Godric drew his short sword, watching as the slim shape cautiously made the ridge of the roof and nimbly began climbing down. He waited until the lad came abreast of him. Godric grabbed him by the collar, arching his head back, laying the short sword on the bared neck.
“Why are you following me?”
Quick, intelligent eyes flashed to his, but the boy made no move to free himself. “Digger Jack said as ’ow you’d be wantin’ information ’bout the lassie snatchers.”
“And?”
The wide mouth curved without mirth. “I’m one o’ ’em.”
TWENTY MINUTES LATER Godric watched as the boy stuffed his face with tea and lavishly buttered bread. He’d revised his estimation of the former lassie snatcher’s age downward. When he’d first seen the boy, Godric had thought him a young man, but that was because he had the height of a grown man. Now, sitting in the kitchens of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children, he saw the boy’s soft cheeks, the slim neck, and gentle lines of his jaw. He couldn’t be older than fifteen at the most.
His brown hair was clubbed back with a ragged bit of string, strands falling out and around his oval face. He wore a greasy waistcoat and a coat several sizes too big for him and a floppy hat pulled low over his brow, which he hadn’t bothered removing even when inside. His wrists were thin and rather delicate and the nails on both hands were rimmed with grime.
The boy caught him staring and jerked his chin up defiantly, the corners of his mouth wet with milky tea. “Wha’?”
Winter Makepeace, sitting beside Godric, stirred. “What is your name?”
The boy shrugged and, apparently sensing no immediate threat, turned his attention to the plate of bread before him. “Alf.”
He spooned out a huge blob of strawberry jam from an earthen jar, plopping it on a slice of already buttered bread, and folded the bread around the gooey middle. Then he shoved half of the bread into his mouth.
Godric exchanged glances with Winter. It had taken quite a bit of persuasion—as well as a threat or two—before he’d been able to get Alf into the home. Godric daren’t remain outside in St. Giles while the dragoons were abroad, and he certainly wasn’t about to take a strange lad back to his own house.
Especially when the lad was an admitted lassie snatcher.
“How long have you been employed by the lassie snatchers?” Winter asked in his deep, calm voice.
Alf gulped and washed down his bread with a long drag of tea. “’Bout a month, but I don’ work for them arse’oles no more.”
Winter refilled his teacup without comment, but Godric was less forbearing. “You led me to believe you were a lassie snatcher now.”
Alf stopped chewing and looked up, his eyes narrowed. “An’ I’m the best yer gonna get. Ain’t none o’ them ’oo’s lassie snatchers now gonna talk to yer. Best settle for me.”
Winter caught Godric’s eye and shook his head slightly.
Godric sighed. He was finding it difficult to quiz this youth while keeping his own voice to a whisper so it might not be recognized in the future. Besides, Winter had far more experience with boys.
Even difficult ones.
“How did you become a lassie snatcher?” Winter asked now. He reached for the loaf of bread and sawed off two more slices.
Godric raised his eyebrows. Alf had already eaten half the loaf.
“Word gets ’round,” Alf said as he started smearing large lumps of butter on his bread. “They like to work in teams, like, a bloke an’ a lad. Knew one o’ their snatcher lads ’oo got run over by a dray cart. Busted ’is ’ead an’ were dead in a day. So there were an openin’ like. Pay was good.” He paused to take a slurping gulp of tea before covering the bread with jam. “Job was fine.”
“Then why are you no longer employed as a lassie snatcher?” Winter asked neutrally.
Alf’s bread was all ready, jam running out of the pinched sides, but he just stared at it. “It were one o’ the young ones, name o’ Hannah. ’Ad ginger ’air, she did. Not more’n five or so. Chattered a lot, like, wasn’t afraid o’ me or nothin’, even though ’er auntie ’ad sold ’er to us. Me an’ Sam took ’er to the workshop and she seemed fine enough. …”
“Fine?” Godric growled low. “They work those girls, beat them, and hardly feed them.”
“There’re worse.” Alf’s words were defiant, but he wouldn’t meet Godric’s eyes. “Bawdy ’ouses, beggars what’ll blind a babe to make ’er more pathetic.”
Winter shot Godric a quelling look. “What happened to Hannah, Alf?”
“Just it, innit?” Alf dug his dirty fingers into the folded bread until red jam oozed out. “She weren’t there next time I come by. They wouldn’t tell me what ’ad ’appened to ’er. She were just … gone.” Alf looked up then, his eyes angry and wet. “Stopped it then, didn’t I? Ain’t gonna be part o’ ’urting wee little lassies.”
“That was very brave of you,” Winter said softly. “I would think the lassie snatchers would not be pleased by a defection.”
Alf snorted, finally picking up his messy bread and jam. “Don’t know ’xactly what defection is, but they’d be glad enough to see me put to bed wif a shovel.”
“Tell us where they are, who they are, and we’ll solve the problem for you,” Godric growled.
“Ain’t just one place,” Alf said, speaking seriously. “There’s three workshops I knows of, and prolly more’n that.”
“Three?” Winter breathed. “How could we not have known?”
