by Jo Goodman
“Bloody hell,” he said under his breath. His language did not give them pause. If they heard him at all, which was doubtful given the volume of their own declaratives, it was a certainty they had heard far worse.
They were a motley trio. Poverty clung to them so aggressively they were barely distinguishable as three separate souls. Each of them was painfully thin. Sherry suspected that under the uniformly dirty rags they were wearing, they were all sharp angles, with knees and elbows shaped like the hard, knobby head of a walking stick.
He could not make a proper guess as to their ages, only that little in the way of months or years separated them. One of them always had his mouth opened, and Sherry had not yet glimpsed a full complement of teeth. Except for his own experience as a child, he knew nothing about them. When did they lose their teeth? he wondered. Were these young ruffians missing theirs as the natural course of maturing or was poor diet the culprit? Given their tendency to caterwaul at length, it occurred to him that a less patient man might have simply knocked them out.
At his back, Sherry turned the key in the door and locked it. He pocketed the key but doubted it was safe there. Any one of them looked capable of getting it out again, probably without his noticing. It was a lowering thought that he could be so easy a mark. He pushed away from the door and crossed the room to his desk. He would not have counted himself as surprised had they followed, but when he turned they were still planted in the center of the room regarding him cautiously. For the moment at least, they fell quiet.
Sherry showed them the quill he had selected from the pen stand. For most of its length, the striations on the feather were brown and black. Only the tip was white. He ran his index finger along it, bending it slightly to demonstrate its resiliency. He also showed them by pressing the nib against the tip of the same finger that it was not overly sharp.
Taking advantage of their silence, he said, “When the feather is in my possession, I may speak. When the feather is in your possession, you may speak. I am not using the words you and your in the collective sense, but in the singular; therefore, having the feather in your possession is not an invitation for three or even two of you to speak at once.”
To a person they simply stared at him. Sherry sighed, then said, “It would appear we are divided by a common language.” He approached the trio and extended his hand with the feather in it. “Which one of you will be first?”
He watched the boys exchange glances, nudge one another with those sharp elbows, then apparently arrive at a decision as the middle urchin stepped forward. That this was accomplished without a word passing between them impressed Sherry. “What a fine example you fellows could set in the Parliament.” He dangled the feather in front of the boy. “I will have your name, young sir.”
“Pinch,” he said, lifting the quill smoothly from Sherry’s grasp.
“Apropos,” Sherry murmured.
“You don’t ’ave the feather, guvnor.”
“What?”
Pinch swiveled his head in the direction of each of his companions and rolled his eyes. “’E made the rules and ’as no respect for them. That’s a swell for ye.”
Sherry could not recall receiving a more righteous set-down, or perhaps one that was so well deserved. In observance of his own rules, he made to take the feather back. Pinch quickly put the feather out of reach behind him, and Sherry realized it must have exchanged hands in a nonce because the child on Pinch’s left spoke up.
“Dash, ’ere.”
There was another smooth exchange, and the boy on the right announced himself. “I’m Midge.”
The feather was returned to Pinch. He revealed it to Sherry, twirling it in his fingertips, but made no move to offer it. “We know who yer lordship is,” he said with a touch of defiance. “We come for the coin ye offered t’other day. If ye meant it sincere, then ye won’t ’ave a second thought about givin’ i’tover.”
Givin’ i’tover. Sherry winced as he translated. Giving it over. He held his hand out for the feather.
Pinch hesitated, but only briefly. He was not entirely proof against Sherry’s implacable stare. “’Ere. But if ye keep it overlong, the bargain’s struck down.”
“We did not strike a bargain,” Sherry said once he was in possession of the feather. “I suggested a means of conducting our business in a civil manner, Master Pinch, and you accepted. Matters of trade, diplomacy, and even parley between scurvy-riddled pirates require attention to certain niceties of deportment. I am the Viscount Sheridan, and you will address me as befits my title. As to this notion that I should give you funds, you will have to offer more in the way of explanation, otherwise Mrs. Ponsonby will be instructed to send for the watchmen, and I will give testimony against you at the assizes myself.”
