His Lordship's Desire

“Here, that’s my boy,” the man said loudly, and he began to advance upon Sally, evidently with the idea of ripping the boy from her arms.

A deep, resonant voice said, “Desist, you worm. Lay one hand on the lady and I shall be forced to kill you.”

For a brief moment, Sally thought her escort had come to her rescue but then she realized that the voice was different. She looked up to see a tall, blond man dressed in a many-caped riding coat standing next to the chimney sweeper. “You cannot beat your poor unfortunate boys on the city streets,” the blond man said. “At least you can’t while there is a lady of mercy in the vicinity. I suggest you go about your business before I have you arrested for vicious conduct.”

“That boy’s mine,” the man said indignantly. “You can’t just take him from me! He’s worth money!”

“Slavery is outlawed in England,” Sally said. “If this boy chooses to leave you of his own free will, there is nothing you can do about it.” She looked down at the filthy head that was pressed against her breast. “Do you wish to leave this man, my dear?”

“Yes,” came the breathless reply.

“Then I think you have had your answer,” the tall stranger said. “Take yourself off before I am tempted to knock you down for attacking helpless children.”

His voice was cool and utterly authoritative. After a moment, the chimney man got back into his wagon and started up his poor, skinny horse.

Sally looked up at the man who had come to her rescue. Her escort was still sitting in his phaeton, staring at her. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “You came just in time.”

For the first time she noticed that the man’s eyes were a very unusual shade of green.

“Let’s have a look at the lad,” he said.

Sally put her hands on the boy’s thin shoulders and held him away from her. The front of her pelisse was filthy, from coal dirt and tears and the boy’s runny nose. She appeared not to notice.

“What is your name?” she asked gently.

“Jem,” came the reply.

“How long have you been a climbing boy?” the man asked.

“Just a few months. But I don’t like it. I’m afraid of getting caught in the chimney. But my pa said he couldna feed me, that I’d have to do it.”

“How old are you?”

“Eight.”

He was small enough to look five. He snuffled. Sally looked at her rescuer and said, “Do you have a handkerchief, sir?”

The thick blond brows rose, but the man reached into the pocket of his greatcoat and produced the article requested.

“Here,” Sally said, handing over the pristine handkerchief. “Blow your nose, Jem, and wipe your face.”

The two adults stood in silence and watched as the boy did as he was requested. When he was finished he attempted to hand the handkerchief back to its owner, who shook his head sharply and said, “No, no, you keep it, boy.”