staining her cheeks, Clara jerked her gaze from Morgan to Samuel, who watched her with clear suspicion. Grimly, the footman pointed across the room.
There stood the seventeen-year-old Lucy, serving pots of beer to a table of half-drunken men who eyed her with blatantadmiration. No great surprise there. Taller than most girls, she always looked pretty, even in her thin, multi-patched gowns. Her hard life never seemed to dampen her determined good cheer, as evidenced by the jaunty pink feather stuck in her upswept hair. She’d probably bought it in a pawnshop for tuppence, but she wore it like a crown while she chatted with the customers as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
Which she didn’t. Lucy had foisted her two cares off on Clara. And while Clara didn’t mind receiving them, she did mind watching Lucy treat her brothers with such callous disregard.
Paying no heed to the whispers of curious patrons, Clara set off across the room. Samuel followed so close behind that he bumped into her when she stopped just short of the table where Lucy stood with her now empty tray.
“Good evening, Lucy,” Clara said.
Lucy spun around, eyes wide. “Lady Clara!” Her gaze flicked to Samuel, and dark color suffused her cheeks before she jerked her gaze back to Clara. “And what brings you to the tavern this evening, m’lady? Fancy a bit of our fine mutton, do you?”
“Actually, I was hoping to talk to you about your brothers.”
A decidedly guilty look crossed the girl’s face as she shifted the tray to her other hand. “We’re awful busy tonight. P’raps you could come by in a few days—”
“ Now , Lucy. It’s important.”
Lucy sighed. “All right then. I s’pose Mr. Tufton won’t mind if I sit for a bit with you. As long as you order something, that is.”
Moments later, the three of them crowded with pewter tankards of India ale around a table graced by a single candle stuck in a grimy ginger beer bottle. With a decidedly false smile, Lucy leaned her elbows on the ale-stained table. “So what’s this all about?”
Clara got right to it. “Johnny tells me you no longer want him and Tim to visit you.”
“What?” Samuel growled before Lucy could even respond. He glared at Lucy. “Whyever not?”
Lucy glared right back. “Not that it’s any of your business, Samuel Clark, but this ain’t the sort of place I want my brothers hanging ’round.”
“Never bothered you before,” he retorted. “They used to live here themselves, until they got caught picking pockets off that gentleman and was sent to the Home.”
Lucy tilted her nose up. “Yes, and I expect the boys would never have taken to thieving if they’d lived somewhere better than a tavern.”
Samuel’s skeptical snort echoed Clara’s own opinion, but she merely flashed Lucy a patient smile. “Speaking of the boys, I’ve come because I’m concerned about what your refusal to see them will do to them. Johnny’s very upset, and Tim will be devastated once he hears. They don’t have to come here , you know. You could visit them at the Home when you have the time.”
“No, I can’t, I just can’t.” Bending her head, she busied herself with pleating her apron nervously. “It’s better for them in the long run to stay off by themselves. I got prospects that take up all my time and—”
“Wait a minute,” Samuel exclaimed, “I know what you’re up to. It’s that Rodney Fitch, ain’t it? That bloody police officer from Lambeth Street has been courting you, I hear. That’s your ‘prospects,’ I s’pose. You think he’ll stop sniffing ’round if he knows about your two thieving brothers. Wouldn’t do for a man in his position to associate with known criminals.”
Lucy’s head shot up. “For your information, he knows already. And it’s got naught to do with him, Samuel. That’s not what I meant by ‘prospects’ at all.”
“You think he’ll marry you, don’t you? And set you up inthat nice house of his
There stood the seventeen-year-old Lucy, serving pots of beer to a table of half-drunken men who eyed her with blatantadmiration. No great surprise there. Taller than most girls, she always looked pretty, even in her thin, multi-patched gowns. Her hard life never seemed to dampen her determined good cheer, as evidenced by the jaunty pink feather stuck in her upswept hair. She’d probably bought it in a pawnshop for tuppence, but she wore it like a crown while she chatted with the customers as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
Which she didn’t. Lucy had foisted her two cares off on Clara. And while Clara didn’t mind receiving them, she did mind watching Lucy treat her brothers with such callous disregard.
Paying no heed to the whispers of curious patrons, Clara set off across the room. Samuel followed so close behind that he bumped into her when she stopped just short of the table where Lucy stood with her now empty tray.
“Good evening, Lucy,” Clara said.
Lucy spun around, eyes wide. “Lady Clara!” Her gaze flicked to Samuel, and dark color suffused her cheeks before she jerked her gaze back to Clara. “And what brings you to the tavern this evening, m’lady? Fancy a bit of our fine mutton, do you?”
“Actually, I was hoping to talk to you about your brothers.”
A decidedly guilty look crossed the girl’s face as she shifted the tray to her other hand. “We’re awful busy tonight. P’raps you could come by in a few days—”
“ Now , Lucy. It’s important.”
Lucy sighed. “All right then. I s’pose Mr. Tufton won’t mind if I sit for a bit with you. As long as you order something, that is.”
Moments later, the three of them crowded with pewter tankards of India ale around a table graced by a single candle stuck in a grimy ginger beer bottle. With a decidedly false smile, Lucy leaned her elbows on the ale-stained table. “So what’s this all about?”
Clara got right to it. “Johnny tells me you no longer want him and Tim to visit you.”
“What?” Samuel growled before Lucy could even respond. He glared at Lucy. “Whyever not?”
Lucy glared right back. “Not that it’s any of your business, Samuel Clark, but this ain’t the sort of place I want my brothers hanging ’round.”
“Never bothered you before,” he retorted. “They used to live here themselves, until they got caught picking pockets off that gentleman and was sent to the Home.”
Lucy tilted her nose up. “Yes, and I expect the boys would never have taken to thieving if they’d lived somewhere better than a tavern.”
Samuel’s skeptical snort echoed Clara’s own opinion, but she merely flashed Lucy a patient smile. “Speaking of the boys, I’ve come because I’m concerned about what your refusal to see them will do to them. Johnny’s very upset, and Tim will be devastated once he hears. They don’t have to come here , you know. You could visit them at the Home when you have the time.”
“No, I can’t, I just can’t.” Bending her head, she busied herself with pleating her apron nervously. “It’s better for them in the long run to stay off by themselves. I got prospects that take up all my time and—”
“Wait a minute,” Samuel exclaimed, “I know what you’re up to. It’s that Rodney Fitch, ain’t it? That bloody police officer from Lambeth Street has been courting you, I hear. That’s your ‘prospects,’ I s’pose. You think he’ll stop sniffing ’round if he knows about your two thieving brothers. Wouldn’t do for a man in his position to associate with known criminals.”
Lucy’s head shot up. “For your information, he knows already. And it’s got naught to do with him, Samuel. That’s not what I meant by ‘prospects’ at all.”
“You think he’ll marry you, don’t you? And set you up inthat nice house of his
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