Alf didn’t exactly agree, but his body visibly relaxed.
Jenkins pulled the stool over, sat, and opened his surgical case. He took out a large pair of scissors, bent over the boy’s bloody breeches, and matter-of-factly cut the leg off from knee to hip, pulled off Alf’s shoe, and then slit his bloody stocking away from the leg as well.
Underneath the filthy breeches the boy wore ragged smallclothes, stained with blood.
Jenkins set aside the scissors, found a rag in his bag, and used it to gently blot the blood from a sluggishly oozing stab wound just above the boy’s knee.
Hugh eyed the cut. It looked deep and as if it would need stitches. He called to Talbot. “Bring some brandy.”
Talbot nodded and ducked from the room.
Alf met Hugh’s gaze, his own defiant. “Don’t need none of that, guv.”
Hugh rested his hand on the boy’s ankle. “It’ll help with the pain.”
Jenkins threaded his needle.
“Who did this to you?” Hugh asked.
Talbot came back in and handed a bottle to Hugh. He uncorked it before tilting the bottle to Alf’s lips.
The boy took a small sip, swallowed, and nodded. “Ta. They was waiting for me tonight. Big toughs, three of them. Between Covent Garden and St Giles.”
Jenkins nodded to Bell, who brought the candelabrum closer, throwing bright light on the knife wound. The candlelight jumped and flickered as Bell trembled.
“Steady,” Jenkins murmured. He pinched the edge of the cut together with his left hand and with a firm right hand thrust his needle into Alf’s skin.
Alf didn’t flinch, but his lips thinned as Jenkins placed another stitch.
Hugh held the boy’s gaze. “Do you think the attack on you is linked to the attack on me last night?”
“Know it. Was making inquiries today.” Alf’s brown eyes flicked up to his, big with pain. “And they was wearing red neckcloths. That’s the gang what tried to kill you last night. Call themselves the Scarlet Throat gang. On account of the neckcloths—and the way they like to kill their victims.” He made a graphic gesture across his neck with his finger.
Bell’s hand jerked at the gesture, the candlelight jumped again, and Jenkins growled under his breath.
Hugh balled his fist by his side. They’d attacked this boy because he’d sent him into St Giles alone to make inquiries for him. He should’ve never sent Alf in alone.
The boy winced as Jenkins tied the knot on the second stitch.
Hugh offered the bottle of brandy again.
Alf sneered. “Nah, guv. Don’t need any more of that.”
“We won’t think the less of you,” Hugh said mildly.
“What makes you think I cares what you think of me at all?” The boy’s lips twitched impudently.
Hugh raised his eyebrows. Was the boy fearful of losing his senses in front of his men? While he watched Jenkins set another careful stitch, he wondered what the boy’s past must’ve been like to make him so skittish.
“Talked to your linkboy today,” Alf whispered, interrupting his dark musings. “And some pickpockets.”
Hugh looked at him. The boy’s big brown eyes were hazed with pain, but a smile played around his pink lips. “And did you find out anything?”
“Not much,” the lad admitted, exhaling slowly as Jenkins pulled the stitch tight. “There was a toff maybe asking about hiring toughs in St Giles a sennight ago. Maybe. Some say the man smelled of rotten eggs.”
“Rotten eggs,” Hugh repeated, flat.
Alf winked. “Told you wasn’t much.”
“No other description?”
The boy closed his eyes. “Guess ’e was a right common-looking cove. Neither tall nor short nor black nor fair nor old nor young. Just with a snooty accent and smelling of rotten eggs. ’Spect you’ll be able to skip outside your grand ’ouse, sniff the air, and lay your ’and on ’is shoulder at once, right, guv?”
Talbot bowed his head and coughed into his sleeve, Bell’s eyes grew wide as saucers, while Riley outright chuckled.
Alf opened his eyes and looked straight at Hugh, the boy’s gaze full of laughter even through the pain.
Insubordinate whelp. Hugh narrowed his eyes at the lad, hiding his amusement.
Jenkins tied off the last stitch and snipped the thread neatly. Then he took linen strips from his bag and began bandaging the boy’s leg.
