PLAYED BY THE EARL

by Alyson Chase

  The boy ran the back of his wrist under his nose, inhaling a phlegmy breath.

  John winced.

  “Iffen the night’s good enough for yer lot to be out and about, it’s good ‘nuff fer the likes of me.” The disdain dripped as thick as treacle from his reedy voice. He jutted up his grimy chin, and the light from the gas lamps fell on his face.

  John’s breath hitched. There was a softness, a roundness, to the child’s face that spoke of youth, but the eyes staring impertinently back at him held no such immaturity. They were striking, a blue so clear that they seemed to glow above the dirty cheeks. Or were they purple? Regardless, intelligence glimmered behind them. Intelligence, and a shrewdness one could only develop through harsh experience.

  Wilberforce grunted behind him, his version of a laugh, and John tore his gaze from the boy.

  John twisted the tip of his walking stick into the ground. “I would expect gratitude over attitude, but I’ve always said manners were wasted on the young. Now, I’m not going to let you roam about getting into ever more trouble.” The boy might think he was the predator, skimming coin from drunken lackwits, but he was but a guppy compared to the sharks that swam through the London streets at night. “I’ll take you home. Just tell my man where to.”

  The boy remained stubbornly silent.

  John rolled his head, feeling his neck pop. He could have been home abed by now if he’d left from the club straight off. Saving grubby little street thieves wasn’t in the job description of a spy.

  His gut hardened. Nothing was in his job description any longer. His status as spy was on permanent hiatus.

  “Sir?” Wilberforce shifted. The concern in that one word was obvious, but then Wilberforce always did have a soft spot when it came to strays. If John were to wash his hands of the boy, he would most likely be out of the services of a driver for the next hour or so. The blasted man would follow the child home to ensure a safe arrival.

  John blew out a breath. He ran a hand up the back of his head, ruffling his locks into a state of charming disarray. He’d practiced the motion so often in his youth it had become second-nature. “Are you hungry?” he asked the boy. He eyed the rounded belly. The answer was likely a safe bet. The lad must be more successful in his thieving than John thought if it kept him so well-fed. “I’m going to Pierre’s to break my fast. You’re welcome to join me. His plum cake is quite exquisite.”

  The boy narrowed his eyes. “Wot’s yer game?”

  “No game. A free meal, some conversation, and then you can go on your way.” When it would be full dawn and Wilberforce wouldn’t feel compelled to watch over the boy like a mother hen. “The coffeehouse is only a couple of blocks away. We’ll walk.”

  “And you don’t want nothing in return?”

  John’s chest tightened. No, the child wasn’t so innocent after all. Someone had taught him a harsh lesson or two. “Nothing. You have my word.”

  The boy cocked his head and squinted, examining John like a bug under a microscope before nodding. “All right. I’ll let you buy me some ‘o that cake. But no funny business.”

  John refrained from looking heavenward. Like the child was doing him a favor. He held out his hand, and was glad of the leather gloves he wore when the filthy hand slipped into his to shake. “Summerset.”

  “Ned Pickle.”

  They turned and headed down the block.

  “Are you really an earl?” The boy looked sideways at him.

  “Of course. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. Didn’t think aristos truly wore ‘eels that ‘igh.” He pointed at John’s boots, a magnificent pair made of ivory kid-leather with mother-of-pearl buttons. “My da told me yer lot were all fops and dandies, but I didn’t believe ‘im. Till now.”

  Another muffled chuckle from behind had John swinging around to glare at Wil. This is your fault, he mouthed. Only to save his friend and servant from tiring himself out following the boy had John made such a generous offer. One he was beginning to severely regret.

  He adjusted his cravat. “I prefer the term coxcomb myself.”

  The boy snorted. “Cox-comb. You reckon they meant—”

  “No.” John ground his back teeth. It was only one breakfast. Half an hour at the most of irritating company, and he would have done his good deed for the year.

  “Oy, I don’t s’pose a cuppa chocolate comes with this cake?”

  John closed his eyes. Thirty minutes had never seemed so endless.

