Dance of Seduction (5 page)

It certainly was keeping Mary and David frozen in place. David was her primary concern. Mary had pegged him correctly—he’d landed in the Home precisely because he was as light-fingered as a goat. He’d been caught on his first venture and released only when Clara had begged the judge to let him be put into her care. Unfortunately, his hero worship of Johnny put him at risk of trying to prove himself, and Mary wasn’t helping.

Clara didn’t know which was worse—an inept, insecure pickpocket like David or a competent, charismatic one like Johnny. “You all know better than to encourage this sort of activity. There’s no future in thievery, no matter how skillful.”

David and Mary hung their heads. “Yes’m.”

Johnny pushed in front with a belligerent air. “They had naught to do with it, m’lady. It was all me. I’m the one you should punish.”

His willingness to take responsibility for his actions sur
prised her. Perhaps there was hope for him after all.

But only if she stood firm now. “Don’t worry, you’re the one who
will
be punished. You know the rules, Johnny. Three chances, that’s all. You engage in acts of thievery once, you receive a warning and a week’s worth of chores. Do it twice, and you receive a lecture and a month’s worth of chores. Do it three times…”

She didn’t have to finish the sentence. They all knew it. Three times and you were kicked out of the Home. You couldn’t return for a month, and then only if you’d shown that you’d truly changed your ways.

She despised that rule. Her father had established it, and though she often thought of dispensing with it, she knew she dared not. She had no choice: if she allowed children like Johnny to “lift” things while still living in the Home, she risked not only their corrupting all her other charges but also having the authorities shut down the entire institution. That would do no one any good. Nasty and overly strict it might be, but the third rule was a necessity.

She forced herself to continue, though Johnny had gone as still as the rest at the reminder. “This is your second offense, Johnny. You’re dangerously close to eviction.”

A small gasp beside her reminded her that little Tim was watching everything. Her heart twisted in her chest, and she quickly reassured him. “Not you, Timothy, just your brother. You will always have a place here, as long as you abide by the rules yourself.”

The relief in his face showed that she’d guessed his concern correctly. Poor lad. Too young to be a hardened criminal, yet old enough to fear abandonment.

There was hope for Tim, but Johnny unfortunately teetered on the edge. He could tilt either way. And she greatly feared that she knew which way he was leaning. “Mary, David, and Timothy, join the others in the schoolroom.”

With downcast eyes, the children headed off, but as Johnny started to slip past her, she grabbed his arm. “We’re not done yet, my boy. I want to know whom you stole the watch from.”

Johnny stared down at his feet. “Some gentry cove in Leadenhall Street.”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand why you feel compelled to steal. You’ve done so well. It’s been four months since your last offense. Why ruin everything after coming so far?”

He shrugged.

“That’s not an answer, Johnny.”

“Ain’t got an answer for you, m’lady.”

His refusal to confide in her worried her. If Johnny had been caught stealing by that “gentry cove,” he’d have been hauled to the magistrate straightaway.

The fact that he might risk it for some reason she couldn’t fathom terrified her so much that she spoke without thinking. “Very well, don’t talk to me, but if you go to the captain’s shop to collect money for that watch, you know it’ll be your third offense.”

The minute his gaze shot to hers, anxious and scared, she regretted her words. But she dared not take them back. Leniency and kindness hadn’t worked with Johnny—he was as incorrigible as ever. So perhaps sternness would.

She swallowed her apprehension. “I mean it. ‘Acts of thievery’ includes selling the goods to a fence. So stay away from Captain Pryce’s shop if you want to remain here.”

His solemn nod gave her hope that he would do so. Then he was gone.

Her knees buckled, and she had to lean against the wall for support. If only she could be sure she was handling Johnny properly. But it was so hard to know the right thing to do.

One thing was certain—the longer he stayed in the Home,
the better it was for him. Yet how could she keep him here now that she’d laid down that ultimatum? The moment her back was turned, Johnny was sure to run back to Captain Pryce’s shop for his wretched money. Somehow she had to prevent it.

She could give Johnny money for the watch herself, but that would be rewarding his crime. No, she must make that cursed captain give her the watch, that’s all. Once she told Johnny of it, he’d have no reason to ask Captain Pryce for the money, since the captain wouldn’t pay him for something that had never brought a profit.

