“I want to stay with him.” Johnny glanced at Morgan, then squared his bony little shoulders. “I’d rather live with the cap’n than at the Home if it means I got a chance to earn a living.”
“Oh, Johnny, you mustn’t,” Clara protested. “If you stay with him, you can never return to us. And what about Timothy?”
Who the devil was Timothy?
Johnny’s face darkened. Then he stuck his lower lip out in a pout, as stubborn as ever. “Timothy don’t need me around. He’ll be fine with you. He likes it there.”
And I don’t. Johnny might as well have spoken the words aloud, for Clara’s face showed betrayal once more. Morgan wanted to strangle the boy. Had the silly lad no idea of how lucky he’d been to have an angel of mercy like Clara looking out for him, willing to risk so much to make him a better life?
No, Johnny was too young to see it—he didn’t realize that people sometimes got only one chance to turn their lives around. The idiot was throwing his away with both hands.
Well, Morgan would give him another, no matter how unwise it might be. He owed it to Clara.
Clara cast a mute appeal to her aunt across the street, but Miss Stanbourne ignored her. The older woman seemed none too eager to involve herself. Murmuring reassurances to the agitated dogs, she sat with the table as a guard between her and the rest of them.
“I can do what I want,” Johnny went on. “And I want to work for the cap’n.”
“Then that settles it,” Morgan said smoothly before the boy could say anything else to alarm Clara. “Johnny, go fetch your things from the Home. I need to speak to Lady Clara alone.”
With an eager nod, Johnny raced off down the street. Clara watched him go, her expression so painfully tormented that Morgan’s gut clenched into a knot. He’d never meant to hurt her, never meant to stand in the way of her kind heart. When this was done, he’d do all in his power to make it up to her—convince his brother to donate funds, make Ravenswood hire her boys, whatever would banish that look of desperation from her face.
She turned to him with her shoulders stubbornly set. “Must you draw him into our battle? He’s just a boy—”
“—on the threshold of becoming a man,” Morgan finished. “This is best for him, and you know it.”
She shook her head. “Having him serve as an apprentice thief is not best for him.”
“I won’t let him steal, I swear it.” He stepped closer to lay his hand on her arm. “I won’t let any harm come to him while he’s working for me.”
Snatching her arm away, she whirled to face him. “If you think I’ll simply stand by and watch while you corrupt him—”
“Let him go, Clara. He’s old enough to make his own choices.” He hated having her despise him so much. Even if initially he’d tried to make her do so. “You may come to the shop whenever you wish to check on him. And me.”
“Don’t worry.” She drew herself up straight. “I intend to plant myself outside your establishment for as many days as it takes to run you off.”
Gritting his teeth, he glanced over to Miss Stanbourne and their pitiful table. He didn’t need this kind of trouble. “You don’t have the time to sit out here monitoring my movements, and you know it. You have the Home to run. And annoying me will do you no good, in any case. You can’t stay here day and night, and I’ll simply do my business whenever you’re gone.”
“Then my aunt and I—”
“From the looks of her, your aunt can’t wait to be away from here. And do you really think you and she and the dogs could stay long enough to make a difference?”
Her chin trembled, making him ache to step forward and kiss her hurts away. Stubbornness was bred in the woman’s bones. Yet impossible as it was, he sometimes wondered what it would be like to have her lavish all that determined caring on him instead of against him.
“Come now, Clara,” he went on, softening his tone, “at least have the good sense to acknowledge when you’ve lost a battle.”
“I won’t let this rest. I’ll find a way to save Johnny from you and from himself.”
His temper flared. Her and her damned principles…couldn’t she see when she should keep her nose out of something? “You do what you have to, ma belle ange. Just remember that even angels know where to avoid treading. And when to accept defeat.”
Then without waiting for her response, he returned to his shop. He had half a mind to turn right around and tell her the truth about his activities. Wouldn’t she feel foolish for her outrage then?