Alf bit his lip.
Hugh patted the boy’s ankle. Alf was brash to the point of cockiness, but his bones were delicate and small. The thought of his being set upon by three grown men, of having to run for his life across London, made something in Hugh clench in rage.
He jerked his chin to his men to leave the room as Jenkins finished tying off the bandage.
Bell lit a single candle, took it, and set down the candelabrum before all four tromped out.
Hugh glanced at Alf’s drooping eyelids. “Sleep here tonight. We’ll talk more in the morning.”
“Can’t keep me ’ere, guv,” the boy slurred, sounding half-asleep already. “Told you. Not my master, ’member?”
Hugh squeezed that fragile ankle before letting it go. “I might not be your master, imp, but that doesn’t mean you’re not under my protection. Stay here. That’s an order.”
Alf’s eyes widened, big and brown and heavily lashed. Hugh waited for the inevitable protest.
It never came.
Instead Alf smiled… and fell asleep.
Hugh stared at the boy a moment longer. He might be an independent urchin, used to having his own way and running free, but Hugh would be damned if he’d let the boy come to grief again while in his employ. Alf was one of his now.
To keep him safe he might have to clip the boy’s wings.
He turned wearily to the door and realized only as he closed it softly behind him: his headache was entirely gone.
THE FIRST THOUGHT Alf had on waking was that she wasn’t sleeping in her nest.
She wasn’t safe.
And someone was whispering nearby.
She held herself still, keeping her breaths even and slow, her lips soft and parted.
“Maybe he’s a new footman.”
“Then why’s he hurt?”
“Maybe Papa doesn’t like him.”
“Father wouldn’t hurt a footman, Petey!” the first voice exclaimed, and then with less certainty, “Probably not, anyway.”
The speakers had forgotten to whisper, and their voices were high. They were children.
Alf opened her eyes.
She lay curled on her side and her whole body hurt. Two faces bent over her, one with blue eyes, the other with black. Both jumped back when they saw that she was awake.
They were two boys. The black eyes belonged to the older one, maybe seven or eight years old, with black curling hair. The blue-eyed one was over a head shorter and had fair hair and pink-and-white skin like an angel. He looked to be about Hannah’s age—five or six. They were both dressed like little gentlemen in brown waistcoats, breeches, and coats, tiny neckcloths tied properly at their throats.
Alf yawned and gingerly pushed herself up to sit against the wall, wincing as her ribs protested the movement. She made sure to throw the covers over her lap. She still wore only her smallclothes, shirt, and bindings. When she looked up again, the boys were staring at her as if she were an African tiger in a cage.
She smirked at them. “’Oo’s your father, then?”
“The Duke of Kyle,” the smaller one piped up, and Alf felt the shock go all the way through her.
She’d no idea Kyle was married.
“Hush, Petey,” hissed his brother.
“But he is!” cried the younger boy, tears filling his big blue eyes.
“Where’s your ma?” Alf asked, hoping to forestall the tears.
“She’s dead,” the older one said, and the younger one started screaming like a fishmonger with a new tray of mackerel to sell.
Her heart clenched. She wanted to pull the
little boy into her arms, but she wasn’t his mother. His mother was apparently dead and gone, and nothing in the world would change that.
So instead she reached down, pulled off her remaining shoe, and took out the tiny dagger.
The boy snapped his mouth shut.
She withdrew the dagger from the thin sheath and the razor-sharp edge glinted in the morning light from the window. “Want to ’ear ’ow I fought off three men trying to kill me last night?”
Little Blue Eyes gulped and nodded, and even his sour-faced older brother looked interested.
“’Ave a seat, then,” Alf said, patting the bed. “What’s your names?”
Blue Eyes was already climbing on the bed beside her. “’M Peter,” he said. “Lord Peter.”
She snorted at that because Lord Peter had just wiped his runny nose on his coat sleeve. “And you?”
The older boy was eyeing her with a watchful expression that reminded her of his father. “I’m Christopher.”
