She pressed her palm to the pocket hidden in her shirt. The two small bulges the pearls made sent a dark thrill through her body. She shouldn’t have taken the fop’s buttons when they’d shaken hands. It had been risky. Too risky. But she couldn’t end the night on a failure. She had been caught by a drunken sop namedAlfie, and she’d needed to redeem herself.
Pride demanded nothing less.
“Now,” Summerset crossed one leanly-muscled leg over the other and flicked a bit of lint from his tight pantaloons. “What’s a nice boy like you doing out on a night like this?” An equal measure of boredom and derision coated his words.
Netta tilted her head. What was the man’s game? He’d rescued her from a thrashing, of that there was no doubt. But he didn’t seem the charitable sort. She’d encountered more than her share of would-be Good Samaritans, eager to save her soul, to know the type.
The server arrived with their plum cakes and drinks, coffee for the earl and a steaming cup of chocolate for her.
“Well?” Summerset tapped his thumb on the rim of his mug. “Aren’t you going to entertain me with your tale of woe?”
Netta snorted. “Don’t got one,” she lied in her false voice. She had at least thirty sorrowful tales, trotting them out when the occasion called, but something told her this man wouldn’t believe a one of them.
“You will if you don’t choose another profession.” He brought the mug to his nose and inhaled. His eyes watched her from over the rim. They were a lovely shade of blue, darker than the afternoon sky yet brighter than sapphires. His blond hair was trimmed to short curls, with two locks on either side of his forehead artfully coiling up towards his crown. His nose was long and straight; his cheekbones high and graceful. It was one of the most symmetrical and beautiful faces Netta had seen. A face she surely would have engaged in a bit of flirting with had she met him at her theatre.
But she had dirt streaked across her face and was pretending to be a boy. Life just wasn’t fair.
His penetrating gaze seemed to see beneath her disguise. She itched to adjust her wig, but she knew better than to break character. “Profession? Wot’s that?”
“Your profession. Career. In your case, a pickpocket.” He cut a precise wedge off the small round cake and delicately placed it in his mouth. He leaned back as he chewed and swallowed. “You’re not very skilled at it.”
Netta narrowed her eyes. “I’m better than you think.” And then, because she could, she picked up the cake whole and shoved it in her mouth, biting off a full half of the pastry. She chewed noisily, enjoying the faint look of horror on the man’s features. She was trained to elicit emotional responses, and this man was an easy mark.
He flicked his gaze from her mouth, to the hand holding the cake, down to her wrist.
She tugged at her cuff, pulling it over the bump that protruded below her thumb. The break had healed, but the bone hadn’t knitted back together in a flat line.
“Be that as it may, it isn’t a profession with any longevity.” Summerset pointed at the man who’d shadowed them to the coffeehouse. He looked of similar age to the earl, and next to Summerset, the man’s plain clothes looked as drab as a laborer’s. “You see Wilberforce there? He has an especial concern for wayward children. I’m afraid if you don’t make a good show of at least attempting reform, he’ll follow you home like a puppy. He won’t leave you be until he knows you’re safe.” He twisted his lips. “I should know.”
The man saw them looking at him and stood from his table. He limped over. “Did you need something?”
“No, Wilberforce, I was merely using you as a cautionary tale on the consequences of a wayward life.”
“Yes, sir.” Wilberforce returned to his seat. He picked up a newspaper and flicked it open.
Netta opened her mouth, snapped it shut. Her character wouldn’t know that the servant had used the incorrect form of address. She shoved the rest of the cake in her mouth and slouched in her chair.
“Sit up straight.” The earl pulled a gold lorgnette attached to a chain from his waistcoat pocket and examined her through the lenses. “If I’m to do my good deed for the year by attempting to reform you, the least you could do in return is sit with proper posture when we dine together. Otherwise, it’s like eating with a hunched monkey.”
She snorted. If that was his biggest problem in life, he had no right to complain. She looked at her empty plate, looked at the door. Pierre’s did have lovely pastries, but she didn’t think any more would be forthcoming. No need to remain.
“If you don’t like eating with me, then I’ll leave.” Netta slid from her chair, the stretched fabric of her borrowed shirt catching on a splinter on the table. She tugged it free but before she could stand, that damnably quick hand of the earl’s snuck out again and grabbed her arm.
‘Before you go, I’ll have my buttons back.” Summerset raised his other hand out and held it in front of her, palm up. “My valet will be in quite a temper if I don’t return with those.”
Netta blinked. “How long ‘ave you known?”
“From the instant you pocketed them.” The earl shook his head. “As I said, your talents don’t appear to lie in larceny.”
The absolute gall of the man. Fuming, Netta pulled the pearl buttons from their hiding place and slapped them on the earl’s hand. She had many talents. The bounder had just gotten lucky. And, she was tired. It had been a long night. Her performance would naturally suffer.
He slid the buttons into his waistcoat pocket beside his lorgnette, a smug smile hovering about his lips.
Netta wanted to wipe it right off. For three nights she’d successfully palmed small trinkets and coin from the well-heeled toffs with no one the wiser. Not only did the petty thieving help her get into the mind of her character, but, well, the extra blunt didn’t hurt. Her theatre paid very little and she needed to save.
“Do you want another?” he asked.
She looked down at the flaky crumbs, all that remained on her plate. Of course, she wanted another plum cake. It had been laden with butter and sugar and was one of the best things she’d ever put in her mouth. But she should leave before the man called the magistrate. Getting caught twice in one night was fate’s way of telling her to quit.
