“Wallop me! A girl!”
“Alady,” Chris corrected. “She’s walloped me before; I reckon she could wallop you with half as much effort.”
“Yer shammin’ me.” But the boy swallowed hard, and he sunk in his seat, his back hunching. His eyes drifted toward Brooks. “Ain’t he?”
“Not in the slightest. Were I you, I would resign myself to it.”
The boy gave an audible swallow, his face bleaching of color. “To what?”
Brooks stretched his lips into a macabre grin, adjusting his cuffs. “A proper education.”
∞∞∞
It was a struggle to evict the boy from the carriage. Of course, he wasn’t the first recalcitrant child that Chris had delivered to the orphanage, and he wouldn’t likely be the last. But thisparticular child apparently viewed the threat of an education as something akin to torture, and he’d dug his grimy fingernails into the richly upholstered seat of the carriage and refused to be budged.
“Kit,” Emma chided, every ounce of her exasperation evident in her voice. “You have gotto stop threatening them. Some of them have been terrified of me for weeks upon arrival. What did you tell this one?”
“The truth.” Chris grunted as the boy’s foot caught him in the midsection. “That you walloped me good.”
“I was eight!”
“Still the truth.” Somehow he pried up the boy’s fingernails, and he and Brooks dragged the struggling child out of the carriage at last. “This one’s a runner. You’ll have to convince him it’s worth staying.”
“A task rendered somewhat more difficult when you threaten them.” Emma blew out a breath, stirring a lock of bright hair that had slipped free of its hastily-tied ribbon. “Who is his kidsman?”
“Dunno. ‘E won’t say.” Chris dodged a flying elbow and together he and Brooks managed to wrestle the lad upright once more. “Tried to nick my purse. Wouldn’ta got it even if I’d had one to nick.” He grabbed a fistful of the boy’s collar, holding himin place. “Got m’self tossed into the Thames early this morning.”
“Ah.” Emma’s nose wrinkled. “The smell. I had wondered. Hawkins?”
Chris shrugged, but watched the boy’s face carefully. “Could’ve been Reeves. Or Fletcher.” No reaction, so probably none were his kidsman. “They roughed me up and tossed me in. Didn’t make any bother over introductions.”
“They took your cane?”
“’Fraid so.” And that was the one true tragedy in all of this. He’d loved that damned cane. It had been a gift from Em, after all; a lovely ornate thing, with a sword concealed within the shaft. It was too bad the blighters had caught him by surprise, or he might have had a fighting chance.
“But your knee!”
“Won’t suffer for it. Don’t concern yourself.” It wasn’t quite true. Already the muscles were aching, the cold water of the Thames rendering them stiff and painful. But the injury was as healed as it was going to get, and there was no sense in speaking of it further.
He’d kept his words light, but Emma’s brow creased with worry anyway. She looked as if she badly wished to say something, but her gaze flitted to the boy writhing at the business end of the shirt collar and held her tongue. “His name?” she asked.
“Says it’s Albert, but I wouldn’t place a wager on it.” Another weak jerk from the lad; a token protest. From the way the boy’s gaze darted about, he’d taken stock of his surroundings and correctly deduced that not only was rescue unlikely to be found, but that a break for freedom would be ill-advised.
Emma dropped into a crouch, the better to be on a level with the boy, who shrunk away from her as if she might carry some infection. “Albert,” she said. “Isit Albert, truly?”
The boy made an uncouth sound in his throat and hawked amouthful of phlegm at her feet, earning himself a cuff from Brooks, who hadn’t the least patience for such antics. “Ain’t gotta tell younuffin’.”
“No, but I should like to address you by the name that belongs to you. You may call me Emma, if you like.”
“’Esaid you was calledLadyEmma.” The boy jerked his chin toward Chris.
A canny look stole over her face, quickly stifled. “I am, but I don’t mind if you call me Emma instead. Some of the younger children prefer it.” Clever girl; she’d pricked the boy exactly where it would hurt the most—his pride.
“I’m fourteen!” he snapped with a pugnacious jut of his chin.
“Rubbish. You’re ten, perhaps eleven. My son, Danny, is just recently eleven, and I’d put you at the same.” She squinted, affecting a contemplative air. “Unless…well, I suppose you couldbe fourteen, if your kidsman hasn’t been feeding you properly.”
“Russell feeds us jes fine!” A flush stained his grubby little face as he realized what he had admitted, and his shoulders hunched, making him appear even smaller than he was. His mouth pursed in anger, fingers flexing.