He sighed. No, he couldn’t do that. Clara was an open book, as honest as a nun at confession. Though she’d try to keep quiet about his true purpose, she might give him away without meaning to. And once she knew, she’d probably meddle. Too much was at stake to risk that.
As soon as he entered his shop and saw the meager appointments, it hit him what he’d done. He’d agreed to take on Johnny. To care for and protect and shelter a child. When he should be concentrating on protecting himself.
Never mind that Johnny was the same age as most of the cabin boys that had been under Morgan’s care when he was a captain. Never mind that boys his age went into danger on a regular basis at sea. Never mind that the “child” was a denizen of the streets used to fending for himself. It was still a big responsibility.
A commotion in the street drew him to the open door. Clara was arguing with her aunt. It didn’t last long. The older woman soon had the footman loading up the carriage again, leaving Clara to stand helplessly gazing about her at the street.
Her aunt opened the door to the carriage and looked back at her niece. “Are you coming, dear?”
Clara straightened wearily, cast his shop a defeated glance, then looked at her aunt. “No. I’m going to the Home. You go on.”
Frustration ripped through him as he saw her turn away from the carriage and wander slowly in the direction of the Home. Though he ought to be relieved, he felt horrible. He didn’t want to be responsible for taking away her hope.
He stiffened. What the hell was he thinking? The woman would destroy him in a heartbeat if she thought she could. She was meddling with an important investigation, causing trouble where he could ill afford it.
Looking after children nobody wanted but her.
With a curse, he left the window. He couldn’t consider any of that now. It would blunt his focus. Bad enough that he’d let his feelings for her lead him into doing something as stupid as taking Johnny. He wouldn’t allow them any more sway than that. It was several days since the Specter had last spoken to him, and he must stay alert for the next confrontation.
The side door swung open to admit Johnny. “I brought all my stuff,” he said brightly.
All his “stuff” consisted of a fancy cloak-bag, probably stolen, full of what Morgan hoped was clothing. He tried not to think of how pitiful it was that any boy should possess only enough belongings to fit into a cloak-bag.
“Where d’you want me to put it?” Johnny asked.
“Upstairs,” Morgan said. “I’ll show you.”
As Morgan led the way up the dusty stairs to the storerooms, he said, “I imagine you passed Lady Clara on your way here.”
When Johnny was silent, Morgan glanced back to see the boy scowling.
“Did she speak to you?” Morgan asked.
“She tried. I told her to bugger off.”
Morgan managed to contain his anger until they’d both left the stairwell. Then he turned to fix the boy with a stern glance. “I truly hope you’re not that stupid.”
Johnny stuck out his lower lip. “What do you mean?”
“Do you know how rare it is to have a woman like that looking out for your well-being? You ought to be grateful she cares so much about what happens to you.”
“You mean, because she’s a lady and I’m just a pickpocket?” Johnny said, almost sneering. “You think she’s better’n you and me?”
“I do, actually. Not because she’s woman of rank, but because she cares about people. S
he realizes that her actions have consequences and affect others around her. She takes her responsibilities seriously, no thanks to you and your heedless tongue.”
Johnny stared down at his toes. “She’s got too many rules.”
“And you, my boy, don’t have enough of them. But that’s going to change.” When Johnny’s head shot up, Morgan went on firmly, “Rule one: no stealing of any kind. No picking pockets, no snatching cloaks off people’s backs as they pass by alleys, no breaking into any houses.”
“But I thought you wanted me—”
“I know what you thought. You were wrong. My ability to evade the law depends on my appearing to be legitimate, and I won’t have you jeopardize that for a few wipers and a tick or two.”
That seemed to mollify Johnny somewhat. “So you’re not just keeping me from stealing ’cause she said to.”
“Who, Lady Clara?”
Johnny nodded.
“No.” But of course that was why. And it roused Morgan’s temper sorely that her feelings mattered so much to him. He shouldn’t care. It was dangerous to care. “Rule two: you rise in the morning when I tell you to rise, you go to bed when I tell you to go to bed, and you don’t leave this shop without my express permission. Is that understood?”