  Chapter Two

  Netta looked at the ruby winking at her from the depths of the man’s snowy white cravat. At the server bustling about taking orders from the early morning crowd at the coffeehouse. Anywhere but at the glove of the man who sat across from her—and the two loose threads at the cuff that used to hold pearl buttons. If she didn’t look at it, neither would this Summerset fellow.

  A bloody earl. She sure knew how to pick them.

  He. He knew how to pick them. She was Ned now, and had to remember that. A performance was always more believable when the actor immersed herself in the character.

  She pressed her palm to the pocket hidden in her shirt. The two small bulges the pearls made sent a dark thrill through her body. She shouldn’t have taken the fop’s buttons when they’d shaken hands. It had been risky. Too risky. But she couldn’t end the night on a failure. She had been caught by a drunken sop named Alfie, and she’d needed to redeem herself.

  Pride demanded nothing less.

  “Now,” Summerset crossed one leanly-muscled leg over the other and flicked a bit of lint from his tight pantaloons. “What’s a nice boy like you doing out on a night like this?” An equal measure of boredom and derision coated his words.

  Netta tilted her head. What was the man’s game? He’d rescued her from a thrashing, of that there was no doubt. But he didn’t seem the charitable sort. She’d encountered more than her share of would-be Good Samaritans, eager to save her soul, to know the type.

  The server arrived with their plum cakes and drinks, coffee for the earl and a steaming cup of chocolate for her.

  “Well?” Summerset tapped his thumb on the rim of his mug. “Aren’t you going to entertain me with your tale of woe?”

  Netta snorted. “Don’t got one,” she lied in her false voice. She had at least thirty sorrowful tales, trotting them out when the occasion called, but something told her this man wouldn’t believe a one of them.

  “You will if you don’t choose another profession.” He brought the mug to his nose and inhaled. His eyes watched her from over the rim. They were a lovely shade of blue, darker than the afternoon sky yet brighter than sapphires. His blond hair was trimmed to short curls, with two locks on either side of his forehead artfully coiling up towards his crown. His nose was long and straight; his cheekbones high and graceful. It was one of the most symmetrical and beautiful faces Netta had seen. A face she surely would have engaged in a bit of flirting with had she met him at her theatre.

  But she had dirt streaked across her face and was pretending to be a boy. Life just wasn’t fair.

  His penetrating gaze seemed to see beneath her disguise. She itched to adjust her wig, but she knew better than to break character. “Profession? Wot’s that?”

  “Your profession. Career. In your case, a pickpocket.” He cut a precise wedge off the small round cake and delicately placed it in his mouth. He leaned back as he chewed and swallowed. “You’re not very skilled at it.”

  Netta narrowed her eyes. “I’m better than you think.” And then, because she could, she picked up the cake whole and shoved it in her mouth, biting off a full half of the pastry. She chewed noisily, enjoying the faint look of horror on the man’s features. She was trained to elicit emotional responses, and this man was an easy mark.

  He flicked his gaze from her mouth, to the hand holding the cake, down to her wrist.

  She tugged at her cuff, pulling it over the bump that protruded below her thumb. The b
reak had healed, but the bone hadn’t knitted back together in a flat line.

  “Be that as it may, it isn’t a profession with any longevity.” Summerset pointed at the man who’d shadowed them to the coffeehouse. He looked of similar age to the earl, and next to Summerset, the man’s plain clothes looked as drab as a laborer’s. “You see Wilberforce there? He has an especial concern for wayward children. I’m afraid if you don’t make a good show of at least attempting reform, he’ll follow you home like a puppy. He won’t leave you be until he knows you’re safe.” He twisted his lips. “I should know.”

  The man saw them looking at him and stood from his table. He limped over. “Did you need something?”

  “No, Wilberforce, I was merely using you as a cautionary tale on the consequences of a wayward life.”

  “Yes, sir.” Wilberforce returned to his seat. He picked up a newspaper and flicked it open.

