good man and I trust him and he’s here because he wants to help you. He will never hurt you. There is no need to scream.”
“Mr. Friend would very much like to hurt you right about now,” Jonathan muttered blackly to Tommy, through clenched teeth.
Tommy ignored him.
Sally was looking at him with wide-eyed equanimity. She had the sort of eyes possessed by puppies and fawns. Glossy and enormous and liquid with innocence. The better to disguise evil, Jonathan thought darkly.
“Cook said I’d get the collywobbles if I talked to strange men. And that I ought to scream if I see one, sudden like.”
Jonathan snarled, “What the bloody hell are collywob— OW! ”
Tommy kicked him in the shin.
He glowered poisonously at her.
She hiked her eyebrows to her hairline.
He sucked in a long breath, a symbolic attempt to siphon patience from the air of what had clearly become a rolling madhouse. He exhaled to steady himself.
He had only himself to blame. He knew it. He possessed a sixth sense for this sort of thing because he wanted none of it, none of the nerve-taxing complications that women like Tommy represented. It was bleak satisfaction to know that he’d been right, oh so right.
“The cook is wise to tell you not to speak to strange men, Sally. Fortunately I had the collywobbles when I was very young, a long time ago, and recovered nicely, so you can’t get them from me.”
Tommy coughed a laugh.
“Oh.” This satisfied Sally, apparently.
He stared across at the little girl from beneath beetled brows. She was certainly a little thing, very pale, her white cap askew. Dark curls bounced like springs from beneath it. She was a servant, clearly. A scullery maid, mostly likely. And couldn’t be more than seven years old. Possibly younger, given her size.
She stared back at him shyly, curious now. And then she smiled. He almost rolled his eyes. A little flirt, this one, as capricious as the big one against whom she snuggled. He refused to be charmed.
And that’s when he saw the white bandage on her forehead, beneath her cap. There was a dark spot on it, not a small one.
And he suspected it was blood.
“What happened to your head, Sally?”
“Master William coshed me,” she said softly. She was young enough to lisp. “And when ’e did, I fell and broke me crown.”
“Master Willi . . .”
Master William was Lord Feckwith, the younger.
Who was Jonathan’s age.
And easily three times the size of Sally.
Could this be true?
Tommy’s eyes were on Jonathan. She seemed to be holding her breath.
“Why?” he asked Sally finally. The word was a bit choked.
Though he suspected the answer was “because he could.” Because big men who would hit a little female child . . . let alone hard enough to knock her down . . .
“Shhh, Sally, love, there’s a good girl,” Tommy interjected firmly. “All is well now. We don’t need to talk about that now.”
All was well?
All was well?
Jonathan aimed a look of such sizzling disbelief at her, their hackney driver must have felt it through the ceiling on his bum, and might have been grateful for the heat.
But Tommy refused to meet his gaze. She promptly either forgot or pretended to forget he was even there. She softly sang some nursery song to Sally, who leaned back against her, comfortable and utterly at home despite the bizarre circumstances, her eyelids lowering.
Tommy had likely shushed Sally here because the more Jonathan knew, the more enmeshed he became in . . . whatever this was.
His head was a writhing tangle of questions.
And he’d have his answers. Oh, he’d have them.
For now, he shrugged out of his coat and thrust it at Tommy.
She stared at it blankly. Then looked up at him, clearly preparing a look of defiance.
But the abruptness of his gesture and the black quality of his silence warned her not to refuse it.
She took it from him and settled it over her shoulders.
“Thank you,” she whispered regally.
He snorted. Softly,
“Mr. Friend would very much like to hurt you right about now,” Jonathan muttered blackly to Tommy, through clenched teeth.
Tommy ignored him.
Sally was looking at him with wide-eyed equanimity. She had the sort of eyes possessed by puppies and fawns. Glossy and enormous and liquid with innocence. The better to disguise evil, Jonathan thought darkly.
“Cook said I’d get the collywobbles if I talked to strange men. And that I ought to scream if I see one, sudden like.”
Jonathan snarled, “What the bloody hell are collywob— OW! ”
Tommy kicked him in the shin.
He glowered poisonously at her.
She hiked her eyebrows to her hairline.
He sucked in a long breath, a symbolic attempt to siphon patience from the air of what had clearly become a rolling madhouse. He exhaled to steady himself.
He had only himself to blame. He knew it. He possessed a sixth sense for this sort of thing because he wanted none of it, none of the nerve-taxing complications that women like Tommy represented. It was bleak satisfaction to know that he’d been right, oh so right.
“The cook is wise to tell you not to speak to strange men, Sally. Fortunately I had the collywobbles when I was very young, a long time ago, and recovered nicely, so you can’t get them from me.”
Tommy coughed a laugh.
“Oh.” This satisfied Sally, apparently.
He stared across at the little girl from beneath beetled brows. She was certainly a little thing, very pale, her white cap askew. Dark curls bounced like springs from beneath it. She was a servant, clearly. A scullery maid, mostly likely. And couldn’t be more than seven years old. Possibly younger, given her size.
She stared back at him shyly, curious now. And then she smiled. He almost rolled his eyes. A little flirt, this one, as capricious as the big one against whom she snuggled. He refused to be charmed.
And that’s when he saw the white bandage on her forehead, beneath her cap. There was a dark spot on it, not a small one.
And he suspected it was blood.
“What happened to your head, Sally?”
“Master William coshed me,” she said softly. She was young enough to lisp. “And when ’e did, I fell and broke me crown.”
“Master Willi . . .”
Master William was Lord Feckwith, the younger.
Who was Jonathan’s age.
And easily three times the size of Sally.
Could this be true?
Tommy’s eyes were on Jonathan. She seemed to be holding her breath.
“Why?” he asked Sally finally. The word was a bit choked.
Though he suspected the answer was “because he could.” Because big men who would hit a little female child . . . let alone hard enough to knock her down . . .
“Shhh, Sally, love, there’s a good girl,” Tommy interjected firmly. “All is well now. We don’t need to talk about that now.”
All was well?
All was well?
Jonathan aimed a look of such sizzling disbelief at her, their hackney driver must have felt it through the ceiling on his bum, and might have been grateful for the heat.
But Tommy refused to meet his gaze. She promptly either forgot or pretended to forget he was even there. She softly sang some nursery song to Sally, who leaned back against her, comfortable and utterly at home despite the bizarre circumstances, her eyelids lowering.
Tommy had likely shushed Sally here because the more Jonathan knew, the more enmeshed he became in . . . whatever this was.
His head was a writhing tangle of questions.
And he’d have his answers. Oh, he’d have them.
For now, he shrugged out of his coat and thrust it at Tommy.
She stared at it blankly. Then looked up at him, clearly preparing a look of defiance.
But the abruptness of his gesture and the black quality of his silence warned her not to refuse it.
She took it from him and settled it over her shoulders.
“Thank you,” she whispered regally.
He snorted. Softly,
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