Doyle sucked his teeth. “Oi! Rafe,” he bellowed.
A handful of seconds later, footsteps came tromping down the stairs. Jamie didn’t know much about children, but the boy was tall for his thirteen years. Thin, too. And filthy.
His son would never know another filthy, flea-bitten day.
“Rafe,” Doyle said, “yer to go with them.”
“What fer?” Rafe asked, managing an impressive glower at Jamie and Hortense. That glower would serve the boy well as the man he would become someday.
Doyle shrugged. “Not me business.”
Rafe’s eyebrows drew together, and he blinked. “But, I live ’ere.” The boy’s voice cracked on the last word, his panic unmistakable.
Doyle shook his head. “Yer replaced easy enough.”
Rafe flinched as if he’d suffered a physical blow. “Back to the work’ouse?”
“If they say.”
Hortense stepped forward. “Not to the workhouse. To a home.”
“’Oo’s ’ome? This nob’s?” Rafe asked, distrust and a budding anger flaring through the question.
“Aye,” Jamie said, hoping the word offered a measure of reassurance to the boy who was suspicious—and rightly so—of this entire situation. Building a relationship with his son would be no instant thing. He could flatten Doyle’s nose for needlessly inflaming the matter. His fist seemed to have developed bloodlust tonight.
“Now, off with ye.” Doyle picked up the magnifying glass and returned his attention to the tiara.
Jamie met Hortense’s eye and nodded. Taking his meaning, she led the way up the stairs. Jamie gestured that Rafe follow. Pugnacious set to his jaw, the boy remained rooted in place.
Before Jamie could figure out how to handle an intractable lad of thirteen, Doyle barked, “Go, and don’t darken me doorstep again.”
Alongside the distrust and anger flickered hurt in Rafe’s eyes. At last, the boy followed Hortense. Jamie brought up the rear as they vacated the shambles of Doyle’s lair. Outside, the coachman sat upright on his perch, reins in hand, ready.
Rafe hesitated at the carriage door before seating himself beside Hortense. Jamie took the bench opposite and gave the ceiling two taps. The carriage lurched into motion, and he released a relieved breath. He had his son. A son he didn’t know, and who didn’t know him. A sullen and circumspect son whose glower had returned with burning intensity.
“Are you”—Jamie searched for something to say, for thecorrectsomething to say—“comfortable?”
Rafe shrugged.
That had gone over well.
Jamie was opening his mouth surely to make another blunder when Hortense turned to the lad. “What’s your position?”
Position?
Even if Jamie had no idea what that meant, Rafe seemed to know, for his eyes narrowed, but his mouth remained silent.
“I was the pick,” she said. She understood more about his son than Jamie ever might. She spoke his language.
Rafe’s eyes lifted, betraying a measure of respect. At last, he’d taken a bite of the bait Hortense was laying. “Lookout. I weren’t e’er good enough fer pick.”
She nodded with understanding, even camaraderie. “Your hands are too big and you’re too tall for a pick.”
“Yeah, that, too. Doyle always said.”
“Did you like it there?”
He gave a shrug of indifference. “Better than the workhouse. I never was much on pickin’ oakum.” His eyes darted between Jamie and Hortense. “And least I know whut’s whut with Doyle.” His cautious gaze landed on Jamie like a punch to the gut.