“Kit,” said Lord Peter bossily. “Ever’one calls him Kit. ’Cept Lady Jordan. But his real name is Staffin.”
Alf blinked, confused. “Your name is Staffin?”
“No,” the older boy said patiently as he finally gave in and climbed on the bed. “It’s Christopher Fitzroy, the Earl of Staffin. I’m the heir. I’ll be the duke when Father dies.”
He sat beside her, gazing quite matter-of-factly at her as he told her of his titles and that someday he’d be a duke.
“What’s your names?” Peter piped up from her other side.
She looked down into his pink-and-white angel face and had to laugh. “Alf. Just Alf. I ’aven’t any other names. Only the one.”
The little boy grinned back at her, and she saw that he was missing his two upper front teeth. “Tell us the story now.”
“Know where St Giles is?” Alf asked them.
They both shook their heads.
“Just as well.” She stared at them, her face grave. “It’s only the meanest, dirtiest, worst part of London, where all the thieves and beggars and cutthroats go at night. It’s where I live.”
Kit’s eyes were big, and Peter leaned into her arm.
“Last night, after dark, there I was a-walking ’ome all alone, just thinking on my supper, maybe some sausage and cheese—”
“I like sausage,” Peter interrupted.
“Hush,” Kit said.
“When I figured someone was following me.” Alf paused. “Clomp. Clomp. Clomp. Right behind me. Someone big. And when I went to look, what d’you suppose I saw?”
“What?” Peter whispered.
By this time he was clutching her arm with both his hands, his grief over his mother momentarily forgotten. She felt a pang. This was nice, having two little bodies snuggling close to her, telling wild tales and watching the boys’ awe.
“Three. Big. Blokes.” She looked at one boy and then the other, her voice lowered to a hoarse whisper to heighten the drama. “They was as large as apes, their arms near dragging on the ground.”
Peter shivered against her, his blue eyes wide.
“What did you do?” Kit whispered.
“Took to my ’eels,” Alf told him. “Ran as fast as I could, I can tell ye. But they was right be’ind me. One grabbed me and I went down ’ard. Rolled and curled. Put my ’ands over my face and ’ead and my knees in front of my belly. ’Ad a dagger in my ’and—”
“That one?” Peter asked, pointing to the one she’d taken from her shoe.
“Nah.” She winked at him. “I always like to ’ave a couple blades on me, see, just in case. So I lost the first when the bastard shoved me down. But the second—the second—I planted good and ’ard in one of them’s leg.”
“You stabbed a man?” Kit had gotten up on hands and knees in his excitement.
She narrowed her eyes, trying to look daring and fierce. “I did.”
“Was there lots and lots of blood?” Peter gasped.
Which was when a deep voice interrupted from the doorway.
“What,” Kyle said in slow, measured tones, “is going on here?”
Both boys’ heads whipped around as they looked guiltily at their father.
Alf sighed silently. She’d have to show them how to work on that.
She leaned forward, slipping the dagger back into her shoe with a pass of her hand, all the while smiling at Kyle. “Morning, guv.”
“Good morning, Alf.” He nodded. “I see that you’re feeling better this morning.”
“Wonderful what a good night’s rest will do you.” She winked.
“Hm.” His black eyes slid from her and narrowed on the boys. “Your nursemaid is in tears. She’s been searching for you both for the last half hour. You’re late for your breakfast and for your morning walk. What have you to say for yourselves?”
Kit slipped off the bed and stood to attention like a little soldier. “I’m sorry, Father.”
Peter’s lower lip wobbled, a rainstorm threatening again. He hopped from the bed and slid behind his brother.
Kyle’s lips thinned as he looked at his older son. “Take your brother and go straight to your nurse. Make your apologies to her.”
For a moment black eyes glared up at black eyes and Alf caught her breath at the anger the little boy showed toward his father.
“Yes, sir,” Kit said finally as he took the younger boy’s hand and led him from the room.
Kyle stared after his sons.
Alf cleared her throat. “Well. I thank you for the bed and the doctoring, but I s’pose I ought to be on my way.”