“Might as well put me in a bloody gaol,” Johnny mumbled under his breath.
“Which is where you’re headed if you don’t curb your impulses before you’re an old and unrepentant scoundrel like me.”
That got Johnny’s attention. “You ever been in a gaol?”
“Several times. Before I was even as old as you. It was not a pleasant experience. I’d like to avoid repeating it. Which brings me to rule three: you are not to speak to anybody about what goes on in this shop. Not your sister, not your pickpocket cronies, and not this Timothy fellow.”
“Timothy’s my brother,” Johnny put in. “He’s only five. I don’t tell him nothing.”
Morgan caught his breath. “There’s two of you Perkins boys? And a sister? Bon Dieu, I know you said your mother is dead, but have you no other relations? A father?”
Johnny hung his head. “He got seven years’ transportation for forgery. He was passing forged bank notes when he was caught. We ain’t got no family that’ll claim us after what he did, so Lucy is all we got.”
“And apparently even Lucy has despaired of you two and washed her hands of her responsibilities.”
“That’s not it.” Johnny stuck out his lower lip. “Lucy’s been spending time with a police officer.” He lifted a hot gaze to Morgan. “But he don’t like us, so she don’t want us around. I reckon she wants to marry him ’cause he’s respectable and he’s got money. And if she does marry him, well…I expect Tim and I will be on our own.”
Awareness dawned. “Is that why you’ve been stealing? To get enough money so you can coax her not to marry him?”
He shrugged. “I’m good at picking pockets, that’s all.”
That wasn’t all, and they both knew it. Morgan swallowed past the lump in his throat, remembering his own hopes that he could steal enough to keep his mother in comfort. Perhaps then she wouldn’t need to rely on lovers for her and her son’s survival.
Despite all his attempts, however, he’d failed her in the end. He’d never been able to make her see what a snake her last lover was, not until that horrible night…
He cursed as the images rose in his head, a waking nightmare. They were only this vivid and powerful in Spitalfields. God, he had to finish this soon so he could leave this cursed place.
In the meantime, he had Johnny to deal with. “You may be good at picking pockets,” he told the boy, “but I think you can do better things.”
For the first time since they’d come upstairs, the sullen look left Johnny’s face. “You do?”
“Yes. I can teach you—”
“About being a receiver?” Johnny’s eyes lit up. “That would be bloody good, because it’s the receivers that make the real money.”
“No,” Morgan bit out, “not about being a receiver. About the sea. About the navy.”
“You mean, being a sailor? That’s as hard a life as stealing or worse.”
“But it won’t get you hanged,” Morgan pointed out. “It’s good honest work. Exciting, too. I might even get you a berth as a midshipman someday.”
Johnny looked skeptical. “They don’t take the likes of me as midshipmen. Even I know that. That’s for gentry and gentlemen and people what have connections, and now that the war is over…”
“You let me worry about that. You concentrate on paying attention and working hard for me, and I’ll see that you end up with a post you can stomach, one that doesn’t require your looking over your shoulder for police officers every second.” He paused. “But I can’t help you unless you’re willing to follow my rules. Can you do that?”
Johnny hesitated, glancing around him. Morgan could guess his thoughts. The place was warm and dry, heated by the stovepipe from the stove downstairs. With the room only half full of goods stacked on shelves, there was plenty of room. No doubt Johnny was weighing the possibility of hard work against the appeal of having a comfortable room to himself for probably the first time in his life. And the hope of a future.
Then he straightened to look Morgan squarely in the eye. “Yes, sir, I can.”
Morgan smiled. “Good.” Now he had himself an assistant, errand boy, and general lackey. The question was, what the hell was he to do with him?
Chapter 10
It is too often the case, I fear, that others, for certain
considerations, wink at those crimes which at last
terminate in very disagreeable consequences.