“Sly ones, ain’t they?” Alf shoved the bread into his mouth and for a moment was mute as he chewed. Then he swallowed. “Best do it at night. They’ve guards, but everyone’s sleepier at night. I can show you.”
“We’ll have to move fast,” Godric said, looking at Winter and receiving a nod. “Can you show me tomorrow night?”
“Aye.” Alf took the rest of the cut bread and shoved it into a pocket of his coat. “Best be off, then, ’adn’t I, afore ’tis light out.”
“You’re more than welcome to stay here,” Winter offered.
Alf shook his head. “Kind o’ you, but I don’t like staying in such a big place.”
Godric frowned. “Will you be safe?”
Alf cocked his head, smiling cynically. “Worried I won’t be back tomorrow? Nah, no one’s can catch me if’n I don’t want. Ta for the tea.”
And he was gone out the kitchen door.
“Damn it, I should follow him,” Godric muttered.
But Winter shook his head. “We don’t want to scare him off. Besides, I saw the dragoons in the back alley earlier.”
Godric swore. “They followed me.” That would make getting home more difficult than usual. He looked at Winter. “Do you really think the boy’s safe until tomorrow?”
Winter shrugged as he put away the bread. “It’s out of our hands now.”
And Godric supposed he’d have to be content with that knowledge until tomorrow night.
THE SOUND OF male voices outside her window woke Megs from a restless slumber. She blinked sleepily, glancing about her bedroom. It was light, but so early Daniels hadn’t yet come to wake her and help dress her.
Megs rose and wandered to the window, parting the curtains to look down on the courtyard. Godric stood, wrapped in a cloak, talking to a man in a tricorne. Megs stared. There was something about the other man, something about the way Godric stood so stiffly that made her uneasy.
Then the man in the tricorne looked up at the house and Megs gasped.
It was Captain Trevillion.
As she watched, his hand shot out suddenly, wrenching Godric’s cloak open.
She whirled and found her wrapper, pulling it on as she ran from the room and down the stairs, her heart in her throat. Would Godric’s costume be enough for the dragoon captain to arrest him?
But when she tumbled breathlessly into the entry hall, her husband was closing the door behind him as serenely as if he’d just returned from a chat with the king.
“Godric!” she hissed.
He looked up and she froze.
It was subtle, but she could read the signs now—his mouth thin and tense, his eyes a little narrowed. He wasn’t serene, not really. He looked both tired and angry.
She didn’t remember descending the rest of the stairs, only her hands rising toward his face, wanting to give comfort.
His own hands blocked hers.
She blinked, focusing on his eyes, and saw that he stared at her blankly.
He hadn’t forgiven her for the night before, then.
“What happened in St. Giles?” she asked in a small voice. She wanted so badly to touch him, to make sure he was whole and well. “Why did Captain Trevillion let you go?”
“Godric.” Mrs. St. John’s surprised voice came from the stairs and Megs turned to see that both she and all three of Godric’s sisters stood there.
Moulder appeared from somewhere. “Sir?”
“Why is everyone up so early?” Godric muttered.
“Have you been out?” Sarah asked quietly.
“None of your business,” her brother said flatly, walking toward the back of the house.
“But—” his stepmother started.
“Don’t question me,” he growled without looking back, and disappeared down the hall.
Mrs. St. John looked helplessly at Megs, her eyes shining with tears.
“I’ll talk to him,” Megs said with all the reassurance she could muster before hurrying after Godric.
If it weren’t for her mother-in-law and those tears, she would never have dared beard him again this soon after the disaster of last night. She’d hurt him badly, and he’d already made it clear he didn’t want her nearby.
Well, he’d just have to put up with her anyway.
She opened the door to his study without bothering to knock.
Inside, Godric was pouring himself a glass of brandy and talking to Moulder. “The usual place. Make sure you’re not followed.”
“Yes, sir.” Moulder looked relieved to scurry from the room.
Megs closed the door behind him and cleared her throat.
“Go away,” Godric growled at her, tossing back half his glass of liquid.
Megs winced. He truly was a bear bearded in his den.
She took a deep breath. “No. I’m your wife.”
He cocked his head, his beautiful lips curled. “Are you?”
Her face flamed. “Yes.”
Godric looked away then, as if losing interest in her. He shrugged off his cloak and coat, moving stiffly.
Megs blinked. Beneath the cloak Godric was wearing a sedate brown suit, not a trace of harlequin motley anywhere. He pressed his fingers against a panel next to the fireplace. The panel sprang open, revealing a hidden cupboard behind it. She watched as he took his short sword from an inner pocket in his cloak and stowed it in the secret cupboard.
She ventured a little farther into the room. “Did Captain Trevillion follow you?”
“Yes.” He hissed under his breath as he gingerly pulled his shirt over his head and she inhaled. His wound had reopened, a sluggish trail of blood dripping down his broad back. “From St. Giles. He’s very good, actually. Several times I wasn’t sure he was even there behind me.”
She picked up his shirt and started to tear a strip from the tail—it was ruined by the blood anyway. “I’m so glad you didn’t wear your Ghost costume last night.”
“But I did.”
Her hands froze on his shirt, staring at his crystal gray eyes. “What do you mean?”