Getting the piss beat out of him.
The arsehole from earlier, Devlin, held Pickle by his collar. Silver flashed, and before John could shout a warning, Devlin had plunged the blade into Pickle’s round belly.
Heat flared through John’s body. With a roar, he leapt forwards.
Devlin tossed the boy against the wall and took off running.
Indecision stalled John a moment. He longed to tear after Devlin, mete out his own form of justice. No one should hurt a child. But he merely glared at the man’s retreating back and dropped next to the boy. He’d handle Devlin later.
“Pickle?” He tapped the boy’s smooth cheek, but the lad didn’t respond. “Ned?”
“How bad is he hurt?” Wilberforce squatted next to him, an angry red flush darkening his face.
“I don’t know.” John moved his hands to the boy’s torso and frowned. “What the hell?” He pressed again, and instead of pudgy flesh, a soft bed of feathers met his fingers. He ripped open the shirt and gaped down at the pillow tied around a girl’s abdomen.
No, judging by the ripeness of the breasts the padding had hidden, thewoman’sabdomen. Not only was Ned not a boy, she wasn’t a child, either.
Two cuts sliced through the pillow, and red streaks stained the fabric. John slid his own knife from his boot and cut the strings holding the pillow in place. He raised the woman’s chemise above her trousers, exposing her wounds.
“The cuts don’t appear life-threatening.” John cursed. “The damned pillow saved her life, preventing the knife from going deep.”
The woman mumbled, her eyelids flickering before settling back down.
John skimmed his fingertips over her hair. He pulled off the wig before examining her scalp. “She’s got quite the lump.”
Wilberforce picked up the wig and pillow. “She’ll need a quiet place to rest after the sawbones sees her.”
John rolled his gaze in Wil’s direction. “You are all that is subtle.” He gathered the woman in his arms, her padding-free frame still feeling soft and plush against his body. “Go hail a hackney.” He stood, a slight twinge in his knee telling him he’d done so too quickly. Bloody birthdays. “We have a new stray for you to protect.”
***
Netta swam through the swirling fog. The back of her head throbbed, and memories of the alley twisted through her brain.
She blinked awake. A satyr danced above her, his frolics on the ceiling joined in by three women in Greek gowns that barely covered their abundant curves.
What the…?
She turned her head and shrieked. A face was planted on the bed not two inches from her own.
The girl jerked back. “You’re awake. Good. I thought perhaps you’d never wake, and that I wouldn’t ever get a chance to serve as a lady’s maid. If you’d died, my plans for advancement would have been severely thwarted.”
Netta scooted away until her back was against the headboard, ignoring the dizziness that threatened. She searched the strange bedchambers she was in, the salacious fresco on the ceiling, but no explanation appeared. “What? Who are you? Where am I? What is going on?”
The girl, or young woman as Netta now saw, stood and dropped a quick curtsy. “I’m Mags and we’re in the Earl of Summerset’s home. The one in London, not his country estate. Either of them. Nor his castle in the south of France. Cor, how I’d love to see that.” Mags clasped her hands to her bosom and sighed. “As to what’s going on, I have no earthly idea. No one tells me anything. Just to watch you and make sure you’re all right and serve as your abigail if you woke.”
“If?” Netta raised an arm to feel her aching head, and pain sliced through her side as the skin stretched.
“When.” Mags skipped to a pitcher on a side table and poured a glass of water. “I’m sure I said when.”
“I’m sure you said no such thing.” Summerset glided through the open door. “What have I told you about lying, Mags?”
“To only do it when it will improve my situation and there’s no chance of being caught.” Mags handed Netta the glass. “I don’t think she would have caught me out.” The girl turned wide brown eyes on Netta. “Would you?”
Netta looked at the maid, looked at the earl, and took a large swallow of water. Truly, her head must have suffered quite a blow.
A fat orange-haired cat trotted into the room and twined around Summerset’s ankles. The earl toed it aside and stepped to the bed. “You’d best be wary of this one, Mags.” Summerset ran his eyes up and down her body.
Netta followed his gaze. An unfamiliar night rail, one made with a great deal of semi-transparent lace and without much substance, sloped off one of her shoulders. She hiked it back into place and pulled the coverlet up to cover her bosom.
