The Earl and the Pickpocket

Edwina raised her head resolutely, choosing to protect herself from Jack’s closeness as much as to hide her fear. Her pride ached, but the fear of what lay in store for her if she remained stealing for Jack threatened to reduce her to a trembling, shaking coward. ‘I haven’t, Jack. I’ve always been straight with you.’

‘You’ve had an easy time since I took you in and set you to work, and you ought to go down on your knees and thank me for it. I’ve always had a soft spot for you, Ed,’ he said, ‘you’ve got spirit and pluck. Because I liked you and you were cleverer than the other lads, because you were quick to learn and kept your mouth shut, I’ve treated you like a lamb and let you alone to do pretty much as you please, and if you hadn’t had that honour you’d have perished before now.’

‘And I’m grateful, Jack. But I need more money if I’m to make my own way.’

Jack glared at her, leaning forward. His face was vicious, and his breath stank of sour rum. His deep, grating voice filled the silence that had fallen between them. ‘Are you telling me you’re not getting a fair deal?’

‘Apart from that time when I took my spoils to another fencer—what you give me scarce covers the food I eat. You haven’t been over-generous, Jack,’ she said accusingly, emphasising the words to defend her actions, as she fought to prevent the shattered fragments of her life from slipping into an abyss.

Fire blazed in Jack’s eyes. ‘You young whelp. I’ll bring you to heel or hand you in,’ he threatened savagely. ‘Do you think you can stand against me with your damned impudence? I haven’t heard the others complaining.’

‘No, because they fear you,’ she told him truthfully.

‘No harm in that. That way they’ll do as they’re told.’

‘I know,’ she said, standing up, her voice threaded with sarcasm. ‘Charity and sympathy are not in your nature, are they, Jack?’

‘What’s charity and sympathy to me?’ A sneer twitched the corner of his surly mouth. ‘They can be the ruination of many a good man.’ Scraping his chair back, he stood up and eyed the youngster narrowly, thoughtfully. ‘I’ll give you more,’ he offered suddenly—after all, a tasty morsel had been known to keep a whining dog quiet.

‘It’s too late.’ Edwina was adamant. She had come this far and would not back down now. ‘I’ve made up my mind. I’ve had enough.’

Jack blustered angrily, making Edwina’s cheeks flame considerably as she listened to the curses and insults he flung at her. She wanted desperately to retaliate, to tell him to go to the devil and be done with it, but she knew the folly of doing that. It was far better to let him say what he had to and let him go. Then she could think what to do.

He grasped her shoulder and twisted her round, thrusting his face close. ‘Listen to me, boy, and listen well. Don’t try to run from me, because if you stray I swear I’ll find you and break every bone in your body.’ Seizing her wrist, he doubled her arm behind her back. He laughed caustically when she cried out from the pain of it, thrusting her from him so forcefully that she fell against the table and toppled a chair over. ‘That’s a foretaste of the punishment you can expect if I have to come lookin’ for you.’

Jack’s parting words seared into Edwina’s memory with the bitter gall of betrayal. The fact that she could have been so stupid as to believe she could go on her way when the fancy took her, that Jack would simply let her walk away, showed her weakness of character, in her mind. Her thoughts traced over the events that had led up to her present predicament, seeking to find the exact moment when she had become Jack’s property, and she knew it had been right from the very beginning.

She was thrown into a dilemma as to what to do next. Its solution concealed itself in the chaotic frenzy of her thoughts. With nothing to her name but a few coppers, where could she go? There was no one she could turn to, no safe haven she could seek, and if she ran from Jack her fortune would be what she could make herself.

Feeling a bone weariness creeping over her, she sat and placed her forearms on the table, lowering her head upon them and sighing. ‘Oh, Father,’ she whispered. ‘Why did you have to die? Why did you have to leave me to the mercy of Uncle Henry?’

Gordon Marchant had been a good father to her. She recalled how, handsome and proud, he’d smiled down at her from the saddle that last morning when he’d left Oakwood Hall, their fine Hertfordshire home, with his brother Henry, prepared to meet his creditor Silas Clifford, the Earl of Taplow, and beg for more time to pay back what he owed, and how she had stood on tiptoe to meet his parting embrace. The warmth and safety of his tone enclosed her for a moment.

‘Promise me you’ll have a care,’ she’d said.

