Lady Rogue (3 page)

She felt the effect of his potent stare all the way down t
o her toes.  "Were they wot?"

Self assurance was etched all too plainly
in his unwavering gaze, the stern set of his jaw.  Not a man to be trifled with, she reflected.  He looked to be a dangerous gent if crossed.  Stubborn, more than likely.  Daring.  Unafraid.  Realizing at once that here was a man who was more than her match, Dawn eased towards the door, her thought  now of escape.   The man blocked her way.

"Were they
….
are
they after you?" he asked,  his tone of voice seeming to hint that he was losing patience.

Clenching her hands into tight fists,
heaving a long, drawn out sigh, Dawn lowered her eyes.  Though schooled in the art of telling vibrant lies she found herself telling the truth.  "Yes…..yes…...they…....they are."  

"Ah ha!"  It was
an easy conclusion to come to.

Dawn's
gaze traveled from the toes of the gentleman’s well-shined black boots to the top of his head as she tried to assess the situation.  What to do?  Tussle with him?  No.  Elegant clothes could not hide his masculinity.  Though he wore gentleman's garb, the elegant cloths could not hide his masculinity.  His shoulders were broad, his thighs well muscled.  He would be more than a match for her.  Were he to live in her circumstances, he might even be more than a match for Black John.

"They are after me........" she said, watc
hing him warily, "but...but it's a
mistake
..."

"A mistake?"  Now he seemed doubly interested. Damned if he didn't even have a slight tone of compassi
on. "How so?  Speak up child."

"Child?  Dawn brushed nervously at the skirt of her dress.  The drably patterned frock had been purchased from a vendor on
Petticoat Lane and had more than likely been stolen from a gentry's servant.  A maid perhaps.  A woman obviously much larger than Dawn. Undoubtedly, hiding her bosom as it did, the dress made her appear much younger than her years. She decided to play upon his error.   Now she knew how she was going to survive this situation.   If he thought her to be a child, he might even be inclined to help her. 

"They...they think I did
somethin' I didn't do, Sir."

Slow
ly she looked up, studying him intently, and her breath caught.  Oh, he was a fine looking bloke, he was.  His nose was straight, proud and well-shaped, his cheekbones high, his jaw strong with a determined set to it.  Despite its grim set his mouth had an interesting fullness that spoke of lips pleasant to kiss.  Her eyes traveled to his hair--brown with unusual golden highlights, thick and vibrant.  Combed back in the fashion she'd seen the wealthy wear, it brushed his collar as if he hadn't taken time for a recent trim.  Nearly as long As Robbie's.  From the top of his golden-brown hair to the tips of his polished black boots, he was awesomely handsome. It was his eyes, however, that fascinated her.  Startlingly blue.  Every instinct within her was vibrantly awakened as she gazed into those eyes.

"You have been
wrongly accused.  Is that it?"  Something in the depths of his eyes, a measure of kindness, seemed to give her a faint glimmer of hope.   Perhaps he wasn't such a bad bloke after all even if he was rich.

"Yeah.  Y
eah.  Wrongly."  Though she wanted to look away, his eyes held her  captive.

"Just what is it they think you did?  Tell me, girl."  Before Dawn could answer, the leather pouch tore through a hole in her pocket and plopped to the floor
of the carriage.   "Aha!"  All trace of compassion evaporated from the gentleman's face as he folded his arms across his chest.

Dawn was trapped but she thought quickly.  "It's...it's a gentleman's purse, it is.  But I didn't steal it."  There was an earnestness in her voice that couldn't be practiced.  She was telling the truth.  "I swear it, Sir
.  I didn't." 

The answering silence was unnerving.  Why didn't he say something?  Anything.  By now any other gentleman would have peached, that was for sure.  And yet he hadn't.  She looked up through her fringe of dark lashes at him, taking in his broad shoulders again, the elegant cut to his dark blue coat.  Though he was a toff
, he didn't seem a bad sort when all was said and done.  In fact, he seemed a bit of a noble bloke.  So far he hadn't even called a beadle.

"Another un filched it, he did."  She failed to mention the close relationship of the scoundrel.   Handsome he might be but obviously he was also gullible, easier to fool than
she could have ever suspected.

"Someone else stole it...."   There was just a trace of a  mocking smile to the gentleman's lips.  "It just fell into your hands, is that wh
at you would have me believe?"

"Yes
…...yes."   'Ats 'ow it 'appened, it did."  She  answered his smile, the corners of her mouth trembling.   "Fell into me  'ands."

"Interesting.  Care to tell me
the details?"  His voice was  husky with a tone of anger as he moved closer. It was clear that he didn't believe her as he climbed into the carriage and pulled her up on the seat beside him.  The door closed with a clank, and a shiver of alarm ran down Dawn’s back.  She was a mouse, trapped by an unrelenting cat.  He was  not gullible as she had so foolishly supposed.  He knew exactly what she had done.  Even now he watched and waited for her to confess. 

