there was no one like you around when I was a boy .
Morgan’s wistful words of three days ago leaped into her memory from out of nowhere, striking her to the heart. They reminded her powerfully of Johnny and Tim. Had Morgan’s family also abandoned him in his youth? That might explain why he’d returned to his criminal way of life even after he’d made something of himself in the navy.
The thought of a young Morgan scrabbling in the streets like her other children tugged at her sympathies. It was indeed a pity she hadn’t been around when he was a boy. She might have provided him with enough encouragement tobreak him free of the world of crime that so often sucked her children in for life.
Well, Morgan might be past saving, but the Perkins boys were not. Clara refused to believe Lucy had meant to be so cruel to her brothers. But there was only one way to find out for sure. She must speak to the girl before Johnny got around to telling Tim what Lucy had said.
Turning on her heel, she strode out into the hall. Samuel was already waiting for her, since it was nearly time for her to head for home. “Ready to go, m’lady?”
“First, we must stop at Tufton’s Tavern,” she told him. Lucy worked as a taproom maid at the tavern nearly every night. “I must speak to Lucy about her brothers.” Snatching up her pelisse, she headed for the door. “Has the rain stopped?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then we’ll walk.”
Samuel’s eyes narrowed, but he knew better than to question his mistress’s whims. He merely fell into step beside her as they left the Home’s airy halls.
In the aftermath of the spring storms, mud clogged the streets, but the sky had cleared to a brilliant gold-and-red spectacle of sunset. Thanks to the heavy rains, the London air, generally thick with coal dust and fog, was clear and cool. Clara breathed it in eagerly as they strode toward the tavern, passing all the street sellers who’d come out to do business after the rain—the lavender girl with her crisp purple tufts and the orange-woman proffering citrus. With such scents of spring lingering in the air, it seemed almost a shame to descend into the cloying stupor of the tavern.
Tufton’s Tavern was a long-standing institution in Petticoat Lane, part cookshop, part lodging house, and a large part alehouse. Having nursed many a thief and scoundrel at its gin-soaked teats, it was respected more for the quality ofits ale than its cleanliness. After Clara pushed open the door and her hand came back with a greasy film, she had to resist the impulse to head straight for soap and water.
Wiping her hand on her apron, Clara paused just inside the door to scan the low-ceilinged room crowded with tables and settles. Candle and pipe smoke mingled with the smell of small beer and boiled beef to create a miasma that nearly choked Clara every time she came here, which thankfully wasn’t often.
When her gaze landed on a familiar dark-haired man at a table in the corner, her heart tripped perversely. Morgan was here, in close conversation with two scruffy-looking men. She spotted the plate of mutton before him, and a smile touched her lips. What else would a wolf dine on but sheep?
He certainly looked every inch the wolf tonight, with his rakish clothing and his unruly hair tumbling thickly over his collar. When he reached to rip bread from a loaf with the casual violence of a man absorbed in his meal, her breath caught in her throat.
Next time leave your watchdog at home. That way I can take my time about ravishing you…I won’t have to risk destroying your gown by ripping it off .
A delicious shiver skittered along her spine. Even knowing he’d spoken the words only to frighten her off, she couldn’t help dwelling on the vivid image of him freeing her of her gown and sliding those sleek, knowing fingers over her belly, trailing kisses over her breasts and—
“If it’s Lucy you want,” Samuel broke in, “She’s over there.”
A blush
Morgan’s wistful words of three days ago leaped into her memory from out of nowhere, striking her to the heart. They reminded her powerfully of Johnny and Tim. Had Morgan’s family also abandoned him in his youth? That might explain why he’d returned to his criminal way of life even after he’d made something of himself in the navy.
The thought of a young Morgan scrabbling in the streets like her other children tugged at her sympathies. It was indeed a pity she hadn’t been around when he was a boy. She might have provided him with enough encouragement tobreak him free of the world of crime that so often sucked her children in for life.
Well, Morgan might be past saving, but the Perkins boys were not. Clara refused to believe Lucy had meant to be so cruel to her brothers. But there was only one way to find out for sure. She must speak to the girl before Johnny got around to telling Tim what Lucy had said.
Turning on her heel, she strode out into the hall. Samuel was already waiting for her, since it was nearly time for her to head for home. “Ready to go, m’lady?”
“First, we must stop at Tufton’s Tavern,” she told him. Lucy worked as a taproom maid at the tavern nearly every night. “I must speak to Lucy about her brothers.” Snatching up her pelisse, she headed for the door. “Has the rain stopped?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then we’ll walk.”
Samuel’s eyes narrowed, but he knew better than to question his mistress’s whims. He merely fell into step beside her as they left the Home’s airy halls.
In the aftermath of the spring storms, mud clogged the streets, but the sky had cleared to a brilliant gold-and-red spectacle of sunset. Thanks to the heavy rains, the London air, generally thick with coal dust and fog, was clear and cool. Clara breathed it in eagerly as they strode toward the tavern, passing all the street sellers who’d come out to do business after the rain—the lavender girl with her crisp purple tufts and the orange-woman proffering citrus. With such scents of spring lingering in the air, it seemed almost a shame to descend into the cloying stupor of the tavern.
Tufton’s Tavern was a long-standing institution in Petticoat Lane, part cookshop, part lodging house, and a large part alehouse. Having nursed many a thief and scoundrel at its gin-soaked teats, it was respected more for the quality ofits ale than its cleanliness. After Clara pushed open the door and her hand came back with a greasy film, she had to resist the impulse to head straight for soap and water.
Wiping her hand on her apron, Clara paused just inside the door to scan the low-ceilinged room crowded with tables and settles. Candle and pipe smoke mingled with the smell of small beer and boiled beef to create a miasma that nearly choked Clara every time she came here, which thankfully wasn’t often.
When her gaze landed on a familiar dark-haired man at a table in the corner, her heart tripped perversely. Morgan was here, in close conversation with two scruffy-looking men. She spotted the plate of mutton before him, and a smile touched her lips. What else would a wolf dine on but sheep?
He certainly looked every inch the wolf tonight, with his rakish clothing and his unruly hair tumbling thickly over his collar. When he reached to rip bread from a loaf with the casual violence of a man absorbed in his meal, her breath caught in her throat.
Next time leave your watchdog at home. That way I can take my time about ravishing you…I won’t have to risk destroying your gown by ripping it off .
A delicious shiver skittered along her spine. Even knowing he’d spoken the words only to frighten her off, she couldn’t help dwelling on the vivid image of him freeing her of her gown and sliding those sleek, knowing fingers over her belly, trailing kisses over her breasts and—
“If it’s Lucy you want,” Samuel broke in, “She’s over there.”
A blush
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