Of course, that meant she had to deal with the captain again. She scowled. That scoundrel—she could strangle him for dangling temptation before her children’s faces. She’d had him all wrong. He wasn’t the Beast at all. At least the Beast had turned into a prince once Beauty tamed him.

No, Captain Pryce was the Wolf from Perrault’s “Little Red Riding Hood.” And like the Wolf, he had only one purpose—to devour his prey. He pretended to want nothing to do with her children when in truth he planned to draw them in. No doubt he’d been trying to allay her suspicions when he’d warned her to keep her children away.

Well, if he thought she’d stand idly by while he corrupted her lambs beneath her very nose, he’d better think again. Her children might fall for his foolish promises of riches, but she was no Little Red Riding Hood, to be lured and then devoured. He could disguise himself however he wished. Because no matter what his disguise, the Wolf was about to meet the huntswoman.

Chapter 3

The ladies all thought him divine,
The nobles invited him home;
The castle he gave for their use,
And he for adventures did roam.
“
The History of Jack the Giant-Killer,” anonymous
Cornish legend, this version printed by J.G. Rusher

C
aptain Morgan Pryce, known in other circles as the Honorable Captain Morgan Blakely, stood at the window of his musty shop, examining the gold watch in the sunlight. The inscription on the inside of the cover read, “To my darling boy.” He shook his head. It must have belonged to some sentimental fellow too young and green to know how to avoid pickpockets, though it looked awfully old and worn for that. Perhaps a family heirloom?

He snapped the cover shut, then idly shifted the watch from hand to hand, gauging the weight of the gold, watching
the chain glitter in sunlight with the brilliance of gems—or Lady Clara’s smile.

He scowled. Just what he didn’t need, a complication like her. She was going to be trouble. He’d known it the moment he’d looked up to see her standing there in all her glory—seemingly descended from heaven into the alley, with the morning sun encasing her slender frame in an angel’s halo.

L’ange d’allée
. Yes, that’s what she was—the angel of the alley. She came to the defense of children despite the cost to her own safety because “the future of mankind” mattered more. She glided about Spitalfields in worsted wings and berated a man for not being gallant. She responded to said man’s randy insults with tart insults of her own.

And blushed prettily when that man looked her over.

The sudden perverse quickening of his blood made him curse. Damn that Ravenswood! What had possessed the man to set this up so close to an institution for pickpockets? And why couldn’t the woman who ran it be a pinched-face spinster with a sour disposition? Instead of a teasing vixen who smelled of jasmine and almond oil. He could almost imagine her dipping one dainty finger into an apothecary’s bottle, then smoothing it over the pulse that beat so enticingly in her fine, slender neck…

Bon Dieu
, he must be mad. This was no time to be lusting after a woman, especially one like her. Lady Clara wasn’t some French demi-rep with whom he could take his pleasure in passing or a bored Spanish wife who shared his need for a few hours’ entertainment. Even if he hadn’t already made her despise him, she wasn’t a woman he could pursue.

She was a virginal Englishwoman, for God’s sake. She had morals and scruples…and Expectations. His own scruples dictated that he avoid any woman with Expectations. He
couldn’t possibly rise to them, and dashing them was always damned messy.

Besides, letting
any
woman distract him just now was not only unwise but dangerous. Pray God she’d taken his warning to heart, for herself as well as her charges. Because he suspected she was capable of great perception. If she figured him out, he’d have a disaster on his hands.

A tiny scrape at the side door put him on his guard right before it swung open and a tall figure dressed in unassuming garb slipped inside. “Good morning, Blakely.”

Morgan watched as his superior from the Home Office sidled around a scarred display case to enter the cramped front room of the shop. “Don’t call me Blakely in Spitalfields. They know me as Pryce. And why are you here anyway? We shouldn’t be seen together.”

Spencer Law, the fifth Viscount Ravenswood, rested one hand on a counter made of salvaged ship oak. “We won’t be. I made sure no one was around. But even if anyone was, they wouldn’t recognize me in this getup.”