"Well-l-l
?" Dawn felt the strength of his hand on her shoulder. His hard fingers exerted a pressure.  She would never escape.  A quivering tension coiled in her stomach.  She had to convince him of her innocence somehow or all was lost.

Burying her face in her hand
and pretending to give in to tears, she wailed,  "Ooh, it was terrible it was.  I nearly died o' fright."  Groping for his hand, she clutched it tightly, her fingers trembling.  "'E....e came wi' in an 'air's length of getting caught, 'e did.  It was then 'e...'e threw the purse at
me
." She sniffed in feigned indignation.  "Tryin' ta cover 'is own taille, 'e was."

"And you didn't steal it?"  His eyes were hot blue coals
that seared her.

"N
o-o-o!  Oh, please believe me.  I'm a good girl, I am."  Peeking through her fingers she was overcome with relief.  It was working.  She could tell  by his expression that his sympathy had been tweaked.

"Hmm
."   The gentleman's blue eyes narrowed as he stared at her speculatively.  She was so petite that he judged her to be still of tender years.  A homeless waif, he supposed, by the looks of her, but not a hardened criminal. Perhaps then her story was true.   He would give her the benefit of the doubt. 

"'E ran for 'is life, leavin' me behind to answer for wot 'e done...." Clutching again at his hand
, gazing into his eyes, she whispered. "Please 'elp me, Sir."

The enormous green eyes
with their long, thick dark lashes were his undoing.  She looked as guiltless as an angel.  How then could he refuse?  He wouldn't want to see the girl put into prison, especially if she had done no wrong.  Perhaps even if she had.  He was hardly one to judge another's sins or failings.  God knew he had enough of his own.

"All right."  His thumb rubbed over the back of her hand in a strangely tender manner.  "I'll give you a ride back to your home.  That should get you there safely.  Will that do?"  He  held out his white cotton handkerchief to her.  "Now, blow yo
ur nose and dry your eyes."

As she took the offered cloth she noticed his hands.  Large.  Strong.  His hands confounded her.  The knuckles were scarred as if he'd been in several fights, belying his elegant attire. We
ll, she wasn't going to ask.  She dabbed at her eyes, then looked in fascination at the initials so carefully embroidered on the cotton.  G. F. S., it said.  She raised her well-arched brows in question.

"Garrick Frederick Seton is what those letters stand for.  M
y name."  He had been holding a bundle of papers and now plopped them down on the seat.  "I'm an architect by profession."  When she didn't answer he added, "I draw the plans for many of the buildings being erected in the area."

"Oh
!"  Dawn was clearly impressed.  "An artist of sorts."

"In a matter of speaking."  This time his smile had no trace of scorn
.  "When so many men and women decide to live together in the same area, things are bound to happen.  Growth.  New roads.  Sturdy new buildings."  He leaned out the window, motioning to his driver.  "Where to?  East or west?"  He guessed the answer before she said it.  The poorer districts were to the east.

"Ahw...ye don't 'ave to taike me all the way, Sir.  Jus' to the Red Feather Inn will be far enough."   She had her pride.  The thought of this fi
ne gentleman seeing the squalid conditions in which she lived filled her with shame. Her back stiffened as her resentment returned.  It was the cruel indifference of his kind that kept her languishing in such circumstances.

"Not a one o' 'em rich blokes cared a fig fer the likes o' us," Robbie was always reminding her.  "They think about us as if we wer
e a bug crawlin' on the wall."

"The Red Feather Inn?"  Garrick was dubious.  Even in the daylig
ht hours it was a dangerous part of town.  "Are you certain?  I can take you all the way home.  It would be no bother.  Really.  I'd like to make sure that you are..."

"Don't trouble yerself ."  Something in her e
yes stilled his protestations.

"The Red Feather Inn it will be."  He watched as she traced the outline of his initials with her finger tip, relishing the handkerchief as
if it were something precious. Then she handed it back to him.  "No, you keep it."  He smiled.  "A memento of our meeting.  It isn't just every day I have such an auspicious meeting with a pretty little girl."

"Keep it...?"  Dawn blushed to the roots of her hair, her antagonism momentarily held at bay.  He'd called her pretty, as if he meant it.  She'd recei
ved few compliments.  Not since her father died had a man shown her real kindness.  "I'd be 'onored, I would.  I've never been given a gentleman's 'ankie before."

"Think of it as a token of friendship.  Ev
eryone has need of friends, don't you agree?"  At the moment she looked so small and forlorn huddled upon the seat.  Sympathy welled up inside him again.  He wondered if anyone truly cared about this girl.  "Do you have someone to look out for you?  A mother?  A father?"  he asked.

This time the sudden tears th
at blinded Dawn's eyes were real.  Oh, how she hated to cry in front of him.  "My..my father was killed in an accidennt and my..my mother is dead too..but..but I have a brother.  An older one.  He taikes care of me, or rather we taike care of each other.  "'E says I cluck over 'im like a mother hen."

