Whisper To Me of Love

by Shirlee Busbee

  From the sidelines, where she leaned idly against the wall of a brick building, Pip watched the comings and goings, keeping an eye out for the tall American whom she was to rob. She spotted Royce and Zachary the instant they appeared, their height making them immediately noticeable. Squashing a particularly insistent flea between her dirty nails, she pushed herself away from the wall and unobtrusively tagged after the pair. While she was fairly certain that the tall, broad-shouldered gentleman in the expertly cut tobacco brown jacket was her prey, experience had taught her not to make assumptions, and so she sidled nearer, waiting for the gentleman in the curly-brimmed beaver hat to speak. Hearing the easy drawl when he spoke to his acquaintances clinched it for her and she glanced around, looking for either Ben or Jacko to let them know that she had marked the swell. Her diminutive height made it nearly impossible for her to find either one of her brothers in the constantly shifting mass, and eventually she was forced to leave Royce’s vicinity and go in search of them.

  Fortunately, she did not have to go far, and she had just reached the fringe of the crowd when she spotted Ben at his post on the other side of the street. Putting two fingers in her mouth, she gave an earsplitting whistle that was instantly recognizable to Ben. He glanced up, and when his eyes lighted on her, Pip sent him a wide grin and jerked her head toward the ring.

  Correctly interpreting her signal, Ben idly moved away from his position and wandered off to find Jacko to let him know that all was well—so far. Now that their prey had been found, they could go about their business of working the crowd. Passing a plump banker who had unwisely worn a tempting watch on a gold chain, Ben deftly lifted it from the unsuspecting man and continued on his way.

  Pip, too, was busy as she slowly worked her way back to Royce’s proximity. The press and jostle of the crowd made her task easy, and by the time she found Royce again, she had managed to steal two very fine silk handkerchiefs, a silver snuffbox, and a jeweled stickpin. Her small size made her efforts ludicrously easy, few people paying any attention to the grubby little street urchin garbed in a shabby, ill-fitting green jacket and worn gray pantaloons. The small black cloth cap with its concealing visor was pulled low, almost onto the bridge of her nose, and it effectively hid most of her face, but allowed her to scan the crowd unobtrusively.

  Since Pip was the smallest of the Fowlers, able to move with eel-like ease through the milling throng, and the one with the cleverest fingers, it had been decided among them that she would be the one to rob Manchester. Having positioned herself near the tall American, she watched him for several moments, sizing him up and making a mental inventory of his belongings, selecting which objects would be the most expensive and easily stolen.

  If Royce noticed the small, poorly dressed figure lurking near his particular group, he gave no sign. In fact, Royce was too busy watching Zachary and Julian Devlin stiffly greeting each other to pay any attention to the little fellow in the green jacket.

  Julian Devlin was nearly as tall as Zachary, with black hair and the well-known striking brows and gray eyes of all the Devlins. He was, at just twenty-two, whipcord-lean and arrogantly handsome. An utterly charming young rogue, he carried himself proudly, as befitted the heir and only child of the Earl of St. Audries.

  Royce found it extremely enlightening that neither Julian nor Zachary had attempted to make the many friends they had in common choose between them. And while it was obvious that there was some constraint between the two young men, Royce was rather pleased at the way they each attempted to act with civility around the other.

  As he was about to turn away, Royce’s attention was caught by the sudden scowl that lit young Devlin’s chiseled features, and looking to see what had caused such displeasure, he was not exactly surprised to see the Earl himself and a coterie of friends leisurely making their way through the crowd, stopping to greet this one and that as they edged nearer the ring. So the gossip is true, Royce thought. The Earl and his son are estranged. At least it shows the boy has excellent taste, Royce reflected grimly as he recognized several of the men in the group around the Earl.

