The Earl And The Pickpocket

A young woman dressed in an extremely fetching buttercup-yellow dress stood by the window, her hands clasped at her trim waist. Small and as slender as a willow, she was watching him warily. Without taking his eyes off her, Adam moved toward her, staring in disbelief.

“Good Lord!” The words were uttered on a breath. “I should have known.” She had a femininity he could have put to his lips and drunk, and she was so close he could feel her breathing, feel the warmth of her, and smell her natural scent. She was quite enchanting.

Rather nervously Edwina withstood the intensity of his gaze. His dark brows lifted a fraction in inquiry.

“Well, Ed? What do you have to say for this deception?”

HELEN DICKSON

was born and still lives in south Yorkshire, England, with her husband, on a busy arable farm where she combines writing with keeping a chaotic farmhouse. An incurable romantic, she writes for pleasure, owing much of her inspiration to the beauty of the surrounding countryside. She enjoys reading and music. History has always captivated her, and she likes travel and visiting ancient buildings.

The Earl and the Pickpocket

Helen Dickson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter One

London, 1770

A murky haze hung over the narrow alleyways and squalid, rickety hovels in the secret world of St Giles—a wretched, brutal, frightening place, cramped, dark and noisy, where violence and death were an inescapable fact of life. The air was foul, and the humid, sweltering heat pressed down on its inhabitants—a churning crush of people, the flotsam of human life. These were thieves, cutthroats and beggars, painted harlots and scavengers, a ragged, unwashed assortment of men, women and children, most of them prematurely aged by poverty and hunger, their only recourse to be found in the gin shops. This tax-free liquor was in plentiful supply, its consumption endemic—a perfect antidote for dulling pain, replacing lost dreams and deepening despair.

Moving among the jostling crowd, Adam carefully scrutinised every face, searching for one that was familiar, unaware of the youth following him closely—a slight, inconspicuous-looking lad in shabby garb and a shapeless hat pulled well down over his ears, who nimbly danced out of his sight whenever he turned about.

Adam was so deeply engrossed in his mission that it was a moment before he reacted to the body suddenly thrust against him, and the pull at his watch. Clapping his hand to his chest, a vicious curse exploded from him when he found he had been relieved of his timepiece by somebody with the manual dexterity of a practised thief. He whirled in time to see a ragged urchin dart away. Immediately he gave chase, following him through a network of narrow alleyways.

Eventually the lad was delivered up to him by a couple of youths anticipating a reward. Tossing them a shilling apiece, Adam gripped the young thief’s arm, ignoring his strangled squawk as he dragged him aside. He grasped the thin arm more tightly as the lad struggled against him, wincing and loosening his hold when he felt a boot rebound against his shin.

Slipping from Adam’s grasp, in a blur of panic the youth turned to run, only to find a long booted leg thrust out, obstructing his path. Unable to check his momentum, he stumbled and fell, landing on his stomach in a mud puddle. His posterior pointing skywards, he lay for a moment winded and stunned, successfully managing to hold back tears of shame and humiliation that gathered in his eyes. Covered in mud and slime, he was heaved from his ignoble position by the seat of his breeches, and with a string of outraged curses he quickly danced away and whipped a knife from his belt, wielding it in front of him.

‘I’ll have your blood,’ he snarled, glaring at his abuser as ferociously as a wild animal.

Like lightning Adam drew his sword, placing the point at the lad’s throat, locking eyes—the youth momentarily mesmerised by the terrible deadly grace of the stranger’s swift manoeuvre.

‘I wouldn’t try it,’ Adam ground out, backing his captive into a corner. ‘Do not add murder to your crime. Lower your weapon and give it to me,’ he coolly ordered, ‘and slowly, if you please. I am far from amused.’

Glowering out of a dirty face at him, breathing fast, his cheeks pink with a combination of rage and fear, reluctantly the youth did as he was told. Adam gave the knife no more than a cursory glance before sliding it down the top of his boot and sheathing his sword. ‘A nasty weapon for a boy,’ he remarked, his stern gaze raking the lad. ‘Very clever, you young guttersnipe. However, you should have studied your craft more and not allowed yourself to be caught.’

Adam’s fingers had bit painfully into the lad’s arm, who now rubbed the offended member, still scowling up at the giant who loomed above him, looking very small and fragile now he had no weapon with which to defend himself.

‘What’s the matter?’ Adam growled. ‘Afraid of the law, are you?’

‘You hurt my arm,’ the lad snapped, his eyes narrowed accusingly.

‘Rob me again and I’ll hurt more than your arm, you young whelp,’ Adam promised direly. He held out his hand. ‘My watch, if you please.’

The youth’s clear blue-green eyes glared hotly back at Adam, and he continued to fidget beneath his close inspection. He felt anger towards the stranger for catching him, but most of his anger was directed against himself for getting caught. He was aware of the painful gnawing of his stomach, and the dinner the proceeds of selling such a fine watch would have provided—after Jack had had his cut.

‘I repeat. Give me back my watch.’ Adam’s eyes narrowed when the lad remained mute, and there was a glint in his eyes that warned the youngster against pushing his luck further. Taking him by the front of his jacket with both hands, Adam lifted him so the toes of his ill-fitting boots barely brushed the ground, thrusting his face close to the slim, arrogant nose. ‘I dare say a constable will bring you to your senses, lad.’

Adam had the satisfaction of seeing his captive squirm uneasily and his face blanch. To be publicly conveyed through the streets by this tall stranger, and subsequently brought before the magistrate and thrown into prison for thieving—the utter humiliation of this ordeal would be so mortifying that it had the lad delving into the pocket of his baggy breeches and producing the purloined watch.

‘Here, take it. I—I am sorry I took it,’ he muttered, the apology almost sticking in his throat.

