He knew how to fight. Every boy who’d come up in St. Giles could fight, and better than any prissy country boy, too. He was the best fighter in his mob, better even than some of the older?—
“There are no more bluebells.” The voice was no louder than a murmur, but it hung in the thick summer air. “Where have all the bluebells gone?”
Cass rolled onto his stomach and peeked through the tree branches. It was an excellent spying tree, with thick clusters of leaves and branches lying close to the ground. It was lowering, having to settle for spying on girls, but it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do and, as Mrs. Byrne liked to say whenever he was in earshot, beggars shouldn’t be choosy.
The girls were close, not more than five or six feet away. He could hear every word they said from his hiding place, which meant they could also hear him, so he mustn’t give himself away with so much as a twitch or a deep breath.
There were three of them. One tall one, one medium one, and a small one who was always trailing behind the other two. He’d overheard one of the housemaids say they were Lord Melton’s—or Lord Melrose’s, or Lord Whoever-The-Devil-He-Was’s—younger sisters.
The eldest one was Margaret, then there was Harriet, who was called Hattie, and then Sarah, who was a pale, sickly-looking thing, and not of much interest except that she was the proprietress of the picnic basket they brought with them, and there were nice-looking iced cakes in that basket that made his mouth water.
Aside from those cakes, the sisters were dull enough. They didn’t do much aside from lie about chattering with each other. Sometimes Margaret and Hattie dipped their feet in the pond, but mostly they wandered around the meadow just beyond the spreading branches of his tree and picked flowers.
Flowers, of all stupid things. Who cared about flowers?
“It’s sad when the bluebells are gone, isn’t it?” The youngest one dropped down on the blanket her sisters had spread over the ground. She plucked a blade of grass from the parched patch of earth and began shredding it, the corners of her lips turned down. “I love the bluebells.”
Margaret dropped down on the blanket beside her. “It’s been ages since there were any bluebells, Sarah. It’s too late in the year for them. But just look at all the daisies! Can’t you content yourself with daisies?”
Sarah plucked up another blade of grass. “Daisies aren’tblue.”
“No, but cornflowers are.” Hattie had thrown herself down on the blanket next to her sisters, but she leapt up again and brushed the grass from her skirts. “Bellflowers, too. Shall I go and find some for you?”
“Bluebells are ever so much prettier than cornflowers.” Sarah’s lower lip poked out. “Cornflowers are weeds.”
“So are bluebells, and daisies too.” Margeret stretched out on her back and threw an arm over her eyes. “Goodness, it’s hot. Shall we swim, Hattie?”
“Later, perhaps. I’m going to pick some cornflowers for Sarah first.”
“Don’t bother. Why would I want a handful of weeds?”
Sarah’s tone was so disagreeable, Cass clambered onto his knees so he could get a better look through the branches. Perhaps there’d be a brawl now. That would be something, wouldn’t it?
But Hattie ignored her sister’s fretfulness, saying only, “Because they’re pretty.”
Damn it. No brawl, then. He lay down again, his shirt sticking to his back and his scalp prickling with perspiration. Was it possible to die of boredom?
Margaret let out a yawn. “Go on, then. We’ll swim when you get back.”
Hattie wandered off, leaving her sisters to amuse themselves, and soon enough the monotonous buzz of the insects circling the pond lulled him into a doze.
He woke sometime later, his eyelids still heavy and so groggy it was as if his head had been stuffed with cotton wool.
Something had awoken him. A noise, high-pitched and joyful, like…
Laughter.
The girls were laughing, and all at once, he was irrationally, inexplicably angry, his blood boiling with fury. What did they have to laugh about? They were stuck here in the country without any friends and not a breath of cool air, and there wasn’t anything they could do about it but lie here and stew in their own sweat.
What was so bloody amusing about that?
He struggled upright and peered through the space between the branches, all without making a sound. He was stealthy like that. He’d been chased enough times he knew how to keep still, to disappear while in plain sight.
If he didn’t wish to be seen, he could remain invisible. No one had ever caught him out at it before.
Until now.
Because there, right on the other side of the branches, close enough he might have reached out and touched her was Hattie, the middle sister.
