In Debt To The Earl

There was a moment’s silence except for the crackle as the fire took hold. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said at last, standing up and stepping back from the fire.

‘Sir—Mr Remington—’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘How often do you perform in the street?’

That was none of his business either, but she supposed there was no harm in answering. ‘Every so often.’ The warmth from the leaping fire reached her, seeped into the chill.

‘I suppose you think the clothes are a disguise.’

She glared up at him, holding out her hands to the blaze. ‘No one else has ever noticed!’

‘You think?’

The sarcasm stung, but she ignored it. ‘They didn’t even notice in the tavern we—’

‘Tavern?’ Grey eyes bored into her. ‘What the hell were you doing in a damn tavern, dressed as a boy no less?’

‘Eating my dinner,’ she shot back.

‘In a tavern,’ he repeated. ‘And how do you know you weren’t noticed?’

‘Because,’ she said without thinking, ‘no one pinched my bum!’

There was a moment of stunned silence she could have cut.

‘Your—what?’

She gritted her teeth. Her grandparents, Grandpapa in particular, had spent years teaching her to curb her temper and think before she spoke. This man somehow undermined her hard-won self-control. Well, she’d said it and there was no use pretending she hadn’t. Or that he hadn’t heard, and probably said, worse. Gentlemen did. Even her grandfather had used a few choice words when his favourite mare stepped on his foot.

‘My bum,’ she said. ‘Fitch said if—’

‘Fitch?’

‘The boy with me. He said if I—’

‘That was Fitch?’

‘Yes. He said it was safer to stay in the boys’—’ His tone of voice registered and fear curled through her. He’d sounded as if he knew something of Fitch. ‘Why are you interested in him?’ She could think of any number of reasons to be interested in Fitch. Especially if you carried an expensive watch and chain, and a purse that dripped crowns...

‘Someone mentioned him as a friend of yours.’ He sounded angry.

‘Is there something wrong with that?’ she demanded.

The hands that had built the fire so easily curled to fists. ‘Apparently not. I’m sure your father approves.’

She snorted. ‘Papa’s never laid eyes on Fitch.’

James reined in the rising anger. None of this was her fault. Not even the fact that he didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried that her supposed protector was a mere child. It was none of his concern. So why had he gone down and fronted the grimy Mrs Beattie to buy fuel for the girl? Why the hell was he still here? His body had a very obvious answer and it wasn’t one he entirely liked.

‘Where does he live?’

Overhead something creaked and the girl’s gaze flickered upward as she frowned.

‘Something up there?’ James asked.

‘I hope not another leak,’ she said. ‘It’s probably a cat. They fight on the roof. Are you going to leave?’

‘Soon enough,’ he said. ‘Where does the boy live?’

‘Hereabouts,’ she said eventually.

‘Where?’

‘Nowhere, really. He’s an orphan. He picks up a living where he can.’

James bit back an oath. It didn’t take much intelligence to work out what that living would involve. And it wasn’t uncommon for pickpockets to use a street performer as a cover. ‘Hell’s teeth, girl! Where have your wits gone begging?’ he ground out, fear clawing at his belly. ‘If he plies that trade while you’re playing your fiddle, you’ll both hang!’

‘He doesn’t!’ she flared.

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ At least she wasn’t pretending not to know what he meant. ‘It’s—’

‘Not while I’m playing,’ she insisted. ‘He promised and I give him half the money anyway.’

Something about the very quietness of her response convinced him. ‘Half the money?’ he demanded. ‘Why?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Because I’d lose at least half of it to people pretending to put money in, of course!’ she explained as one who states the obvious, as he supposed it was.

‘And Fitch stops that.’

‘Yes. And other...that is, pickpockets, stay away.’ She hesitated, then said, ‘Because they think it’s his pitch.’

‘If he’s a thief,’ he said bluntly, ‘you’re a damn fool to associate with him.’

Her chin came up. ‘He’s my friend,’ she said. ‘And he doesn’t swear at me.’

James cleared his throat. ‘Bum is a word not usually learned in polite circles,’ he pointed out.

‘Well,’ she amended, ‘I don’t think he does so deliberately.’ The bright eyes narrowed. ‘You seem to have learned it.’

‘But not in polite circles,’ he said, fighting a grin at the neat way she’d turned the tables on him.

She shrugged. ‘Since I’m clearly not in polite circles here, I can’t see that it matters. Let me assure you that I wouldn’t have said it in my grandmother’s drawing room.’

‘Your grandmother has a drawing room?’ Had Miss Hensleigh just implied that she didn’t think he was polite?

Her mouth tightened. ‘She did when she was alive.’

That didn’t really surprise him. Hensleigh’s manners and speech were those of a gentleman. He hadn’t been born in the gutter, even if he was damn close to ending in one and dragging his daughter with him. And there was the nub. After two brief meetings, James couldn’t stomach the thought of Hensleigh taking the girl down with him. Damn it, she shouldn’t be eating in a tavern with a pickpocket, or living in these shabby rooms. She shouldn’t know such things exist—