“If you say so.” Morgan had to admit that Ravenswood didn’t look nearly as out of place in the grubby, low-ceilinged room as pretty Lady Clara had in the alley. Despite his distinguished looks, the man excelled at blending into the woodwork. Before taking his highly visible position in the Home Office, he’d been the most successful spymaster in England. But though he didn’t have his hand in it much anymore, he knew how to play the game when he had to.

Like now.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Morgan asked with a trace of sarcasm.

Ravenswood pushed away from the counter. “I wanted to make sure that the building suits your purpose. And that I’d provided you with everything you need to establish your business. Both your businesses.”

Morgan crossed to the windows at the front of the shop. He’d left them murky to make it harder for curious passersby to witness goings-on inside. But Ravenswood was right—no one lingered nearby anyway.

Hanging the “Closed” sign in the window, Morgan faced his employer. “The building will suffice, though I wonder why you set me up within a stone’s throw of the Stanbourne Home for the Reformation of Pickpockets.”

“The boys in the Home will spread the word about you faster than anyone else.”

“And if, in the meantime, one or two of them are sucked back into that life,” Morgan said dryly, “you’re not terribly concerned, I suppose.”

Ravenswood shrugged. “It’s a calculated risk we must take for the greater good.”

“I suspect Lady Clara Stanbourne wouldn’t see it quite that way.”

“You’ve met?”

“Lady Clara caught me in a transaction with one of her lads this morning.” Morgan dangled the gold watch in the air. “He was offering me this for sale.”

Ravenswood blinked and stepped closer. “What the devil—” He patted his pockets, a scowl spreading over his brow.

As the truth struck Morgan, he began to laugh. “Don’t tell me it’s yours.
You
are the ‘darling boy’?”

“Give me that!” Ravenswood snatched it from his hand. When Morgan kept laughing, Ravenswood said glumly, “My mother gave it to me when I was ten.”

That explained why it looked well-worn. Ravenswood was in his mid-thirties, so the watch must be at least twenty years old.

The man examined the watch, then shoved it into his scruffy coat. “Bloody pickpockets. That’s what I get for walking here. Must have been when I was crossing Leaden
hall, before I stopped in at Pickering’s for breakfast. Some lad burst out from behind a carriage and ran into me.”

“Ran into you? You fell for the oldest trick in a pickpocket’s book!”

“I have a lot on my mind these days,” Ravenswood muttered. “So Lady Clara caught you while the boy was trying to sell you the watch?”

Stifling a laugh, Morgan gave up on tormenting his superior further. “Yes. Fortunately, she misunderstood and thought he was picking my pocket. I let her think it.”

“And when she discovers the truth?”

“I’m hoping she won’t. But to be safe, I warned her to keep her lads away.”

“Devil take it, why did you do that? You’ll rouse suspicion.”

“I dislike corrupting children on the verge of redemption. That’s too calculated a risk for my taste.”

“You know very well that any boy who approached you with goods is already halfway to being corrupted again.”

True. And yet…

He remembered too well what it was like to hover in doorways to escape the cold, gnawing on day-old baguettes filched from the bakery. To sleep in a thieves’ den, where temporary shelter paid for by a pilfered handkerchief was preferable to a night spent listening to his mother coupling with her latest paramour.

No matter how corrupt, no child deserved such a life. Turning his back on Ravenswood, he began to straighten the goods on a nearby counter. “Since I’m the one taking all the risks, I’ll choose the ones I can stomach. Now tell me what I need to know about Lady Clara, in case she doesn’t heed my warnings.”

Ravenswood was silent, as if debating whether further argument was necessary. At last he sighed. “Lady Clara. Hmm. For one thing, she isn’t your typical society female.”

A fine understatement. A typical society female spent her Monday afternoons paying calls, not collaring impudent scamps. She avoided worsted unless she was poor, and even then she cheated the devil to gain the blunt for fine French muslin. She certainly didn’t spar with lowly sea captains in alleys. “Is she as committed to her cause as she seems?”

“She’d fight the devil himself for those children.”

Then the children were fortunate to have the likes of Lady Clara championing them. And judging from young Johnny’s defection, the confounded scamps didn’t even appreciate it. “Has she no family of her own to look after?”