The caretaker shook his head. “Mad. Mad, the lot of ‘em.” He bit theguinea as a matter of habit, though he knew Arden wouldn’t offer falsecoin.
In a few moments the young man ran nimbly back down the corridor andout into the rain, which was surely ruining a small fortune in eleganttailoring. He took the reins of the horse and pulled out another guinea.Then he hesitated, glancing down at the urchin.
“I’d be surprised if you’re more than twelve,” he said thoughtfully.“You’ll have trouble splitting this.”
It was not a problem bothering the boy, whose wide eyes were fixed onthe gold.
The marquess grinned. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to chouse you. Howwould you like to ride back with me, and I’ll fix you up right andtight?”
The boy took a step back. “On the ‘orse, guv?”
“Of course on the ‘orse,” said the marquess, leaping onto the back ofthe big bay. “Well?”
The boy hesitated, and the marquess impatiently said, “Make up yourmind.”
The boy held up his arms, and the marquess hoisted his scrawny weightbehind him. “Hold tight!” he called and kicked the horse into a gallopagain.
The streets were a little quieter as the theater crowd and the hawkerswho catered to them had gone home. There were enough people abroad,however, to keep the ride lively and to call up comments from themarquess’s nervous passenger. “Gawd’s struth.”
“Watch it, Guv!” and ? when the driver of a gig was so startled hesteered his horse onto the pavement ? “Wha‘ a slowtop.”
The steaming, frothing horse was reined up at a grand mansion in asquare in Mayfair far from the urchin’s usual beat. The nob slipped offthe horse and called back, “Watch the nag a minute!” as he raced up thewide steps. As a bell in a nearby church began to chime the hour, hugedouble doors at the top were flung open to greet him, spilling glitteringlight down the wet stone steps.
A delicate vision in white ? white from her loose silver hair to aflowing lace gown to white slippers ? flung out her arms and cried, “Youdid it! You did it! I knew you could.” The marquess gathered her up andswung her around as she squealed at how wet he was.
As his debtor went into the house, the street Arab heard him laugh andsay, “To the devil with your gown. I prefer you without one anyway.Where’s Dare?” The big doors closed on the light.
The boy, who went by the name of Sparrow, or Sparra more like, shiveredin the chilly damp. “Scummered for sure,” he muttered. “Left perched onthe back of a soddin‘ horse. Thank Gawd the beast’s too shagged to move.”It was a long way down to the ground.
After a while, though, when the horse showed signs of coming back tolife, the boy chose the lesser of the evils. Grasping the pommel, he sliddown, falling flat in a puddle when he landed. The horse looked around inmild affront.
“ ‘S’alright fer yous,” Sparra muttered as he rubbed at the slimy mudon his already wet and dirty rags. “Sooner nor later summen’ll rub yerdarn, give yer a feed. They cares for their ’orses, does this lot. Ishould’ve grabbed the bloody goldfinch.”
He looked the horse over to see if there was anything worthnicking.
Just at that moment thick fingers yanked at his grubby collar, and hewas hauled around to face a burly giant of a man. “What are you doing withmy horse, you devil’s spawn?”
“I ? I ?” Sparra was half-throttled and scared out of his wits. Hekicked and wriggled, but the man’s hand was like a vice.
“I’ll teach you to take a gentleman’s mount, you wretched cur,” snarledthe man, and swung his riding crop down on Sparra’s body.
“Ow! Please, guv . . . Aah!” The crop whistled and cut again andagain.
A cool voice broke in. “I hardly think this is the place to correct anerring servant, sir.”
The man stopped the beating but held on tight to his captive. “And whothe devil are you, sir? And what business is it of yours what I do?”
The newcomer had obviously just arrived in a handsome travelingchariot. Everything about him spoke of top quality, Sparra decided with abeggar’s unerring eye. Not just his perfectly cut caped greatcoat and hisgleaming boots, his elegant beaver and tan gloves, but the way he stoodand the softness of his voice.
A powdered footman stood behind him shielding him from the elementswith a large black umbrella.
“I am the Duke of Belcraven, sir,” the newcomer said, “and this is myhouse which you are disturbing with your brawl.”
Sparra wished he could see the bully’s face at that. He also wished theman would loosen his grip, instead of making it tighter. Then he could getout of here ? fast. He wanted nothing to do with dukes, and horse-stealinggot you knocked down for a crop.
“I beg pardon, Your Grace,” said the man in a strained voice. “I wastaking retribution on this wretch for having ridden off on my horse, whichI left quietly hereabouts.”
The duke raised an eyeglass and studied the horse, a large beast aswould be necessary for such a large rider. Then he looked at theculprit.