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?’

‘All the time,’ Adam replied, studying Ed gravely, having decided that Ed was a young person of no ordinary cleverness. ‘You seem to be an intelligent lad so I’m sure you care about yourself, about what you do—but not enough, it would seem, and for all the wrong reasons. Perhaps you don’t have enough faith in yourself—or pride. If you did, you wouldn’t steal things. Why do you steal, Ed? Don’t you have an alternative?’

Ed looked at him steadily, his eyes darkening at some secret memory. ‘Oh, yes—I do,’ he said quietly. ‘But this is far, far better.’

‘I see. You might give some thought to what I said.’

Ed nodded, fascinated. Adam’s eyes were frank and interesting. ‘I have—and I do believe in myself,’ he confided. ‘I don’t like stealing things and I intend to stop—one day. And I will. I want so many things—somewhere special, and safe, that I can call my own. I will change my entire life, when I’ve figured out a way how to do it.’

Adam believed him. He was troubled by the intensity of his statement. It was born of deep conviction—and perhaps more than a little pain. Ed’s eyes were wide and intense, showing in their depths a strong will that as yet knew neither strength nor direction. He was surprised at the feelings of tenderness this youth aroused in him. He sounded so ingenuous about what he wanted that he wanted to reassure him.

‘Don’t take too long,’ he said gently. ‘Those who make thieving their profession are destined for an early death on the gallows. Next time you get caught, the person you rob might not be as lenient as me. Have you always been a child of the streets? Have you never lived anywhere else?’ When he got no response he lifted a questioning brow. ‘France, perhaps?’

Ed stiffened, suddenly wary. ‘Why should you think that?’

‘When I pulled you out of the puddle, your cursing in that language was most proficient.’

Immediately the shutters came down over Ed’s eyes and his expression became guarded. He didn’t like talking about himself, especially not with strangers. ‘I told you—you ask too many questions,’ he replied sharply, averting his eyes.

Adam smiled, nodding slowly. He assumed there was a past that Ed was trying to forget. ‘I beg your pardon. I can see I intrude on your privacy too much. Being a private person myself, I respect it in others. You can relax. See, our food has arrived.’

Faced with warm buttered bread, hot, succulent meat pies and tarts packed with apples and pears, a significant battle to conduct himself properly was fought and lost in a matter of seconds as Ed was unable to override the demands of hunger. Eating more leisurely, Adam watched in amusement as the ravenous youth gorged himself. Studying the remarkable face and unable to resist the temptation to draw the lad, he took a small sketchpad and a piece of charcoal from his pocket and began to sketch quickly, effortlessly.

As the food filled and warmed his belly, Ed began to eat more slowly, savouring the taste fully. When his hunger was satisfied, he took a rag from his pocket and wiped his mouth and sat back, lulled into a harmony he thought he’d lost. He became aware of Adam’s preoccupation as he sketched, his fingers long and lean—the fingers of a creative man of some refinement—and how he raised his eyes every now and then to glance at him. How remote he was, he thought, how detached. Stung with curiosity, he leaned across the table.

‘Can I see?’

‘Of course. Here, what do you think of yourself?’ Adam turned the pad round to show him.

Ed gasped, staring incredulously at the image of himself. Adam had captured his likeness expertly. His face was all angles and shades, his eyes sad and thoughtful. ‘Is that how you see me?’ he asked, without taking his eyes off the sketch.

‘I’d have made a better job of it if I’d had longer.’

‘You’re very good. You really ought to take it up professionally.’

‘I’m glad you like it. And I promise to give serious thought to your suggestion,’ Adam replied, with a teasing smile in his voice and a knowing glint in his eyes.

‘You should,’ Ed said with gentle, but unshakeable firmness. ‘You could make a fortune. May I keep it?’

‘My pleasure.’ Adam tore the sketch off the pad and passed it to him, touched to see how carefully Ed handled it and placed it flat beneath his jacket so as not to crease it, as if it were the most precious object.

‘Do you feel better with food in your belly?’ Adam asked.

Ed nodded, remembering his manners. ‘Thank you. I am grateful.’

‘You’re welcome.’

Ed’s earlier anger had receded, leaving nothing to bolster his flagging courage. Adam’s eyes were still fixed on him so avidly that he blushed. There was an intensity, a pointedness about his look that for some reason unnerved him. He was curious to know more about the man whose watch he had stolen and who could sketch so artistically. He wondered why he hadn’t handed him over to the law, as others he stole from would have done. He cocked his head to one side and took stock of him. He really was a striking-looking man.

‘You’re a gentleman, I can tell, so what’s a gentleman doing in St Giles?’ he asked. ‘I don’t believe you came to take a stroll, or take the air.’ Suddenly his dark scowl vanished. He laughed out loud, a mischievous twinkle dancing in his eyes as the obvious reason occurred to him. ‘Were you looking for something that might be of interest to your habits?’ he remarked boldly. ‘If it’s a whore you’re after, there are plenty to be had, but ’tis the pox you’ll get for your sins.’

Adam caught his breath. ‘I don’t buy my pleasures—I’ve never had to. I can attract my own women—and I never barter.’ He became silent and thoughtful as he seemed to mull something over. ‘I’m looking for a boy,’ he told Ed bluntly.

After six months as a resident of St Giles, it took no straining of Ed’s mental process to conclude his companion might be one of those depraved characters who practised wicked vices.

Aware as to the tenor of Ed’s thoughts, which Adam found nauseating in the extreme—that this young lad should believe he could stoop to something so corrupt, so vile—his expression became rigid, his eyes glittering like shards of ice.

‘I do not take solace from young boys of the street. The boy I am looking for is a relative of mine. He disappeared two months ago, and I’m anxious to locate him.’