Juvenile Trials for Robbing Orchards, R. Johnson
Clara had come to the busy Lambeth Street Office before, but never on such important business. After two days of futilely hoping that Johnny would come to his senses or that Morgan would tire of having the boy about, she’d resolved upon this last resort: reporting Morgan to the magistrate.
As she sat in the office waiting to be shown in, she tried not to think of Morgan before the court, Morgan dragged off in chains, Morgan hating her. She tried not to remember all the bits and pieces Samuel had related to her about how Morgan was working with Johnny.
So what if Morgan had taught Johnny some practical skills? It was probably only to make the boy more useful to him as a pickpocket. And did it matter if Johnny claimed that Morgan had forbade him to steal? Of course not. What else would he tell Samuel, knowing that the footman would tell her? No, any kindness Morgan showed Johnny was merely meant to soften her objections to his business practices.
What she must remember was Lucy’s face, ravaged with her own guilt. Apparently, when the poor girl had found out where her brother was, she’d gone to the shop and begged him to go live with her at the tavern. Johnny had thrown the offer back in her face. He liked living at Morgan’s, he’d told his sister. He didn’t want to leave.
Full of remorse, Lucy had appealed next to Clara, but what could Clara do when Johnny refused to listen to reason?
No, there was only one alternative, and now she was determined to pursue it to the fullest extent. No matter what it did to Morgan.
After all, Morgan had never denied that he was a fence. He knew the consequences of his illegal actions. She’d given him plenty of chances to change his ways, and he’d scoffed at her every time. So now she would bring him down.
If the magistrate would take her complaints seriously. Which was by no means certain.
“His Worship will see you now,” a clerk said and led her down a tiny passage to a cramped office.
His “Worship,” Elijah Hornbuckle, sat behind a desk buried in papers. His broad, flaccid cheeks, protruding lips, and spotty complexion gave him the look of a bespectacled and bewigged frog. Fortunately, his fashionable attire added a certain gentlemanly air to his appearance, which somewhat compensated for his odd face.
But the tall man who stood with
him, while being somewhat handsome, apparently lacked the inclination to dress well. His stock was crookedly tied, his shirt cuffs soiled, and his coat woefully ill-fitting. She would guess his age as forty-odd years, judging from his lined features and his bald spot, which shone like a polished apple where it peeped through the straggled hair combed over it. Mr. Hornbuckle introduced him as Rodney Fitch, police officer.
This fellow was Lucy’s Mr. Fitch? Good Lord, the girl must be half-blind to choose him over Samuel, no matter how respectable or financially comfortable the police officer might be.
“Mr. Fitch will be investigating your complaint,” Mr. Hornbuckle said, waving her to a chair.
The officer bowed more deeply than was proper. “At your service, miss…I mean, Your Grace…I-I mean, m’lady. It is ‘m’lady,’ ain’t it?”
“Yes,” she muttered, stifling a groan. Matters had just gone from bad to worse.
Under the best of circumstances, she would question the slovenly Mr. Fitch’s competence, but his relationship to Lucy roused even greater concerns. If Lucy had any influence over the officer, the girl would make sure he found no fault with Morgan, since Morgan presently sheltered her brother. And Morgan would slip free again.
Yet Clara could hardly tell the magistrate her objections to Mr. Fitch without involving Johnny, which she was determined not to do. Wondering if this was a futile visit after all, she took a seat in the wooden chair before the desk.
The magistrate leaned back and folded his hands over his belly, which only made his chin double over his cravat, giving him an even more froglike appearance. “The clerk tells me you’ve come to report a Suspicious Character.”
“Yes.” Quickly she explained about Morgan and his shop.
Mr. Hornbuckle effected a most magisterial air, but other than that he showed little interest in her complaint. Fitch, however, whipped out a notebook and scribbled in it with a stubby pencil.
When she finished, Mr. Hornbuckle mused a moment. “Evidence?”
“I-I beg your pardon?”
“Do you have evidence?” He snapped his fingers impatiently. “Come on, come on, what is it? Give me your evidence.”
Dance of Seduction Page 13