Holding out his hand again, Sherry offered the feather for the plucking. It was a long moment before it was taken. He was not sure if he had shaken their confidence or befuddled their young minds.
“Beggin’ yer lordship’s pardon,” Pinch said, striking a note of credible deference. “We meant no disrespect.” He shifted uncomfortably under Sheridan’s sardonic gaze. “That is, we meant no sincere disrespect. There ain’t much in the way of time left. Wouldn’t ’ave come if it ’ad been else, but Dash ’ere followed you ’ome t’other day as we knew it might come to this. So here we are, come for the coin you promised so we can get a surgeon. Nothin’ will be right again, I can tell ye, if we don’t.”
Midge took the feather. “Nothin’, yer lordship.”
Dash reached around Pinch and lifted it from his friend’s fingers. “Nothin’s been as it was since yer lordship plugged ’er with yer shiv.”
Sherry frowned as the feather was held out to him. For a moment he simply looked at it dumbly and knew his own senses to be well and truly befuddled. These young ruffians had a way of dishing out twice what was served to them once. He took the feather. “’Er?” he asked, his voice not much above a whisper. “You are speaking of a female?”
There was some eye rolling before Pinch reached for the feather.
Sherry held it out of the way. “I think we can dispense with this,” he said, tossing it aside. “It has served its purpose.” He put the question to them again when they fell quiet. “Female?”
Pinch snorted. “Blimey! She’s a girl, right enough, if that’s what yer lordship means. Thought ye’d know that when ye put the knife to her.”
“How would I know?”
Dash frowned. “Bubbies.” In the event his host did not know the word, Dash cupped his dirty hands over his chest and pushed upward. “Bubbies.”
Sherry actually felt himself pale. “A young girl?” he asked.
It was Midge who answered. He lifted his hands to his thin chest in the same manner his friend had, but he made bigger cups of his palms.
“A woman, then,” Sherry said. It made him feel not a whit better. “My assailant was a woman?”
“Miss Rose,” Pinch told him. “’Ere now, do ye need to sit? Midge, get ’is lordship a chair. Push it right up under ’im.”
Midge started forward, but Sherry waved him back. He was all too aware that they were watching him closely, prepared to show no mercy for weakness.
For his part he was finally able to make some distinctions between the boys. Pinch’s face was the narrowest, his features tight to the bone, the dark eyes keen with distrust. He might have taken the moniker Pinch because of his profession, but it was equally suited to his look.
Master Dash, in contrast, was not simply pale but fair skinned. There was evidence of a towhead beneath his battered cap and a substantial amount of grime. The boy evinced a natural restlessness, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, curling and uncurling his fingers. The temptations of the library, with its bone china vases and jade figurines, the crystal decanters on the sideboard, and the wealth inherent in the leather-bound books, were positively fraying the child’s nerves.
Then there was Midge, the one Sherry took to be the younge
st, if not in years, then in necessary experience. He was smaller of stature and held himself with less confidence. His eyes were a shade wider than the others, deeply blue, and more curious than cautious. He was easily the most vulnerable and accessible of the trio.
It was to Midge that Sherry looked. “Miss Rose?” he asked. “She is your sister perhaps?”
“Teacher.”
Sherry did not miss the elbow jab that Midge was served for his answer. “You are all apprentices of Miss Rose, then,” he said. “She runs a school for thievery?” There was no answer forthcoming; indeed, he had not expected one. They had already risked a great deal to come to their teacher’s aid. They were not likely to put the whole of it at his feet. “Very well. Let us decide what is to be done.”
“Yer coin,” Pinch said, lifting his narrow chin sharply. “Then we’ll fetch a surgeon for ’er.”
“Make ’er right agin,” Dash said. “Like she was afore ye stuck ’er.”
Sherry was compelled to defend himself before Midge echoed Dash. “Contrary to what you think you know, I know I did not stick ’er. Your Miss Rose stuck herself. With her own blade, I might add, because I do not carry one.” He was uncertain if this impressed his guests or made him seem foolish. No matter, it was the truth.