The duke turned back to her frowning. “Not without breakfast.”
“Don’t want to put you out, guv.”
Her reply merely made him look irritated. “It’s already made.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Since you put it that way, I’ll accept your gen’rous ’ospitality.”
She had missed her supper last night, and her stomach was reminding her of that fact.
A corner of his mouth cocked up. “Good. Here.” He held out a pair of boys’ breeches, a coat, and some stockings. “Bell kindly offered something to wear to breakfast.”
“Ta.” Alf took the clothes and swallowed. Her smallclothes weren’t particularly revealing, but he might still notice that she lacked a certain bulge.
She pulled on the stockings slowly, the blankets still covering her lap.
Kyle turned and eyed the pile of her ruined clothes in the corner.
Quickly she jumped up, turned her back, and pulled on the breeches and coat.
She looked up to find Kyle watching her like a hawk. “How is your leg?”
She smiled, ignoring the dull, throbbing pain. “It’ll do.”
He grunted and strode to stand in front of her. Before she could duck he had her chin in his broad fingers and was examining her face.
She held her breath at his touch, impersonal though it was.
“You’ve got the beginnings of an ugly bruise,” he said at last, letting her go. “But it doesn’t look like you’ll have a black eye.”
She shrugged. “I’ve ’ad worse and survived.”
His black eyes stared at her a moment as if he was thinking of arguing, but then he just strode to the door.
She blew out a breath, refrained from sticking her tongue out at his back, and followed him.
He led her down several flights of stairs and into a formal dining room.
“There,” Kyle said, and pointed to a fine long table, shining with wax and laid with the loveliest breakfast she’d ever seen.
There were plates of eggs, ham, sausages, and kippers, a basket of bread, little dishes of butter and jam, and a big pot of tea.
Alf blinked and looked at Kyle, who was looking back at her as if he served urchins from St Giles breakfast at his own dining table every day.
Of course aristocrats were a strange lot at the best of times—and she was very hungry.
Alf sat, poured herself some tea, and started filling her
plate with everything.
Kyle pulled out a chair across from her. “I thought—”
The door burst open again and Alf looked up, a spoonful of eggs halfway to her plate. If she wasn’t to eat this wonderful breakfast after having it spread in front of her, she might very well cry.
A swell cove slid into the room, already talking. “Hugh, it’s imperative that you give me an advance on my allowance at once.”
The man was tall, but not nearly as broad as Kyle. In fact he seemed a mere boy next to the duke, his face narrow and fine, his thin fingers dripping in lace. He was handsome, though, his skin pale and unblemished, his features regular and set in the unconscious arrogance of a man who’d had everything handed to him since birth.
“Good morning, David,” Kyle said. “I’m busy.” He inclined his head to her. “Perhaps we can discuss this later.”
Alf took a bite of ham and chewed it, watching as David turned to her.
His blue eyes skimmed over her, past her, around the room, and back to Kyle. “An urchin? Never tell me you’d put off your own brother-in-law because of some filthy beggar you found on the street?”
Alf swallowed her ham and started buttering a piece of bread. She added a generous spoonful of jam. The room was silent save for the clink of her spoon against the little jam dish, and finally she glanced up again.
Kyle’s dark brows were lowered, his black eyes narrowed and glinting.
He’d looked like that the night before last—just before he’d run his sword through one of the footpads.
She caught his eye as she bit into her bread and jam and winked. Fact was, she’d been called much worse than urchin and filthy beggar. Names hardly bothered her.
But she was rather pleased that they seemed to bother him.
Kyle’s lips pressed together at her wink, but his shoulders relaxed a bit.
He looked at David. “Why are you here?”
The younger man flung himself into a chair. “I’ve told you—I’m in need of funds. Just until the next quarter, then I shall repay you, my word. I’ve got tradesmen pounding at my door day and night, nipping at my heels like flea-bitten dogs. One even followed me to my coffeehouse, can you credit it?”
Kyle sighed. “You haven’t repaid the last loan I made you.”
David slapped the table. “Because I haven’t the money.”
Duke of Pleasure Page 6