When Bridget was out of sight, Jessica turned to Phelps. “What did you hear last night?” she asked.
“Friday arternoon he let Tom Hamby’s rabbits loose. Tom chased him up to the far south wall of His Lordship’s park. Yester’ arternoon, the lad raided Jem Furse’s rag and bone bins, and Jem chased him up to nigh the same place.”
Phelps’ gaze shifted northward, in the direction of the park. “The boy goes where they daren’t chase him, right into His Lordship’s private property.”
The boy was seeking his father’s protection, in other words, Jessica thought.
“There be one of ’em little summerhouse things not far from the place where they lose him,” the coachman went on. “His Lordship’s grampa built it for the ladies. I ’spect a lad might get in easy ’nough, if he made up his mind on it.”
“If the summerhouse is his lair, then we’d better make haste,” said Jessica. “It’s nearly two miles from here.”
“That be by way of the main road ’n the estate road,” he said. “But I knows a shorter way, if you don’t mind a steepish climb.”
A quarter of an hour later, Jessica stood on the edge of a clearing, gazing at the fanciful summerhouse the second marquess had built for his wife. It was an octagonal stone structure, painted white, with a steep conical red roof nearly as tall as the house itself. Round windows with elaborately carved frames adorned every other side of the octagon. The unwindowed sides held medallions of similar size and shape, carved with what appeared to be medieval knights and ladies. Climbing roses, planted at alternating corners of the octagon, artfully framed windows and medallions. Tall yew hedges bordered the winding gravel path to the door.
Aesthetically speaking, it was rather a hodgepodge, yet it had a certain sweet charm. Certainly Jessica could see how this fanciful place would appeal to a child.
She waited while Phelps completed his slow circuit of the building, peeping cautiously through the windows. When he was done, he shook his head.
Jessica swallowed an oath. It had been too much to hope that the boy would actually be here, even though it was Sunday morning, and he usually limited his assaults upon the village to weekday afternoons. She was about to leave her hiding place to consult with Phelps when she heard a twig snap and the faint thudding of hurried footsteps. She waved Phelps back and he promptly ducked down behind the hedge.
In the next instant, the boy darted into the clearing. Without pausing once or looking about him, he raced up the path to the door. Just before he reached it, Phelps leapt up from his hiding place and caught him by the sleeve.
The child drove his elbow into Phelps’ privates, and Phelps, doubling over, let go with a choked oath.
Dominick tore back down the path and bolted across the clearing toward the trees at the back of the summerhouse. But Jessica had seen immediately where he’d go, and she was already running in that direction. She chased him down a bridle path, over a bridge, and down the winding narrow pathway beside the stream.
If he had not been running all the way up the steep hill to the summerhouse, she wouldn’t have had a prayer of catching him now, but he was winded and down to a vaguely human pace rather than his usual demonic one. At a fork in the pathway, he hesitated briefly—it was unfamiliar ground, evidently—and in the few seconds he did, Jessica pushed herself a notch faster. Then she leapt and tackled him.
He went down—into the grass, fortunately—and she on top of him. Before he could think of trying to wriggle free, she grabbed his hair and gave a sharp yank. He let out a howl of outrage.
“Girls don’t fight fair,” she gasped. “Be still or I’ll snatch you bald.”
He treated her to a breathless stream of obscenities.
“I’ve heard all those words before,” she said between gulps of air. “I know worse ones, too.”
There was a short silence while he digested this unexpected reaction. Then, “Get off me!” he burst out. “Getoffme, you cow!”
“That is the wrong way to say it,” she said. “The polite way is ‘Please get off me, my lady.’”
“Bugger you,” he said.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “I fear I shall have to take desperate measures.”
Releasing his hair, she planted a loud, smacking kiss on the back of his head.
He gave a shocked gasp.
She dropped another noisy kiss on the back of his grimy neck. He tensed. She kissed his dirty cheek.
He let out the breath he’d been holding in a stream of obscenities, and furiously squirmed out from under her. Before he could scramble away, though, she caught the shoulder of his ragged jacket and quickly came to her feet, hauling him up with her.
His shabby boot shot out at her shins, but she dodged, still holding fast.
“Quiet down,” she said in her best Obedience or Death tones, giving him a shake for good measure. “Try kicking me again and I shall kick back—and I won’t miss, either.”
“Piss on you!” he cried. He made a violent effort to wrench away, but Jessica had a firm grip, not to mention plenty of practice with squirming children.
