She rounded the corner, the words out even before she could properly take in the scene. A skinny boy of eight or nine was on the filthy, dirt-packed floor. A man stood over him, foot swinging in a kick that landed even as she cried again. “Stop it! Stop it!”
She ran forwards, but a hand on her shoulder dragged her back. Lord Cotereigh, breathing hard, dark eyes narrowed in fury—but all the fury was directed at her.
“What the devil are you—this is no place for—”
He couldn’t get his words out, and she had no time to listen. Shaking him off, she hurried forwards again.
The man had turned, his hands in fists, his face red and belligerent, though his attention darted from her to Lord Cotereigh, apprehensive, measuring.
At his feet, the boy sobbed, breath ragged, curled up in pain.
“He’s a thief.” The man spat. “Seen him three times with my own eyes picking pockets. And this time he tried mine. But I was ready for him.”
He wore the dress of some merchant’s clerk, a sheen of sweat on his face, red and glowering in the orange light.
“Then you ought to call a watchman,” said Madelaine, voice firm despite the hammering of her pulse. “Get out of my way. The boy needs aid.”
“The boy needs hanging. They all do, the lot of them, thieving from hardworking, honest men—”
“Honest! Honest to murder a child?”
She’d already moved forward, ignoring the man’s continued protests, ignoring whatever Lord Cotereigh said somewhere behind her. She knelt at the boy’s side.
He was dark haired, skinny, filthy, his clothes little better than rags. His breathing was laboured, pants of pain, his arms wrapped around his middle, head tucked down, though that had been little protection. Blood and bruising darkened his brow under the greasy forelock of fringe. More blood leaked from his nose.
The man spat again, the globule landing in the dust nearby. “He ain’t dead. Just getting the lesson he deserves. But they’ll hang ’im anyway, miss, and good riddance.”
“You,” she said, looking up, “will give your name to that gentleman”—she nodded towards Lord Cotereigh—“and expect a magistrate’s call in the morning. What you’ve done is a crime.”
The man laughed. Madelaine set her hand gently on the boy’s head, but he whimpered in pain. “There,” she said gently, “you’re all right now. You’re safe.”
She kept murmuring other such things as she tried to assess the damage. Broken ribs? Collarbone? If the internal organs were damaged…
Dimly she was aware of the two men talking, the clerk protesting, but his tone was much more deferential with Lord Cotereigh than it had been with her. He seemed to be pleading, but Lord Cotereigh’s reply was dark and clipped. When she looked up again, the man had gone and Lord Cotereigh was looking down at her, his face grim.
“Can you carry him?” she asked. “But carefully. His ribs may be broken.”
“Where am I supposed to be taking him, Mrs Ardingly?”
“To the carriage. It’s only up the street.”
“It will have gone. Lady Frances has no wish to become embroiled in…this.”
“And I suppose shedoeshave a party to get to.” The boy let out a moan. Her hands were starting to shake.
“As do I. And a horse waiting, held by who knows whom. I didn’t have time to be choosy.”
“If you won’t help, then at least stay here while I summon a hackney cab.”
Lord Cotereigh’s jaw flexed. After a moment, he said, “There’s some manner of tavern back down the way. I’ll carry him that far.”
“And how much care do you think he’ll get there? He needs a doctor. He needs nursing.”
Lord Cotereigh looked away, his glare fixed on the shadows down the alleyway.
He needs a noose,is probably what he was thinking. But, his words like gravel, he said, “My house is nearby.”
Her heart lifted. Gratitude, guilt, surprise. But there was no time to think. The only thing that mattered was the boy. She got quickly to her feet.