  Stephen Devlin, the Earl of St. Audries, for reasons not exactly clear, was not universally liked by the various members of the ton. There was certainly no fault to be found with either his elegantly handsome features or his polished manners. Because of his birth and breeding, as well as the fortune he had inherited from his sister-in-law upon her tragic death nearly twenty years ago, he had entrée everywhere, but this did not insure that he was equally respected and esteemed. For the most part, he and his wife, Lucinda, were merely tolerated by the leaders of society, the gossips whispering that they were a little too proud of themselves, a bit too smugly delighted with their unexpected ascension to the title and wealth. Consequently the people who did find their company enjoyable were not of the highest standing. And that definitely applies to those two fellows, Royce decided caustically as his gaze fell upon Martin Wetherly and Rufe Stafford, who were part of the circle around the Earl.

  The two men who had found such disfavor with Royce were both gentlemen from the country who had managed to secure respectable fortunes. As with the Earl, there was no obvious reason for them to be held in contempt, and yet there was something about the pair of them that made them not exactly welcome additions to the homes and soirees of the more discerning members of London society. Like the Earl, they could not claim admittance to the inner ranks of the arbitrators of fashion, and unlike the Earl, they had no claim to the nobility and thus were treated with even less tolerance than was shown Lord Devlin and his wife.

  Feeling as he did about Lord Devlin, Royce found nothing strange in the fact that the Earl’s two boon companions were a pair of obvious toadeaters with a particularly grating unctuous manner about them. Watching as they fawned all over the Earl, Royce curled his fine lips in disdain.

  “A bit too conspicuous in their eagerness to please m’lord, aren’t they?” inquired a smooth voice to Royce’s left.

  Turning slightly, Royce met the cynical gaze of Allan Newell, an elegantly attired gentleman who did his tailor proud. His coat of blue superfine fit superbly across his shoulders, and his fawn breeches clung snugly to his muscled thighs. Somewhere between the age of forty-five and fifty, Newell was a familiar figure on the London scene. Not precisely a handsome man, yet one with a great deal of charm and presence, he was reputed to be quite wealthy, and though his family had no claim to either title or fame, most hostesses were not displeased to have his name on their invitation lists. Yet, like Wetherly and Stafford, Newell was considered not quite up to snuff by certain high sticklers. Though he was more eminently regarded than the others—not only because of his polished manners but also because his lack of social standing appeared not to bother him—there were certain doors that were closed to him also.

  Since Allan was a sporting crony of George’s, it was only natural that Royce should have met him, and while Royce could find nothing wrong with the man’s behavior, there was something about him that Royce found faintly offensive. Newell seemed to take unnecessary pleasure in ridiculing the foibles of others, and there was a certain deliberate cruelty in some of his comments about the actions of members of the ton. Allan Newell was not someone Royce would have suspected George to befriend, but as it was not any of his business who George had as friends, Royce kept his feelings to himself and treated Newell politely.

  Preferring to keep his opinion of the Earl’s companions to himself, Royce merely shrugged at Newell’s comment and, turning away, said to George, “I thought you said the match was about to begin.”

  “Oh, it is! It is, my dear fellow. See, the bruisers are entering the ring now.”

  And so it was; the two brawny men, stripped to their breeches, were indeed clambering into the roped-off ring. A murmur of excitement swept through the crowd as the two pugilists met in the center of the ring and curled their ham-like hands into rock-hard fists.

  Pip had taken advantage of the crowd’s focusing on the
inhabitants in the ring to edge even nearer to Manchester, but the gentlemen who made up the circle around him were pressed too closely together for her to get into the position she needed in order to carry out her task. Frustrated and annoyed, she waited impatiently for a shift in the crowd, hoping she would be able to sidle right up to the tall American’s side. Deciding that she could do nothing about robbing Manchester for a while, she let her gaze idly skim those nearby. Always looking for the unwary pigeon to pluck, she noticed a fashionably attired gentleman to her right whose attention was fixed intently on the two half-naked figures bobbing and weaving in the ring. A gold seal hung from one of his fobs, and almost effortlessly Pip’s nimble fingers skillfully relieved him of the adornment. Rather pleased with herself, she carefully scanned the individuals in her area for another likely target.

