief couldn’t afford to hang around his victim. ‘I don’t take charity. I can take care of myself.’

      ‘I know,’ Adam remarked drily. ‘You prefer to steal it.’

      ‘I’m particular as to whom I eat with.’

      ‘Suit yourself.’ Adam turned abruptly and strode away.

      Gnawing on his bottom lip, the lad watched him go, the hollow ache in his middle reminding him how hungry he was. It had been hours since he’d eaten, and the stale bread and mouldy cheese had been less than appetising. Hunger pains overcame his sense of outrage and, unable to let the chance of a meal slip by he scrambled in the stranger’s wake.

      ‘Wait. I suppose I could manage a bite,’ he said, though it chafed him to do so.

      Adam smiled to himself and glanced back. ‘Then hurry up. You’re lagging, boy,’ he reproached, heading for the nearest alehouse.

      The youth glowered at the broad back. The man was infuriatingly sublime in his amusement. If he weren’t so desperate to eat, he’d cheerfully tell him to go and jump in the Thames.

      Avoiding the drunks, they entered a tavern. It was scruffy, noisy and dark, the walls blackened with the heavy smoke of the fire, candles and tobacco smoke. When they were seated in a dark corner and food ordered, Adam looked across the table at his companion. He sat erect, his small chin raised, and Adam could see him putting up a valiant fight for control—a fight he won. Despite his ragged garb he looked incongruously like a proud young prince, his eyes sparkling like twin jewels. Adam’s granite features softened and his eyes warmed, as if he understood how humiliated the lad felt.

      Pity stirred his heart. The lad was just one of hundreds of London’s lost children with thin, dirty faces, СКАЧАТЬ