“Miss Rose don’t carry one either,” said Pinch. His chin was still up, challenging Sheridan.
“She did that night,” Sherry said. “Because I did not.”
Pinch did not back down from his assertion, and the other two squared their shoulders in support of it. “So you say.”
Sherry was unused to having his word disputed; to have a child gainsay him was the end of enough. He was prepared to call for Mrs. Ponsonby—certain she was standing at the ready on the other side of the door—when the shutter dropped from Pinch’s dark eyes and revealed nothing save his fear. The sharp breath Sherry had drawn to summon his housekeeper lodged in his throat. He released it slowly, long after Pinch had drawn the shutters up again, but he knew he had not imagined it.
There had been a moment when he had felt that fear as his own.
Sherry returned to his desk, hitched one hip on the edge, and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “We will have off with the accusations,” he said firmly. “I will not give you coin for a surgeon but will summon my own physician in lieu of that.” He absorbed their blank stares. “In lieu of . . . instead of.” Comprehension brightened their eyes. “You will have to take us to Miss Rose. There is no getting around that. I cannot send Harris off alone even if he would agree, which he will not.”
“Then ye’ve kilt her,” Pinch said. “We can’t take ye.”
“Do you think I mean to have her arrested?” They looked at one another uncertainly, then back at him and shrugged. “I don’t,” he said. “Neither do I intend to expose her school. The watchmen know where you live and have never been moved to run you out.”
“Sure, and donchaknow, we give ’em a share of our pickins from time to time.”
Of course, Sherry thought. The Charlies were paid little enough; the bribes they received were probably pathetically small. “Well? What is it to be?”
Pinch’s glance was suspicious. “’Ere now, why do ye care?”
Sherry inclined his head slightly in a nod of approval. “You are the first person to put that question to me, Master Pinch, and the answer will surprise you: I do not care.”
“Oooh,” Pinch said, raising his hands in mock astonishment. “There’s a surprise, right enough. A toff who don’t care about us who’s less fortunate than ’imself.”
Sherry waited for Pinch’s cynical amusement to quiet, then said, “I am no social reformer. I do not care about your school, or your teacher, or how many pockets you pick, but I cannot shed myself of the peculiar notion that I am in some way responsible for the injury that was done, and that, young master, is what offends me and what honor demands I correct.”
“Responsible?” Pinch asked. “O’course yer responsible. Ye plunged yer shiv in her.”
Sherry said nothing. His refusal to mount another defense left them wondering and uncertain. They were unused to extending trust outside of their small group; perhaps it was a rare thing extended inside it as well.
“No tricks?” Pinch’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You won’t ’urt ’er?”
“You will accept my word?”
Pinch glanced at his companions. They nodded slowly. When he looked back at Sheridan he said gruffly, “Aye. We’ll accept it.”
Sherry stood and offered his hand. “A gentleman’s agreement, then.” There was some hesitancy, then they came forward one at a time and surrendered their grimy fingers to the grip of his long, elegant ones. When this solemn business was concluded, Sherry resisted the urge to reach for his handkerchief or check his timepiece to see if it was still attached to the fob. The trust they tendered was not necessarily reciprocal, but he had no wish to underscore that point. He unlocked the door, pocketing the key again.
“Mrs. Ponsonby,” he said, his voice raised just enough to be heard into the hall.
The housekeeper appeared in the doorway immediately. Also in the frame behind her were his valet, the cook, and his driver. “Yes, m’lord? Shall I fetch a watchman now?”
“No. The physician, please. Be most particular to inform Harris that he should come immediately and will be well compensated for the trouble I am going to put him to.”
Her eyes widened a fraction, but to her credit Mrs. Ponsonby kept her jaw firmly set. “Here, m’lord?”
“Here.” He pointed to the space directly in front of him. “Also, a hack. I assume my trunks are already on the carriage.”