  In the press of the crowd, it was difficult to move about freely, and not seeing any other easy mark within her range, Pip sighed and tried to pretend that she was interested in the match. Her lack of inches made it rather difficult for her to see the ring clearly, and she spent several irritating moments dancing about on her toes, craning her neck, trying to pretend she was avidly interested in what held the other spectators spellbound. Conveniently, before she became too bored, there appeared unexpectedly, and to her delight, a little gap in the men around the American, and Pip wiggled instantly into the space. Unfortunately, though closer to her prey, she was still not in a position to lift any valuables from him, and she gloomily resigned herself to waiting until after the match, when the crowd began to disperse, before putting her clever fingers to work emptying Mr. Manchester’s pockets. Whistling soundlessly, she fidgeted from foot to foot and gazed leisurely about her, wondering where Ben and Jacko were and if the match had proved as profitable for them. Sparring matches usually were, the shoving and pushing of the tightly packed crowd making their work easier. And the fact that everyone’s attention was usually on the ring only aided them in their thievery. Except, Pip thought darkly, they’re so bloody boring!

  Politely stifling a huge yawn of utter boredom, Royce began to glance around the crowd. Directly across from him, on the other side of the ring, he saw Zachary and his group of nattily dressed friends, their jubilant cheers when the big bruiser in the dark breeches landed a solid hit on the chin of the other pugilist making it evident on whom they had wagered their money.

  His topaz gaze moving on, Royce happened to meet the unfriendly dark-eyed stare of Martin Wetherly, who was standing next to the Earl and his group near the edge of the ring. For a split second their eyes held, only cool disinterest evident in Royce’s steady gaze, but inwardly he was wondering what he had done to arouse the hostility that Wetherly made no attempt to conceal. Was it simply because Wetherly was a close friend of the Earl’s and he was merely reflecting the Earl’s oft-professed dislike of him? Or was it something else?

  Wetherly broke eye contact first, his gaze slowly moving a scant second later back to the inhabitants of the ring, making Royce wonder if he had mistaken the ugly look in the dark eyes. Deciding that he was letting the unfortunate antagonism that existed between himself and the Earl color his thoughts, Royce gave himself a mental shaking. There was probably nothing in Wetherly’s stare to give him pause—he really must make an effort to stop reading sinister motives in simple actions.

  Royce forced himself to concentrate on the activity in the ring and for the next hour or so managed to appear enthralled by the two bruisers. Fortunately, before he became too bored again, the match ended, the fellow in the black breeches knocking his opponent down with a furious blow to the jaw. But for Royce, escape was not immediate—he had to wait for Zachary to re-join him, and Zachary, of course, full of excitement about the fight, was in no hurry to join in the mass exodus that was taking place. Royce listened patiently to Zachary’s colorful descriptions of the fight they had both just watched, but when he finally thought he had Zachary slowly moving in the direction of their gig, George and several of his friends chimed in and proceeded to go over all the various highlights of the match, no one except Royce, apparently, willing to move a foot until the subject was satisfactorily exhausted.

  The crowd was rapidly dispersing by now, and Royce was on the point of bodily picking up Zachary and carrying him to the gig when Zachary looked at him and grinned. “I suppose,” Zachary said sheepishly, “you are ready to leave now.”

  His face wearing an expression of long-suffering boredom, Royce answered dulcetly, “It would be pleasant.”

  “Oh, I say!” exclaimed George. “We can’t have the afternoon end yet! Shall we all retire to one of the clubs for a game or two of hazard or faro?”

  Royce demurred, the vision of lovely Della waiting for him on the soft feather bed in the discreet little house he had obtained for her making him distinctly disinclined for more masculine company. His hand firmly on Zachary’s upper arm as he edged away from George and his friends, Royce said smoothly, “Some other time for me. I’m afraid I have other plans.”

