“Because the child is the nephew of a peer of the realm.”
The chimney sweep shook his head. “Nah, he ain’t. You got da wrong chile and da wrong sweep.”
“I don’t think so. Dark hair darker complexion, and dark eyes that droop like a puppy dog’s eyes.”
“Yah.”
“Answers to Krishan.”
The sweep shook his head violently. “Nah, that’s Tristan.”
James laughed mirthlessly. “No, you mis-heard. It’s Krishan, or Christopher Sedgewick.”
“I didn’t know,” the man whined. “I needed a boy that size. He’s perfect fer climbing chimneys.”
“I will reimburse you for the cost of the boy, but you are going to help us find the man who sold him to you,” James said as he released the man and rose to his feet.
The sweep slowly got up as well.
“Let’s go,” James said, leading him to the stairs.
“I didn’t know,” the man whined again.
James prodded him to go down the stairs.
12
Lady Newcombe’s parlor was an elegant, Georgian-style room done in shades of pink with white and gold accents. They’d covered most of the furniture with Holland covers to protect the fabric from soot swirling in the air. The carpet had been rolled up and set in the back of the room. Canvas clothes covered the floor. At the fireplace Cecilia saw a dirty, older boy. He was looking up the flue.
“Git on wit’chya,” he yelled up the chimney, his voice cracking between child and man.
An indistinct voice replied.
“Ya don’t need ta see. Push yer broom ahead a ya and foller it up.”
Scraping and scuffing sounds preceded chunks of soot raining down and scattering outward from the fireplace hearth.
The boy looking up, squeezed his eyes shut and pulled his head out from the chimney. He laughed as he shook the loose soot off himself. He was so covered in soot, there was no way to know his hair color. Light brown eyes shone out from his blackened countenance.
“Right, oh!” he exclaimed. “We’ll make a sweep o’ ya yet. Climb higher!”
“Gracious,” Lady Newcombe said, as she looked the boy up and down.
Cecilia nodded wryly. She again removed the flyer from her reticule. She walked toward the climbing boy. “You, young man, what is your name?”
“Billy, ma’am.”
“Billy, does this look like the child you have climbing up the chimney?” She held out the paper to the boy.
He tentatively took the paper from her, then looked down at it. “Coo! ’Tis the spittin’!”
“He should not be up that chimney. Tell him to come down immediately.”
“But—”
“Immediately!—Oh, never mind,” she said when he stood there staring at the paper in his hand. She walked past him to the fireplace and braced herself with one hand on the ornately carved surround below the mantle as she leaned forward.
“Christopher?” she called up. “Christopher Sedgewick?”
