against his arse.
"Milud, you gotta come an' see it."
Freeing his coattails from the bony fingers, Lucas stared into the excited, thin face of a blond youth jumping up and down under his nose.
"Steady on, lad."
Jake had filled out these past few weeks. He'd lost some of the pinched look of starvation and fear. Lucas put his hands on his hips and frowned.
Jake stilled, his face dropping. "Wot?"
Shaking his head, Lucas held out his hand.
"I never took nuffin'." Jake drooped. "Well, just a wipe." He drew Lucas's pocket-handkerchief from inside his coat and placed it in Lucas's palm.
"And," Lucas said.
"Yer ticker."
Lucas repressed a grin as the nine-year-old ragamuffin fished into the deep pocket of his threadbare dung-colored coat and held Lucas's timepiece dangling from its gold chain.
"And," Lucas repeated.
Jake's shoulders slumped, and he handed back the sovereign Lucas always carried in his fob pocket. "Bleedin' hell, yor worship, I gotta keep me hand in, don't I?"
"No, you do not. Keep that up, and you will end your days with your neck stretched on the nubbing cheat."
The boy kicked at a stone on the drive. "They ain't never going to 'ang me. They gotta catch me first."
But they would. And what a dreadful waste of marvelous talent. The long fingers, which picked pockets with ease, worked magic when they played the violin. "I caught you."
"You're different. I lets you catch me." Jake drew his sleeve across his nose, leaving a slimy trail on the rough fabric.
With an inward shudder, Lucas held out the handkerchief. "Here, use this."
"Cor. Can I keep it?"
Lucas nodded. "It is a gift."
Jake hopped on his toes. "But you gotta come and see the pianny. It came yesterday. It's huge." Once more, his mouth turned down in sulky lines. "Fred won't let us nippers anywhere near it. He's says we'll knock it or somethin'."
Ah, Fred. Lucas's greatest treasure and biggest worry.
"Lead on, McDuff."
"I ain't McDuff. I'm Jake. We ain't got a McDuff."
Lucas laughed. The sooner this child was educated, the better it would be for all of them.
The boy sped off, his trousers skimming his sparrow's ankles and his cuffs flapping below his hands. He looked like a miniature scarecrow. With any luck, the new clothes Lucas had ordered would arrive this week.
He ambled after the skinny legs pumping Jake toward the side door in the moderately habitable west wing. He sauntered down the narrow passage to the conservatory where the boys had temporary lodgings.
Filled with bright light from its domed skylights and the bank of windows along the southfacing wall, the conservatory had once been Wooten Hall's crowning glory. Added in the old king's reign, it epitomized Palladian architecture and provided a perfect studio for his music school for orphaned street musicians.
Doric columns supported the arching roof, elegant niches housed classic statuary, and pale gray marble graced the floors. The room should have trumpeted wealth and privilege. Only now, wooden boards filled in for panes of glass, and cots with rumpled blankets and discarded items of clothing turned one corner into a rat's nest. Boxes and trunks crowded the wall nearest the door. At the far end, fiddles and flutes lay discarded near an ancient pianoforte.
Pristine in a clear space in the center, a mahogany Broadwood grand piano basked in majestic isolation against a backdrop of fine English countryside. Three feet separated it from Jake, who, with his hands in his pockets, grinned at a lanky dark-haired lout wearing a multicolored waistcoat and the pugnacious expression of an English bulldog.
Fred.
He turned as Lucas's booted steps echoed off marble and bounced against the bare walls. The aggressive stance and balled fists disappeared. He nodded at Lucas and swaggered to lean against the
"Milud, you gotta come an' see it."
Freeing his coattails from the bony fingers, Lucas stared into the excited, thin face of a blond youth jumping up and down under his nose.
"Steady on, lad."
Jake had filled out these past few weeks. He'd lost some of the pinched look of starvation and fear. Lucas put his hands on his hips and frowned.
Jake stilled, his face dropping. "Wot?"
Shaking his head, Lucas held out his hand.
"I never took nuffin'." Jake drooped. "Well, just a wipe." He drew Lucas's pocket-handkerchief from inside his coat and placed it in Lucas's palm.
"And," Lucas said.
"Yer ticker."
Lucas repressed a grin as the nine-year-old ragamuffin fished into the deep pocket of his threadbare dung-colored coat and held Lucas's timepiece dangling from its gold chain.
"And," Lucas repeated.
Jake's shoulders slumped, and he handed back the sovereign Lucas always carried in his fob pocket. "Bleedin' hell, yor worship, I gotta keep me hand in, don't I?"
"No, you do not. Keep that up, and you will end your days with your neck stretched on the nubbing cheat."
The boy kicked at a stone on the drive. "They ain't never going to 'ang me. They gotta catch me first."
But they would. And what a dreadful waste of marvelous talent. The long fingers, which picked pockets with ease, worked magic when they played the violin. "I caught you."
"You're different. I lets you catch me." Jake drew his sleeve across his nose, leaving a slimy trail on the rough fabric.
With an inward shudder, Lucas held out the handkerchief. "Here, use this."
"Cor. Can I keep it?"
Lucas nodded. "It is a gift."
Jake hopped on his toes. "But you gotta come and see the pianny. It came yesterday. It's huge." Once more, his mouth turned down in sulky lines. "Fred won't let us nippers anywhere near it. He's says we'll knock it or somethin'."
Ah, Fred. Lucas's greatest treasure and biggest worry.
"Lead on, McDuff."
"I ain't McDuff. I'm Jake. We ain't got a McDuff."
Lucas laughed. The sooner this child was educated, the better it would be for all of them.
The boy sped off, his trousers skimming his sparrow's ankles and his cuffs flapping below his hands. He looked like a miniature scarecrow. With any luck, the new clothes Lucas had ordered would arrive this week.
He ambled after the skinny legs pumping Jake toward the side door in the moderately habitable west wing. He sauntered down the narrow passage to the conservatory where the boys had temporary lodgings.
Filled with bright light from its domed skylights and the bank of windows along the southfacing wall, the conservatory had once been Wooten Hall's crowning glory. Added in the old king's reign, it epitomized Palladian architecture and provided a perfect studio for his music school for orphaned street musicians.
Doric columns supported the arching roof, elegant niches housed classic statuary, and pale gray marble graced the floors. The room should have trumpeted wealth and privilege. Only now, wooden boards filled in for panes of glass, and cots with rumpled blankets and discarded items of clothing turned one corner into a rat's nest. Boxes and trunks crowded the wall nearest the door. At the far end, fiddles and flutes lay discarded near an ancient pianoforte.
Pristine in a clear space in the center, a mahogany Broadwood grand piano basked in majestic isolation against a backdrop of fine English countryside. Three feet separated it from Jake, who, with his hands in his pockets, grinned at a lanky dark-haired lout wearing a multicolored waistcoat and the pugnacious expression of an English bulldog.
Fred.
He turned as Lucas's booted steps echoed off marble and bounced against the bare walls. The aggressive stance and balled fists disappeared. He nodded at Lucas and swaggered to lean against the
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