The Earl and the Pickpocket

Adam released his hold on the jacket and retrieved his timepiece, noticing how small the lad’s hands were—a necessary asset to any thief, he thought wryly. He was certain this young scamp possessed a healthy concern for his miserable hide, and knew fear was the determining factor in his decision to return his watch.

‘Being sorry won’t undo what you’ve done.’

Silent and antagonistic, the lad looked up at the stranger, meeting eyes of vivid blue set in a face tanned by the sun. The man was tall, his body hard, lean and muscular, giving the appearance of someone who rode, fenced and hunted. Beneath his tricorn hat dark brown hair was drawn back and fastened at the nape, accentuating his leanly covered cheekbones and firm, angular jaw. His nose was aquiline, and beneath it were generous, but at present, unsmiling lips.

The lad guessed him to be at least twenty-eight. There was an aggressive confidence and strength of purpose in his features, and also something serious, studious, almost. He detected an air of breeding about him, a quality that displayed itself in his crisp manner, neat apparel and austere mien. The man’s stern eyes, holding his captive, seemed capable of piercing his soul, laying bare his innermost secrets, causing a chill of fear to sear through him and his eyes to dart about, looking for a means of escape, but the man barred his passage.

Adam was calmly giving the lad the self-same scrutiny, seeing a boy of no more than thirteen or fourteen. Feeling a stirring of compassion—an emotion that was completely alien to him—he gradually allowed his anger to recede and his stern visage softened. The small, slight form was clad in ill-fitting garments, and he was as dirty and undernourished as any other juvenile who inhabited St Giles, but there was an air and manner about him that held his attention.

Adam’s look became enquiring as he continued to study the lad—and realized he was educated, recalling how he had blistered him in French in so diverse a manner when he’d hoisted him out of the puddle by his backside.

‘Now, what shall I do with you? You’re naught but a boy. It’d be more fitting to give you the spanking you deserve than to deliver you up to the magistrate.’

A feral light gleamed in the lucid depths of the lad’s eyes. ‘You lay one finger on me, and I promise you you’ll live to regret it,’ he ground out in a low, husky voice.

In the face of this dire threat Adam leaned forward deliberately until his eyes were on a level with the lad’s, little more than a foot apart. His eyes were hard and ice cold, yet when he spoke his voice was soft and slow.

‘Be careful, boy. Don’t you dare me, or I’ll administer the punishment you deserve. I abhor the abuse of children—so don’t tempt me, otherwise I might change my ways.’ The lad stared at him, and when Adam considered he was sufficiently chastened and humbled, he drew himself erect. ‘Do you make a living out of stealing other people’s property, knowing you could land in gaol—or be hanged for it?’

A brief, reluctant nod gave Adam his answer. ‘Better than starving,’ he mumbled.

Adam suppressed a smile and directed a stern countenance at the young rapscallion. ‘And do your parents know?’ he enquired, knowing as he asked the question, being a student in human nature, that his parents would more than likely be the receivers of their son’s stolen goods.

Still glaring his defiance, the lad raised cold bright eyes to Adam’s and his chin came up belligerently. ‘What’s that to you?’

Adam shrugged. Re-attaching his watch to the empty chain and shoving it inside the breast pocket of his waistcoat, he continued to study him thoughtfully. ‘Do they know where you are?’

Thrusting his hands deep into his pocket, the lad scuffed the dirt with his oversized boots and averted his angry eyes. ‘They’re both dead,’ he revealed in sullen tones.

‘I see,’ Adam said with more understanding. Hearing a low growl come from the lad’s stomach, he took pity on him. ‘I was about to get something to eat. Would you care to join me—or will that pride of yours stand in the way of allowing your victim to put food in your belly? You look as if you haven’t had a decent meal in a month or more.’

The lad’s eyes betrayed a large measure of distrust and he held back. A thief couldn’t afford to hang around his victim. ‘I don’t take charity. I can take care of myself.’

‘I know,’ Adam remarked drily. ‘You prefer to steal it.’

‘I’m particular as to whom I eat with.’

‘Suit yourself.’ Adam turned abruptly and strode away.

Gnawing on his bottom lip, the lad watched him go, the hollow ache in his middle reminding him how hungry he was. It had been hours since he’d eaten, and the stale bread and mouldy cheese had been less than appetising. Hunger pains overcame his sense of outrage and, unable to let the chance of a meal slip by he scrambled in the stranger’s wake.

‘Wait. I suppose I could manage a bite,’ he said, though it chafed him to do so.