‘Don’t worry, Edwina.’ His voice was quiet and he released her gently. ‘I’ll be back, and, if not, you can trust Henry. He’ll take care of you.’ Those had been his last words to her.

Henry had brought him home across the saddle of his horse, his fine clothes stained dark crimson with his life’s blood. Her heart hardened. He had claimed her father had had a run in with a thief on the road to Taplow Court. She had believed him. Henry had smiled and promised to handle everything—and he’d handled it very well…the blackguard.

Together Henry and the Earl of Taplow had drawn up a marriage contract. The Earl had proposed to disregard his losses and marry her without a dowry. Anger welled up in her, anger at Uncle Henry, at the Earl of Taplow. They had done this to her. She would never forgive them, either of them, ever!

In her mind’s eyes she saw Silas Clifford. To a seventeen-year-old girl, at fifty he was an old man. He was thin, his skin pale with prominent veins. His hair was white and he gave the impression of deformity without any obvious malformation. In fact, she had found everything about him displeasing. When he had come across her riding her horse along the lane near Oakwood Hall, his attention had been sharply and decisively arrested.

She recalled how he had called on her father soon after, how he had run his eyes over her, examining her face and figure as he would a prize cow. His hissing intake of breath as he did so had reminded her of a snake, and she had been glad when his business with her father had been concluded and he had gone on his way.

But following his visit her father had been uneasy and nervous, and to this day she did not know why. Soon afterwards he had been killed and Henry had become her guardian, and with it came the suspicion that he had killed her father. His odd behaviour, and the way he had of avoiding her eyes and refusing to speak of the tragic incident that had occurred on the road to Taplow Court, fuelled this suspicion, until she became certain of it.

What would her father think of Henry now? It had never occurred to him to doubt the honour of his own brother. Henry had fooled her father. He had taken his trust and trampled it. By running away she had made him pay for his lies.

Tears of fear, sorrow and frustration welled up in her eyes. ‘Oh, Father, why did you desert me? I have lost everything.’

It was a cry from the heart, the cry of a lost and lonely child, but the sorrow that shaped it was soon spent. Jack and his kind would not defeat her. The food Adam had bought her still filled her stomach and lent support to her resolve. All she needed was the courage to remove herself as far away from Jack as she possibly could. She had not escaped from her uncle’s clutches only to die a lingering death in the filth and squalor of St Giles, wretched and without hope.

She would not be beaten. She was young. She had the strength and the power to survive and grasp for herself a better future. She would make it happen because, if she didn’t, no one else would. What was it Adam had said—that a person must have faith and pride in oneself, must believe in oneself? Well, she did believe in herself, and she would start by taking control of her life.

There would be no more Jack. No more Silas Clifford. No more Uncle Henry. Somehow she must find her way back to her own kind, but first she must have money, and Adam would give her that. She would find the boy Toby and take the reward he had promised for herself.

Her spirits strengthened, the following morning she left her squalid room for the last time and took her first steps into an uncertain future. If Jack caught her, there was no telling what he would do. But maybe he wouldn’t catch her. It was a risk she was willing to take.

For three days Edwina scoured the vast network of alleyways and yards of St Giles, certain they had been built for the very purpose of concealment. It was like a vast jungle, which harboured criminals with as great a security as accorded to wild beasts in the jungles of Africa and India.

Careful to avoid the places where she knew Jack would be, she entered and searched places she would have steered clear of before—the meanest hovels, from the cellars to the rooms stacked on top. In the streets clouds of flies hovered over horse dung and offal from the slaughterhouses, mingling with the stench of unwashed humanity. Edwina was oblivious of everything outside her own purpose. She questioned fellow thieves and beggars. Everyone had seen crippled boys, and there were some who did fit Toby’s description, but they were nameless.

It was almost dark and Edwina, utterly dejected and suffering from exhaustion, found herself in Covent Garden. Sitting on a low wall at the base of some iron railings, she kept herself awake only by a prodigious effort of will. Her whole body ached as if she had been beaten, and she blinked like a night-bird at the many bright lights around her.

She often found her way to the busy piazza. It was famous for its gaming, rowdy taverns, chocolate and coffee houses, and brothels filled with loose women. Its marvellous fruit and vegetable market and theatres giving it flavour and vitality, Covent Garden was pervaded by an atmosphere of uninhibited pleasure, attracting all kinds of folk—in particular actors, painters and writers—both day and night. Tonight was no different to all the others, as people came to savour the high life. Even in the fading light the vibrant colours drew Edwina into the tableau, and she listened to the din of voices as they laughed and boasted, cursed and argued.

