“I’m coming with you,” Sinjin said.
“But it might be dangerous—” Polly began.
“I can take care of myself, kitten.” Restless energy gnawed at him; he needed to get out, todosomething. “We’ll get your Maisie back safely where she belongs.”
~~~
“Now a nob such as yourself probably ain’t acquainted with the likes of a flash house. It won’t be a rose garden. So if you’d rather stay in the carriage—”
“I’m going in.” Hunt was beginning to grate on Sinjin’s nerves.
Somewhere during the journey into the heart of the rookery, the other man had shed his polished manners. He now sounded and acted like a native of the rough enclave. Alert aggression glinted in his tawny gaze as their conveyance pulled to a stop at their destination.
But Sinjin was no lordling with lily white hands. He might not have sprung from these dirty streets, but he knew violence and how to fend for himself. Right now, hewantedto fight, his muscles flexing in anticipation of a good row.
“Suit yourself. But take this.” Hunt passed him a pistol, shoving another into his own boot. “And try not to get knifed or shot, eh?”
Having dispensed that helpful advice, Hunt exited the carriage, instructing his pair of footmen to keep a discreet watch. He led the way to the flash house, a three-storey building with soot-covered windows and a grimy façade. It leaned crookedly to one side, looking as if a strong wind might send it crashing into the adjacent building. Hunt shoved open the door and strode in like he owned the place, Sinjin taking his cue from the other’s lead.
It took Sinjin’s eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom inside. The stench of grease and rotted things assailed his nostrils. Three men lay snoring at a trestle table, empty bottles of blue ruin lolling around them.
“Bloody hell.”
At Hunt’s low utterance, Sinjin followed the other man’s gaze. His stomach lurched.
Holy Mother of God.
At the far end of the room, a lad was strung up to a flogging pole, his wrists bound above his head. Even at this distance, Sinjin saw the bloody welts and bruises over the boy’s bared torso. He recognized Maisie, the flower girl from his wedding, flanking one side of the injured lad whilst a tow-headed boy stood on the other. The two were trying to coax the wounded boy to drink from a cup and whipped around as Hunt and Sinjin strode over.
“Mr. Hunt. My lord,” Maisie squeaked.
“Tell us what’s happened, child,” Hunt said.
Sinjin admired the other man’s controlled tone because, up close, he could see just how badly the boy had been whipped, his own scars tautening in reflex. Rage bubbled up, his fingers curling. He wanted tokillwhoever had done this.
“They b-beat Tim. Me and Patrick, we’ve been tr-trying to give ’im water, but ’e won’t ave any.” Maisie’s voice hitched, tears spilling down her freckled cheeks. “Is ’e d-dead?”
Sinjin was already untying the boy, easing him to the ground. Hunt ran his hands gently over the lanky, battered frame, and a faint moan escaped from Tim’s cracked lips.
“His injuries look worse than they are, and his pulse is steady. He’ll be fine once we get him tended to,” Hunt said.
Maisie gave a relieved sob.
Stripping off his jacket, Sinjin wrapped it around Tim.
“Who did this?” he bit out to the other boy.
“The name’s Patrick, guv, and it ’appened like this. Since the Prince o’ the Larks cocked ’is toes, a cutthroat by the name o’ Crooke fancied ’imself as the next ruler o’ the roost. Thing is, Crooke ain’t got the Prince’s ’eart or ’is brains, but ’e’s got plenty o’ brawn—or least ’e’s got the coin to ’ire some ruffians to do ’is dirty work.” The boy shot a disgusted look at the men who remained comatose at the table. “We could ’andle Crooke being a brute and pushing us to comb the tides all ’ours o’ the day and night, but we drew the line—least Tim did—when Crooke told us ’e’d made an arrangement to loan us out to Mother Cox.”
At the mention of the infamous bawd, blood rushed in Sinjin’s ears. He looked at Patrick’s dirt-smudged face, topped with a mop of fair hair; the boy couldn’t be more than ten. “The bastard wanted to force you into the flesh trade?”
“Aye—and I ain’t signed up to bend o’er for no one,” Patrick said matter-of-factly. “So Tim, ’e stands up for us larks and tells Crooke that we won’t do it, plain and simple. And Crooke ’as ’im beat within an inch o’ ’is life and leaves ’im on the whipping post as an example to us all.” Patrick’s voice trembled for the first time. “I went to fetch Maisie, and we waited ’til Crooke and most o’ ’is gang left and that’s when you found us.”
“Let’s get Tim back to the school,” Hunt said, his jaw taut, “and I’ll handle Crooke later. Patrick, you’d best come with us.”
“A king’s ransom couldn’t keep me ’ere,” Patrick said with feeling.
The door swung open wildly, slamming into the wall. A ginger-haired man with piggish eyes and heavy jowls swaggered in. His barrel chest was encased in embroidered maroon velvet, and he held a polished walking stick in one hand. Five beefy cutthroats trailed behind him, some slapping truncheons against their palms in a menacing cadence.