“Yes, my lord.” It was the driver, Mr. Pipkin, who answered. “But I can—”
“It will not be necessary to unload it. A hack will do. Of necessity my departure will be delayed. A few hours, I should think. No longer.” Sherry’s eyes swiveled to the cook as he addressed her. “Some repast for my guests, Renwick.”
“You want me to feed them in my kitchen?” She was patently horrified by the idea and took no pains to hide it.
“No,” Sherry said patiently. “I want their food brought here.”
“Begging your pardon, my lord, but they are . . . they are . . .”
“Crumb-catchers?”
Pinch took immediate and powerful exception to this. “Now, see ’ere. There’s no cause for making light of us. Midge is an erriff, true enough, but then he’s only ten, workin’ ’is way to becoming a fair to middlin’ bulker. Dash ’ere’s a bung-diver—one of the very best—and me own rum daddles make me a regular boman prig. So on no account should yer lordship be callin’ us crumb-catchers.”
Mrs. Ponsonby stepped forward. “Should I be washing his mouth out with soap, then?”
“I have no idea,” Sherry said truthfully. It was difficult to imagine that Pinch’s mouth was dirtier than the rest of him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that all three boys were edging away at the idea of a good drubbing. “Let’s let it go this time, Ponsonby, shall we?”
She nodded, though somewhat reluctantly, and began backing out of the room. The servants behind her scattered, each moving to their next task, all of them wondering what queer notion had seized their master.
“Why am I doing this, Lord Sheridan?” Harris asked, clutching his black leather bag in his lap. The three pickpockets were riding on the roof of the hack, but the doctor was unconvinced they would not get it from him anyway. He leaned forward and tried to get a look at the roof from another angle. “You will have to explain it again.”
Patiently, Sherry raised his beaver hat a fraction so that he might see Harris more clearly. The interior of the cab was dim. Outside, dusk was not yet upon them, but the narrow streets and oppressively close construction of the warehouses and tenements allowed little sunlight to reach them. “Because I am paying you an obscene amount of money for your services and your silence. Considerably more for the latter than the former.”
“
There is that.” Although not placated, he was glad of the reminder. “You know I might not be able to do anything. Judging by what you said about the location of the wound, it is likely infection has set in.”
“Very likely. I’m certain her worsening condition is what brought the children to my doorstep.”
“You will allow it’s peculiar, my lord.”
“I will allow that it’s a great deal more than that.”
“I shouldn’t be at all surprised if they don’t return to your home.”
“I am hoping to be absent from it.”
“You’ll be missing the wash off your line and the pewter pots from your railings.”
“I will be fortunate if that is all I’m missing,” Sherry said with imperturbable calm.
Harris rubbed the rounded point of his chin with the back of his knuckles. His eyes darted left, then right. “They might accost us here,” he said.
“Probably not while we’re moving.”
“You are armed, I hope.”
“I am not a fool, Harris.”
Which was not precisely an answer, the physician noted. He opened his mouth to say so, but Sherry cut the response by nudging his hat forward so that it shaded his eyes. At least, Harris thought, it was not that damnable eyebrow.
The establishment Pinch led them to was a more reputable place than Sherry had allowed himself to expect. The heavy wooden sign suspended on chains above the door identified the tavern as the Blue Ruination. The proprietor, Sherry decided, was possessed of a sense of humor, though such was not in evidence when Pinch led his parade inside. The great bull of a man wiping down the bar looked as if he meant to use Pinch to do the job on the next pass.
The child’s sang-froid was quite remarkable, however. If he thought he was in danger, he didn’t show it. Instead, he marched to the bar and climbed on a stool. As all seven of the tavern’s patrons had fallen silent, he was forced to whisper.
Every crag in the owner’s face deepened as he listened to Pinch’s discourse, and Sherry was aware the man’s eyes did not stray. Sherry realized he was being sized up as a threat, though what the proprietor thought he could do to challenge the peace and dignity of the Blue Ruination did not occur to him. At his side, Sherry felt the doctor take a step closer. The man’s hands were shaking, a circumstance that did not inspire confidence.
