“He isn’tmyman,” Hortense shot back, rising to the bait before she could catch herself. Doyle’s mouth curved into his rogue’s smile, and she could kick herself. “We’re searching for a boy,” she said, stating it flat.
“Lots of lads trollin’ ’bout these streets.”
“This one has been misplaced.”
He spread his hands wide, conciliatory. “Lads lost, few found. That’s the sad truth of this ole world.”
“Around thirteen years on him,” she pressed. “Tall for his age.” It was all conjecture, of course, but she quickly realized what she was doing. She was describing her imagining of how Clare would have looked as a thirteen-year-old lad. “Grey eyes,” she continued. “Dark hair with a tendency to curl on the ends.”
“’E got a name?”
“Rafe.He came from St. Mary Magdalen.”
Doyle shifted forward and began sliding a watch chain through his fingers. “Ah.” His gaze narrowed on her. She’d been the recipient of that particular look a hundred times over. And even today it stirred uncertainty within her. “Rafe,” he called out.
“Aye?” sounded a young, raspy voice.
“Come ’ere now, won’t ye?”
The lad stepped out of the shadows and into dim, flickering light. Hortense inhaled a gasp. He was the eel who had summoned her a few days ago. Further, she’d described him precisely to the curled-up ends of his hair.
She stole a glance at Clare. His features had transformed into a mixture of shock and belief, with a large dollop of burgeoning determination turning them to granite. He’d understood in an instant this boy was his offspring.
“Ye mean, likethisRafe?”
Clare took a step forward, the look in his eyes hard and focused. Hortense grabbed his arm. The stakes had increased tenfold. This must be handled with delicacy, not force, for she understood two facts at once: the occupants of this room were the only family the lad had known for years. Clare might think Rafe would come with them and be grateful. But she understood the situation differently. He might not want to leave this place at all.
Then there was the second fact: Doyle would want something in return.
She nodded. “Aye.”
Doyle’s head cocked, his gaze gone canny. “Ye know what I find interestin’?”
The question emerged light as air, even as it landed on her shoulders like a lead weight. “What?”
“Here is Hortense askin’ ’bout a boy. But, really, when it comes to it, ye and yer associate be askin’ me fer a favor, no?”
“Perhaps. Depends on your point of view.”
“That’s what I thought.” He leaned forward. “Here’s what strikes me to the cockles. Ye’ll be wantin’ a favor, but what are ye prepared to do fer me?”
Ice shivered through her veins.What, indeed?
Doyle’s forefinger tapped thin, chapped lips. “So ye’ve found this Rafe ye’ve been searchin’ fer, now what is it ye want with him?”
“You know what we want.” It was obvious to anyone with eyes that the man standing at her side was the boy’s sire.
“So ye think ye can waltz in here and ask all nice and I’ll let ye have him?”
“I suffer from no such delusion.”
He barked out another laugh. “Hortense and her fancy words. That smart mouth o’ yers always did have somethin’ to say. Now, what’s it goin’ to say to me today?”
“How much for him?” She might as well get to it.
An exaggerated frown pulled at Doyle’s mouth. “Tsk-tsk-tsk,” he chided. “Now yer disappointin’ me.How much?”
The mockery in his voice was unmistakable, even as his gaze shifted toward Clare, giving him a thorough once-over while sucking his teeth. Even though Clare wasn’t wearing the finery of an aristocrat, Doyle wasn’t fooled. The marquess couldn’t help being, well, amarquess.
