“You buggering bounder!” The man grabbed the back of the boy’s collar and yanked him to the ground. “Give it back!”
John removed his hat and gave it to the footman.
“My lord?” he asked.
“Give me a moment.” John stole down the pavement towards the fracas, not that stealth was needed. No one was taking any account of him.
The boy crab-crawled away, and the loud-mouth grabbed him by the boot and dragged him back.
“Please, sir,” the boy cried. “I didn’t do nobody no ‘arm.”
“You stole my watch.” The man roughly went through the boy’s pockets, came up triumphantly with a gold pocket watch. “You’re a thief. A pickpocket.”
“Well, no ‘arm’s done. Everything’s back proper.” The boy got his feet under him and made to stand.
The larger man planted his boot into the boy’s shoulder and kicked him back down.
“Come on, Alfie,” one of the man’s friends said. “Let it be. You have your watch back.”
“I don’t take kindly to someone stealing from me.” Alfie drew his lips back and grabbed the lad by the collar. “This sneak deserves to be taught a lesson.” He shook the boy roughly.
A soft ‘eep’ reached John’s ears.
John sighed. This was not the excitement he had been looking for. “All right, that’s enough.” He stepped into the light of the gas lamp. Truly, he enjoyed knocking about a thief as much as the next man, but only when the odds were more evenly matched. The thief in question was short in stature and round in belly, hardly the fiercest opponent. And if he had achieved three and ten years of age, John would be surprised. “You have your watch back. You won’t beat a child over it.”
Alfie tossed the boy to the ground and swung around to face John. “Is that right? And who the hell are you?”
“The Earl of Summerset,” he said mildly. Sometimes a title was a lovely tool to drop into a conversation. It put the right sort of person in his place.
Unfortunately, Alfie wasn’t the right sort of person. “And I’m Viscount Devlin. The Marquess of Havenbridge is my father. As I see it, I’m doing a public service. If every right-minded person kicks the gutter rats hard enough, perhaps they won’t show their filthy heads anymore.”
The gutter rat in question rose to his feet. He held himself with a quiet prepossession, and John raised the estimate on his age. Such things were difficult to determine, however, with dirt streaked across half of the boy’s face.
Summerset pulled his silk handkerchief from his pocket, simultaneously sliding his two-inch dagger from his sleeve to his hand. He palmed the blade, using the handkerchief to hide the metal’s sheen. “You can kick up your heels all you want, but do it somewhere else.” He fluttered the bit of lavender fabric at the man. “Now run along home to daddy. I’d hate for the marquess to receive a bill from a surgeon to patch up his son. I hear his finances aren’t what they used to be.”
A low blow to be sure. Havenbridge was in debt to half the ton but it was poor form to publicly acknowledge such a thing.
Summerset cared sod all for being polite to arseholes.
Alfie’s face went blotchy with anger. He stepped forwards, hands clenched at his sides. “Lord or not, I’ll have your head. I’ll—”
A throat was gently cleared behind Summerset. From the way Alfie fell back a step, Summerset could only assume that his driver and right-hand man, Wilberforce, was pointing his trusty blunderbuss at the lot of them. An antiquated and unwieldy weapon, but effective in shutting men up just the same.
Wilberforce moved closer to John, his distinctive tread, one heavy step followed by a slight drag of his left foot, as welcome a sound as any to his ears.
“Perhaps it’s time for you and your friends to run along home,” Summerset said. “I believe you’ve had sufficient entertainment for the night.” He crooked his fingers, beckoning the street urchin to stand behind him.
The lad didn’t need to be told twice. He darted forward, putting John’s body between himself and Alfie.
“Come on.” One of the friends slapped Alfie on the back. “We’ve time for one last drink at The Pidgeon Hole if we hurry.”
Alfie looked from John to Wilberforce and back again, his nostrils flaring. “Fine,” he bit out. “The smell of trash is making me sick anyhow.” And with one last glare, he stomped away, his friends trying to cajole him back into good humor.
John snaked out a hand and grabbed the boy by the back of his collar as he tried to sneak off. “Not so fast. Isn’t it late for you to be out and about? Where’s your home?”
The boy ran the back of his wrist under his nose, inhaling a phlegmy breath.
John winced.
