Netta squawked, wind-milled her arms in an exaggerated fashion, and landed bum-first on the earl’s lap.
He wrapped a strong arm about her waist, steadying her. His gaze dropped to his chest…and the cake crushed into his snowy silk cravat.
“I’m right sorry, I am.” Netta brushed at the sticky crumbs. She stuck what remained of the cake between her lips and swiped at the mess with both hands. “Eet ‘ill ‘ash rit as ‘ain.”
Summerset gritted his teeth and grabbed her hips. He lifted her off of him as though she weighed no more than a child and examined his cravat. Then he looked back up at her, exasperation wrought in every line of his face. Reaching out, he grabbed the end of the cake and tugged it from her mouth. He sighed. “What was it you were saying?”
She shoved her hands in her pockets and hung her head, trying her best to look like a sulky youth. “It’ll wash out, right as rain.” When he remained silent, she added, “At least the chocolate pot didn’t get you.” No, that misfortune had landed on the poor bloke at the next table, who’s hair dripped with the sweet, brown liquid.
Summerset twisted his mouth. “As you say. Now—”
“I’ll jus’ leave you with your brother.” Netta backed away. “Thanks fer the breakfast.” And without waiting for a reply, she scooted out of the coffeehouse and hurried down the street.
She turned a corner and patted her hidden pocket. The slim leather case she’d lifted from the earl’s jacket met her hand, and she couldn’t help but grin. Not skilled, was she? She wished she could see his face when he discovered his banknotes were missing, when the pieces came together and he realized the scamp he’d condescended to had finagled him, after all.
She crossed the street, heading in the direction of The Burns Theatre. Cerise was going to scold her for this adventure, she knew. Although her friend would have no compunction over the actual theft, she wouldn’t be pleased that Netta had succumbed to the temptation. Again. She could just about hear her friend’s lecture on keeping one’s emotions in check, on the need for a carefully thought-out plan before taking action.
Netta snorted. Logic was all well and good, but there was something to be said for acting on instinct. For—
A hand grabbed her from behind and yanked her into an alley.
A shock of fear ripped through her body. She struggled against the hold, against the man who dragged her deeper into the shadowed lane.
He pushed her into the wall of a building, and her chin struck the bricks. Ignoring the sting, she spun around, pressing her back against the wall and holding her hands up in front of her.
The man who’d caught her stealing his pocket watch, Alfie, loomed over her. Without his drunken friends around him, he looked even less friendly than he had earlier. And that hadn’t been friendly at all.
“What do you want, mister?”
Casually, as though she were nothing more than a fly he was swatting, Alfie raised his arm and struck her with the back of his hand.
She stumbled, landing on a pile of empty crates, and pressed her palm to her burning cheek.
“It’s Lord Devlin to you.” He straightened the cuff of his jacket. “And what I want is to make it clear that no one, least of all trash like you, steals from me.” Grabbing the front of her shirt, he hauled her to her feet.
She didn’t see it coming. Just off her triumph over the earl and a tasty breakfast, her internal warning system was too slow. A sharp pain arced into her abdomen, and she gasped.
“Filthy scum.” Alfie lowered his face to whisper in her ear. “You’re not even worth the time it would take to fetch a magistrate.” He pulled his arm back and stabbed her again.
A roar filled Netta’s ears. The pounding of her blood, a commotion from the street, it didn’t matter. When Alfie pushed her away and the back of her head hit the brick wall, the roar faded away.
She slid down the side of the building, holding her hand to her abdomen. She tilted sideways, her vision closing in on itself. The last things she saw were the heels of Alfie’s pumps as they skittered from view.
Chapter Three
“Why?” John craned his neck, trying to keep the thief in sight. He glared at Wilberforce. “Why is it you feel the need to save every stray, sad-luck case you encounter?”
He would have thought that after thirty years of seeing the realities of human nature, Wil would have shed himself of his savior complex. But no, the runaway sneak had piqued his servant’s protective instincts and when the boy had slipped away, Wilberforce had followed.
Leaving John no choice but to do the same. It was either trail after Wil or have a discussion he didn’t want with his brother. The decision had been easy. And when he’d finally noticed the emptiness of his pocket, his step had quickened until he’d caught up to Wil.
Damned sneaky child. After he retrieved his blunt and gave the boy a good scare, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with him. Such inventiveness, distracting John by tripping the waiter, should be rewarded. If it hadn’t been his money that had been lifted, John would have been tempted to congratulate the imp.
They waited for a carriage to pass then crossed the street after Pickle. John hesitated. The boy had disappeared. He pointed to the mouth of an alley. “There. He must have gone that way.”
Wilberforce nodded and they strode to the mouth of the alley side-by-side.
“Not everyone can be saved,” John reminded him. “The boy is most likely….”