  Netta opened her mouth, snapped it shut. Her character wouldn’t know that the servant had used the incorrect form of address. She shoved the rest of the cake in her mouth and slouched in her chair.

  “Sit up straight.” The earl pulled a gold lorgnette attached to a chain from his waistcoat pocket and examined her through the lenses. “If I’m to do my good deed for the year by attempting to reform you, the least you could do in return is sit with proper posture when we dine together. Otherwise, it’s like eating with a hunched monkey.”

  She snorted. If that was his biggest problem in life, he had no right to complain. She looked at her empty plate, looked at the door. Pierre’s did have lovely pastries, but she didn’t think any more would be forthcoming. No need to remain.

  “If you don’t like eating with me, then I’ll leave.” Netta slid from her chair, the stretched fabric of her borrowed shirt catching on a splinter on the table. She tugged it free but before she could stand, that damnably quick hand of the earl’s snuck out again and grabbed her arm.

  ‘Before you go, I’ll have my buttons back.” Summerset raised his other hand out and held it in front of her, palm up. “My valet will be in quite a temper if I don’t return with those.”

  Netta blinked. “How long ‘ave you known?”

  “From the instant you pocketed them.” The earl shook his head. “As I said, your talents don’t appear to lie in larceny.”

  The absolute gall of the man. Fuming, Netta pulled the pearl buttons from their hiding place and slapped them on the earl’s hand. She had many talents. The bounder had just gotten lucky. And, she was tired. It had been a long night. Her performance would naturally suffer.

  He slid the buttons into his waistcoat pocket beside his lorgnette, a smug smile hovering about his lips.

  Netta wanted to wipe it right off. For three nights she’d successfully palmed small trinkets and coin from the well-heeled toffs with no one the wiser. Not only did the petty thieving help her get into the mind of her character, but, well, the extra blunt didn’t hurt. Her theatre paid very little and she needed to save.

  “Do you want another?” he asked.

  She looked down at the flaky crumbs, all that remained on her plate. Of course, she wanted another plum cake. It had been laden with butter and sugar and was one of the best things she’d ever put in her mouth. But she should leave before the man called the magistrate. Getting caught twice in one night was fate’s way of telling her to quit.

  He arched a perfectly curved eyebrow, the self-satisfied condescension extending from his smile to encompass his entire face.

  Pride overcame common sense. He thought he had her figured out. That he was one step ahead of her. Her body warmed. She’d make him regret his arrogance. She could be an excellent thief when she put her mind to it. Besides, it was morning. A new day. Her bad luck was in the past.

  Sticking around might not be smart, but most of the things she enjoyed weren’t.

  She sat back down. “Too right I want another.”

  The earl waved a lazy finger in the air and the server hurried over.

  Netta eyed Summerset as he ordered. He had the air of a man who always got what he wanted, which should have made him just like every other toff. But something about Summerset was different, and she couldn’t quite put her finger on what.

  Well, his clothes, those were certainly different. Even among the preening peacocks of the Quality, lavender silk jackets and pantaloons paired with bright green waistcoats were uncommon. The large jewels on his cravat pin and walking stick were certainly more flamboyant than most men sported. Even his lorgnette had been studded with diamonds.

  She shifted in her seat. Now that would be a plum prize. The chain might be a bit tricky but—

  “Mr. Pickle?”

  Netta jerked her head up. The earl stared at her, his gaze as intense as lightning.

  Her lungs stalled. “Wot?” That was what made him different. It wasn’t his uncommon good looks or his ostentatious adornments. It was the whip-sharp canniness in his gaze. This earl made it clear he wasn’t a man with whom to trifle.

  She bit her lower lip. She couldn’t lie to herself. His self-possession made her want to trifle.

  “I asked if you wanted another cup of chocolate, as well?”

  “Too right.” Netta covered her wince. Had she already used that line? She hated when a playwright was redundant.

  Summerset waved the server off and turned back to her. “Now, what say we….” He snapped his mouth shut, his jaws grinding together.

  Netta turned, trying to find what had distracted the earl. She was surprised anything, or anyone, had the power to still the fop’s tongue.

