Your younger anddearestsister, G
“Oh, for God’s sake.” This was a headache he didn’t need. Gabriella was the last of his four sisters he’d seen safely married and settled. A completed task that allowed him to move forward in the tedious process of securing a suitable bride in the begetting of an heir. So he’d believed.
Sebastian flipped the note over out of habit. He could practically hear his sister’s foot stomping in a tantrum. He rubbed his temples, his lips compressed. Oh, yes, he remembered Lady Rebecca, disgust pouring through him, even as the memory of that untutored kiss hit him in the chest like a hammer.
Rebecca Thatcher was a disgrace to her gender. Her reputation far preceded her. For one thing, the few times Sebastian had been called to Lady Greensley’s School for Young Women on some mischief his once genteel and compliant sister had been caught up in, Lady Rebecca’s larger than life presence had been prominent—each and every time. Her lunge for him in the dark gardens Gabriella spoke of had been the last straw. Sebastian had finally put his foot down and forbid Gabriella’s contact with Rebecca from that day forward.
Now that Gabriella had married, his say over her had shifted to her new husband. In most cases, Sebastian welcomed that change. But this was the reckless young woman who had single-handedly led Gabriella off the strict path Sebastian had set forth.
It appeared Sebastian would be facing the hoydenish culprit for the first time since that disastrous night seven years ago. There was no doubt in his mind the woman was one hundred percent behind this latest catastrophe to befall Gabriella, and he had every intention of protecting his sister and letting Lady Rebecca know in no uncertain terms.
He rose and called for Fosse.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Tell Néo to prepare a bag.” He glanced back at the note he still clutched. “It appears a trip to Dorchester is imminent. We’ll leave tomorrow.”
Lady Rebecca Thatcher had chosen the wrong opponent for her little conquest.
Two
Finch Cromwell had not only worked his way up from the dregs into someone to be reckoned with, he considered hisself a man of opportunity. When his late boss, Jarvis, kicked the bucket two years ago, Finch gived hisself a promotion and took over the blighter’s territory. So far, he’d managed in not drawing the law’s notice. He were smart and sneaky. Took his openins’ when presented. He didn’t step on no toes. Jarvis had been into stealing women and children, but Finch knowed his place. Still, he wadn’t about to let no street urchin git the best of him, and there was always a willin’ buyer for purty little ’uns. Besides, the law wun’t miss one or two more.
He pulled up outside 15 Berkley Square in time to see her ladyship disappearin’ inside, the boy already outta sight. His fury was so great, he could barely contain the need to sustain an urge to storm the lady’s house an’ beata ’er senseless. But that would only git ’im tossed in Newgate.
The driver clucked his ’orses along.
Now that he knew where to find the gel and her charge, Finch took a notion to follow her man. She weren’t goin’ nowheres.
With the cloggin’ traffic, Finch was able to follow the driver on foot to one of the lesser shopping areas of London. He watched as the man paid a scamp to look after his rig and disappeared into a clothing resale store.
Finch waited him out. After ten minutes, the man emerged with nary a package.
So it went for nigh on an hour. After the fourth stop, Finch forewent following the man to a fifth. Instead, he slunk inside to speak with the proprietor of the shop the man had just vacated.
“What did that bloke want?” he demanded of the proprietor.
The owner looked Finch up then down before answering, “What concern is that of yours?”
Finch’s fist shot out and knocked him flat. He loomed over him. “What did he want?”
“Clothes. For a boy,” he wheezed through a bloodied snout. “I don’t carry boys’ clothes.”
Finch left the shop.The boy didn’t belong to her.Just as he’d suspected. But to have it confirmed… He was fit to murder.
He saw no hurry in returnin’ to Berkley Square. The lady thought herself and her charge safe enough in her gilded cage. Mayhap she was… for now.
Finch made his way to the docks to an old deserted warehouse Jarvis had showed him years before. The rusted hinges made noise when he entered—not that Finch worried—there weren’t no one around to ’ear. He stopped inside to listen and ’eard nothing. He ’ad time. The lady’d be there on the morrow.
~~~
The next morning, Finch shot awake, the skin feeling as if a pick had stabbed him in the chest. He’d had the same feeling when he’d beat the devil out that cork-brained idiot who owed Finch his winnin’s fair and square from the Ascot races. Finch hadn’t even had to try cheatin’ him. It was when the bloke decided collectin’ wot he was owed, not worth payin’—well, he’d left Finch with no choice in showin’ ’im differn’t. Any ruffian coulda learned Finch let some fool off with no consequences. Why, they’d come hornin’ into Finch’s territory in no time flat.
Only Finch hadn’t counted on some bright-eyed miscreant seeing the entire exchange. And Finch know’d he’d been caught with blood on his hands.
It took two days to pick up the brat’s trail.
Enter the short lady with more guts than brains. She’d learn soon ’nough.