Adam smiled to himself and glanced back. ‘Then hurry up. You’re lagging, boy,’ he reproached, heading for the nearest alehouse.

The youth glowered at the broad back. The man was infuriatingly sublime in his amusement. If he weren’t so desperate to eat, he’d cheerfully tell him to go and jump in the Thames.

Avoiding the drunks, they entered a tavern. It was scruffy, noisy and dark, the walls blackened with the heavy smoke of the fire, candles and tobacco smoke. When they were seated in a dark corner and food ordered, Adam looked across the table at his companion. He sat erect, his small chin raised, and Adam could see him putting up a valiant fight for control—a fight he won. Despite his ragged garb he looked incongruously like a proud young prince, his eyes sparkling like twin jewels. Adam’s granite features softened and his eyes warmed, as if he understood how humiliated the lad felt.

Pity stirred his heart. The lad was just one of hundreds of London’s lost children with thin, dirty faces, their eyes dull and lifeless, children who would never know their parents, since many whose parents could not support them had been deserted, and their only means of survival was to steal or beg.

His thoughts shifted to another young boy, a bastard of the same blood as himself—that he too might be a ragged street urchin, condemned to a life of disease and hunger. Deprived of the prosperity he was accustomed to, had he survived—this? With this in mind he looked again at the lad and felt himself drawn to him. Why, he could not say, but he was in a position to ease his lot in life—if only a temporary ease—and perhaps the lad could be of help to him.

‘Since we are to eat together, we might as well get better acquainted. My name’s Adam. What’s yours?’

The lad met Adam’s gaze, serious, intent on his own. He had the uneasy thought that his companion was like a tall, predatory hawk, and that he was a tiny disadvantaged bird, or a mouse about to be pounced on.

‘What’s that to you?’ he questioned suspiciously.

Adam’s curiosity increased. He arched a brow and peered at his companion, shrugging casually. ‘Just curious. You do have a name, don’t you?’ he enquired with a trace of sarcasm. When the lad made no further comment Adam glanced at him sideways, prompting, feeling his resistance.

‘Ed,’ the lad mumbled reluctantly.

‘Ed? Ed what?’

‘Just Ed,’ he retorted sharply, not wishing to become too friendly.

‘Right. Just Ed it is then.’

Ed began to fidget and his expression became pained. Removing his hat to scratch his head, he exposed an unevenly cropped thatch of an indeterminate colour.

Adam grinned at the tousled-haired youth. ‘It’s time you took yourself in hand and gave yourself a bath.’

‘I can take care of myself,’ Ed bit back irately, pulling his hat back on. ‘Besides, baths are for the gentry—not the likes of me.’ Uneasy beneath Adam’s close scrutiny, he pulled his hat further down. Sometimes daylight had a habit of revealing more than it ought.

Adam continued to watch him, reminding himself that here was no innocent. But he could not help but wonder at the gist of the lad. ‘Where do you live, Ed—when you’re not relieving people of their possessions, that is?’

Ed’s eyes sparked, and his fine-boned face tilted obstinately to betray his mutinous thoughts. Why did he have to pry? ‘You ask too many questions,’ he snapped.

‘It’s a habit of mine. Besides, in the light of your theft of my watch, I reckon you owe me a few answers.’

Ed saw Adam’s blue eyes were not without humour, but there was censure in the set of his jaw. ‘I—I have a room.’

‘With friends?’

‘No. I’m selective about who I call friends,’ he said reflectively, some of his cockiness fading. ‘I don’t need them. Some people do, but I don’t. People are not always what they seem—and not to be trusted. I only need myself. It’s best that way—easier, and less complicated.’

‘In that case you must be lonely.’

Ed looked at Adam, considering the word. Lonely, he thought. Yes, he was lonely; in fact, he had never imagined he could be so lonely, but, worse than that, he was afraid—afraid of getting caught. He hated robbing people, and he hated St Giles. He desperately wanted to stop and be respectable, and not spend his life feeling scared. When he’d found himself in London’s substructure six months ago, he’d had no choice but to face a world he could never understand, and a tyrant who might end his life at a whim.

‘I can see that in your line of business,’ Adam continued, ‘there must be a great many things you wish to protect from intruders.’

Ed frowned. ‘Secrets, perhaps, not things. I don’t own anything.’

‘You own yourself,’ Adam responded quietly.

‘Do I?’ he asked, thinking of Jack, and wondering what this stranger would have to say about that, since Jack regarded him as his most valuable possession. ‘I’ve never really thought about it. Do you?’