  A man with a hat pulled low and the tips of his collar poking into his cheeks strode through the door. After a moment’s hesitation, he angled his body through the patrons and towards their table. He stopped by the earl’s side.

  “I must speak with you,” the man said.

  “Is that so?” Summerset directed a barely perceptible shake of his head behind Netta.

  She twisted, and caught Wilberforce settling back into his chair, a worried look on his face.

  “It’s urgent.” The man raised his head to glare at the earl.

  Netta sucked in a quick breath. The side of his face, from his jaw to right below his eye, was scarred with ridges of smooth and shiny flesh. His left eye was a faded periwinkle, a striking contrast to the cobalt blue of his right.

  She looked at Summerset, saw a flash of the same deep blue in his eyes as he stared up at the man.

  Relatives then.

  “All right. Speak.” Summerset stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles, the picture of elegant ease. But his shoulders remained tense.

  The man shifted his weight. “In private. It’s the least you can do. Brother.”

  “If this is about more gambling debts, I don’t care who hears,” Summerset said. “I’m done cleaning up your mistakes. I told you this before, Robert.”

  The man, Robert, barked out a bitter laugh. “Why would I expect any less? You couldn’t even clean up your own.”

  Fascinating as this show of unbrotherly love was, Netta sensed her opportunity. “Oy, well it don’t seem proper me being ‘ere for this and I ‘ave to get meself ‘ome in any case.” She stood as the server approached and snaked out her hand to grab the cake off his tray. If she pressed down on the tray with a little too much force before freeing the pastry, no one was the wiser but her.

  As if the waiter were moving through syrup, his tray slowly wobbled, the pot of chocolate sliding to one side. The man tried to counterbalance, but his feet somehow tangled around Netta’s own, and the tray toppled over along with the server.

  Netta squawked, wind-milled her arms in an exaggerated fashion, and landed bum-first on the earl’s lap.

  He wrapped a strong arm about her waist, steadying her. His gaze dropped to his chest…and the cake crushed into his snowy silk cravat.

  “I’m right sorry, I am.” Netta brushed at the sticky crumbs. Sh
e stuck what remained of the cake between her lips and swiped at the mess with both hands. “Eet ‘ill ‘ash rit as ‘ain.”

  Summerset gritted his teeth and grabbed her hips. He lifted her off of him as though she weighed no more than a child and examined his cravat. Then he looked back up at her, exasperation wrought in every line of his face. Reaching out, he grabbed the end of the cake and tugged it from her mouth. He sighed. “What was it you were saying?”

  She shoved her hands in her pockets and hung her head, trying her best to look like a sulky youth. “It’ll wash out, right as rain.” When he remained silent, she added, “At least the chocolate pot didn’t get you.” No, that misfortune had landed on the poor bloke at the next table, who’s hair dripped with the sweet, brown liquid.

  Summerset twisted his mouth. “As you say. Now—”

  “I’ll jus’ leave you with your brother.” Netta backed away. “Thanks fer the breakfast.” And without waiting for a reply, she scooted out of the coffeehouse and hurried down the street.

  She turned a corner and patted her hidden pocket. The slim leather case she’d lifted from the earl’s jacket met her hand, and she couldn’t help but grin. Not skilled, was she? She wished she could see his face when he discovered his banknotes were missing, when the pieces came together and he realized the scamp he’d condescended to had finagled him, after all.

  She crossed the street, heading in the direction of The Burns Theatre. Cerise was going to scold her for this adventure, she knew. Although her friend would have no compunction over the actual theft, she wouldn’t be pleased that Netta had succumbed to the temptation. Again. She could just about hear her friend’s lecture on keeping one’s emotions in check, on the need for a carefully thought-out plan before taking action.

  Netta snorted. Logic was all well and good, but there was something to be said for acting on instinct. For—

  A hand grabbed her from behind and yanked her into an alley.

  A shock of fear ripped through her body. She struggled against the hold, against the man who dragged her deeper into the shadowed lane.