  There were murmurs of regret from the others, but Royce did not allow himself to be swayed and doggedly kept Zachary moving along with the remnants of the crowd. At this point the majority of the throng had thinned out and disappeared, and although there were still groups of stragglers here and there, Royce and the others were able to move more freely in the direction they wanted.

  Royce’s group had passed several men on horseback and had dodged between a few carts and curricles when at last Royce saw his pair and gig. Concentrating on reaching his horses, he was not consciously aware of the small figure in the green jacket and gray pantaloons who had been dogging his heels for quite some time. It was only when the boy appeared to stumble and fell against him that Royce’s sharp senses took over and he realized in an instant what was happening.

  Pip had grown almost desperate while waiting to snatch Manchester’s valuables, and if it hadn’t been for the one-eyed man’s express wish that Manchester be robbed, she would have given up on him long ago. Though she had found him early on and had remained as close to him as possible, there had never been just the right opportunity to pick his pockets. Someone was always right by his side, and instead of mingling with the crowd as it gradually dispersed, Manchester and his friends had lingered, talking, until Pip had feared someone would notice her lurking about and comment on it. No one had, and just when she thought she was going to have to risk being spotted, Manchester and his chatty friends had finally started to move. But the crowd that she had relied upon to cover her movements had disappeared, and while there were still many people about, they were too widely scattered to give her much protection.

  She glanced around, hoping to see Ben or Jacko. Maybe between the three of them, they could maneuver Manchester into an alley and rob him before he reached his vehicle and anyone knew what was happening. As she caught sight of her brothers where they lounged near several gigs and curricles, a feeling of relief swept over her. Good. Once they saw her, they would realize that she needed help.

  But Jacko and Ben were not looking in her direction, and Pip’s heart sank when the American suddenly swerved and began walking purposefully toward a pair of chestnut horses which were harnessed to a stylish gig. Once Manchester climbed into the gig, the chance was lost; shuddering at the thought of facing the one-eyed man’s wrath if she failed to carry out his command, Pip gamely attempted to do what she had been trained to do all her life—pick a pocket.

  Pip’s stumble as she fell against the tall American was a thing of grace and skill. So were the nimble fingers that deftly lifted his golden seal and the heavy gold watch from his vest pocket. The watch and seal slipped instantly into the capricious pockets of her own coat, and Pip was almost on the point of congratulating herself for accomplishing such a risky venture when an iron-fingered hand suddenly clamped itself around her slender wrist.

  Not aware of her danger yet, appearing to have regained her balance, Pip grinned saucily in the direction of the American and said cheeki
ly, “Thanks, mister! Oy would have fallen ’cept for you.”

  “I don’t think so,” said a cold voice. “And I would appreciate it if you handed back the watch and seal you have just stolen. Then we shall see how you like a trip to Newgate!”

  Her heart thumping frantically in her breast, Pip made a valiant attempt to brazen her way out of this disastrous situation. “Blimey, mister! Oy don’t know wot you’re talkin’ about!”

  “Oh, I think you do; in fact, I think you know exactly ‘wot’ I’m talking about! Now, hand over my watch!”

  It was by far the most dangerous predicament Pip had ever been in, and her blood ran cold when several of the gentlemen who had been with the American at the sparring match formed a small, curious group around them. Reminding herself not to panic, to remain calm, no matter how bad it looked, Pip glanced quickly around to see if Jacko and Ben had noticed her difficulty.

  They had. Even as Pip twisted uneasily in the grasp of the well-dressed gentleman, Jacko and Ben were walking rapidly in her direction, the carefully bland expression on their faces letting her know that they had something planned to extricate her from this unpleasant situation.

  Relaxing slightly, knowing that her brothers wouldn’t allow her to be carried off to Newgate without a fight, Pip put on her most innocent expression and, not looking at her captor, glanced hopefully around at the other gentlemen. “Lord luv us! Now, Oy ask you fine gentlemen—do Oy look like a bloody thief?”