Theatre-goers were beginning to arrive for the evening’s performances in fine carriages, and she watched enviously as fashionable men and women in glittering and dazzling attire climbed out, the ladies holding froths of lace dipped in perfume to their noses to kill the unpleasant odour of rotting garbage. Creamy bosoms bedecked with jewels rose out of fitted bodices, slender waists accentuated by flowing skirts.

The gentlemen were no less magnificent in their leather pumps with silver buckles, white silk stockings and knee-length pale-coloured breeches, and superbly tailored frock coats over elaborately embroidered waistcoats. Most of the upper classes, both men and women, wore powdered wigs, but those of lesser means could not afford them. Eager to see the night’s performances, with much laughter and light-hearted chatter, they alighted from their carriages and disappeared inside.

Edwina was about to stand up and move on when a carriage carrying two ladies and two gentleman stopped and caught and held her attention. Her eyes became riveted on one of the gentlemen. She watched him spring down and hold out his hand to assist one of the ladies with the tender care of a devoted friend—or lover. She was a tall, glittering young woman dressed in cobalt blue silk, her dark hair arranged superbly on her proudly erect head, the silken tresses threaded with sparkling jewels.

The gentleman was a tall, extremely striking man. He was impeccably dressed, his knee-length claret coat and rich dark hair emphasising the pristine whiteness of the cascade of lace at his throat and wrists. He declined the wearing of the customary wig, and Edwina thought how suited his own hair was to him. Suddenly her heart was beating wildly. She stared wide-eyed at the man, unaware that she had stood up. It was Adam. She was sure it was. If only he would turn his head, so she could see his face more clearly.

As if he felt the pull of her eyes he spun his head round and met her gaze head on. An expression Edwina couldn’t recognise flickered across his handsome features, and even from a distance of several yards his eyes seemed very bright. Then one corner of his mouth cocked up in a smile, the same mocking smile she remembered. A sweet longing radiated through her, setting her pulse racing.

Not wishing to embarrass him by drawing further attention to herself, she turned. Just as she was about to disappear into the crowd, something clamped her upper arm like an iron band and spun her round. Rage edged Jack’s deep voice as he thrust his face close.

‘So, you young guttersnipe. Thought you’d run out on Jack, did you? Thought you’d escape me?’ His small black eyes blazed. ‘I said I’d find you—told you what would happen.’

Overcome with fear, Edwina panicked. A groan of terror tore from her constricted chest, and she pulled away, cringing from the blow she knew would follow. When it came she fell to the ground. Coloured sparks exploded in her eyes and the world began to spin, before blackness enfolded her.

From across the street, horrified, Adam saw what had happened. His eyes flashed with blue fire. ‘Go in, will you,’ he said quickly to his companions. ‘I’ll join you shortly.’ They watched in stunned amazement as he ran across the street.

The crowd that had gathered around the unconscious youth parted to let him through. ‘Stand back,’ he ordered. ‘Give the lad some air.’ Crouching down beside Edwina, he raised her up. Her head fell back limply and blood began to trickle from the cut on the right side of her small face. Adam raised his head and looked at the thug responsible, a murderous glint in his blue eyes.

‘Damn you! If the lad doesn’t recover, you’ll regret this,’ he said, and, for all its quiet, his voice was like a suddenly unsheathed blade.

Jack turned and lumbered away. He disappeared down an alley, moving with a speed and agility that could not have been anticipated in a man of his bulk.

Adam gently raised the broken, pitiful burden into his arms, and to the amazement of the crowd he carried the lad off across the square. His arrival at the house just off the piazza with an unconscious street urchin in his arms caused a furore of bawdy comments from both male and scantily clad female occupants, who sat around talking and laughing and openly caressing each other.

With the supreme indifference of a true gentleman toward lesser mortals, Adam ignored the lewd remarks and addressed a servant, his voice rich and compelling. ‘Fetch Mrs Drinkwater at once.’

Right on cue an elegantly attired woman in middle age moved slowly down the stairs.

‘Why, it’s you, Adam. I figured it must be. Who else would make so much bluster? Still, ’tis a pleasure to see you.’ She gave the man she had known since childhood an adoring, almost sainted look, before dropping her gaze to the boy and bending over him with concern. ‘Bless me! What have we here?’