Peter shook his head. “I cannot say, Miss. Best if we simply continue on to?—”
“Stop the carriage.”
“Miss Sinclair, it is not our concern?—”
“I said stop the carriage, Peter.”
The coachman sighed but obeyed, pulling the horses to a complete halt.
She gathered her skirts and jumped down to the street, ignoring Peter’s scandalized protest.
The crowd was thick enough that Joan had to push her way through, murmuring apologies as she went. The voices grew louder as she approached the center.
“—caught him red-handed!”
“—always knew that boy was trouble?—”
“—his father should keep better watch?—”
Joan finally broke through to the inner circle to find the woman still gripping the boy’s arm, her face mottled with rage. Up close, the woman was perhaps fifty, dressed in the practical woolens of the merchant class.
“What is happening here?” Joan asked, her voice cutting through the general murmur of the crowd.
Several people turned to look at her, curiosity and wariness mingling in their expressions. The woman’s grip on the boy tightened.
“And who might you be?” the woman demanded.
Before Joan could respond, a man from the crowd spoke up. “That’s one of the ladies from Fairfax Manor. Arrived yesterday, they did.”
Word travels quickly in small villages, Joan thought wryly.
“Well, Lady from Fairfax Manor,” the woman said, her tone dripping with false deference, “this does not concern you. This boy is a thief, and I am merely ensuring he faces justice.”
Joan looked at the boy. “Is this true?” she asked him gently.
“No, Miss!” The words burst out of him like a dam breaking. “I didn’t steal nothing! I swear it on my mother’s grave!”
The woman’s hand flew up, clearly intending to strike the boy across the face.
Joan stepped forward and caught the woman’s wrist mid-swing, her grip firm enough to stop the blow but not quite hard enough to hurt.
The woman’s eyes widened in shock. “How dare you?—”
Joan released her wrist and gently pulled the boy behind her, positioning herself between him and his accuser.
“Are you all right?” Joan asked over her shoulder, keeping her eyes on the woman.
“Y-yes, Miss,” the boy managed, his voice thick with tears. “But I didn’t steal! I didn’t!”
“I believe you,” Joan said firmly.
“Miss Sinclair!” Peters had pushed through the crowd, his face creased with worry.
“Return to the carriage, Peters,” Joan said without looking at him. “I will be along shortly.”
“Miss—”
“That is an order, Peters.”