"A brother?  Good!"  Her answer relieved him.  The girl had at least one member of her family to look out for her.  Strange how the little waif tugged so at his heart.  As the carriage rattled on down the road he was tempted to find out more about her, perhaps even to ascertain some way of
seeng her again, but at last he thought better of it.  Mind his own business.  That was good advice.  Besides, they came from two different worlds, across a gulf impossible to cross. He could tell by the wistful look in her eyes that she knew it too.  She was much like a stray kitten, but he was not the one to take her in.  Nevertheless, he was strangely unnerved when the large wooden sign of the Red Feather Inn came into view.

"Here we are."

Dawn was so warm and comfortable that she was reluctant to leave the confines of the carriage and the soothing charm of his company.  There were so many things she wanted to tell him.  How could he ever understand?  Her heart hammered painfully in her breast and her tongue seemed frozen to the roof of her mouth.  She stared at him mutely, at last managing a strangled, "thank you."  Then she was climbing down from the carriage, glancing over her shoulder as she waved goodbye.  On a sudden impulse  she grasped his hand, relishing the firm, strong grip of his handshake.  His touch evoked a longing deep within her.  She was genuinely surprised by the jolt of sweet fire that swept through her veins at such a chaste and common gesture.  She had the crazy impulse to throw herself into his arms, to cling to him for comfort, a temptation that was definitely alarming.  Was that why she  suddenly fled, running as if the very devil was pursuing her shadow?  Only when she was safely within the confines of the Red Feather did she dare to look back, to watch the carriage pull away.  It was then that Dawn made a startling discovery.  She'd left the coin-filled leather pouch behind!  In spite of her dismay, she laughed at the irony of it all.  Then, picking up her crumpled skirts, she made her way toward Seven Dials to find her brother.

Chapter Two

The stench of the narrow cobbled street assailed Dawn's nostrils as she hurried from the Red Feather Inn.  After the clean leather and tobacco scented carriage, it was one more reminder to her of  differences between herself and the fine gentleman.  Now she was doubly glad she had declined his offer to take her all the way home.  St. Giles was as different from the Mayfair as night was from day.

"Blimey," she whispered, "but 'e would 'ave 'ad apoplexy for certaain if 'e caught sight o' these digs."  It was hardly a part of town a man like G.F.S. would frequent.  With a sigh she paused to glance down at the handkerchief he had given her,
then put it to her face. The linen smelled pleasantly of leather and spice, his scent. Closing her eyes, she conjured him up: his thick golden brown hair, brilliant smile and piercing blue eyes.  He was the kind of man a girl could dream about. 
But never 'ave!
she warned herself.  He was as far from reach as a star.  Shaking her head, scolding herself for such fanciful thoughts, Dawn thrust the handkerchief back in the folds of her bodice and continued on her way.

Dawn passed by a pawnbroker's shop,
a second hand clothing store, two gin shops and assorted decrepit dwellings, many with rags or papers stuffed in the broken window panes.  It was a stark contrast to the gentleman's side of town.  Dicing, whoring and gin drinking were activities pursued here with a passion and if any men in suits were to be seen, it was certain they were indiscreet young gents flitting about on the fringes of the underworld to indulge in vice.  Thieves preyed upon these noble rakes.  It was a haunt for hunters looking for quarry.

"Just think," Black John Dunn always told her, "what good we be doing these blokes.  Turning them to a more diligen
t and 'onest waiy of life by teachin' ‘em a lesson.  A good bop on the 'ead, the loss of their purses will maike 'em quit their philandering waiy of life.  They'll be upstanding citizens, they will.  And it's all due to us...."

Indeed, Dawn thought, a
ny man who dared walk this main avenue ran the risk of being robbed of his handkerchief, pocketbook or watch.  Others were even more unfortunate.  Those who put up a squabble often lost their lives.  It was a harsh reality, as much a part of life as hunger and poverty.  That was the way of the world, or so she told herself over and over.

Black John Dun
n had a network of contacts to ensure his own safety--unscrupulous parrish beadles, prison turnkeys, greedy magistrates who helped him thwart those who would see him brought to justice.  In return he gave them cash, liquor or favors in some form or other.  Trading justices, he called it.  Even so, a body had to be careful.  Every now and then a rare honest toff could be found, endangering the thieves with demands of a hanging.  That was why she had worried so. Robbie’s life wouldn't be worth a shilling if a thieftaker got him.  That's why Seven Dials was so imporrant.

Seven Dials, or
the Dial
  as the thieves often called it, was an irregular square from which streets and alleys ran in every direction.  Seven to be exact.  Here a thief or miscreant could vanish into the unwholesome vapor of fog and smoke that enveloped the city. The tenement Robbie and Dawn shared with a band of pickpockets was nearby.

G'daiy, Missie....
"  A short, tattered man, tipping his hat in the manner of a gentleman, greeted Dawn with a grin as she turned the corner.

"G'daiy, Jamie."  Deformed at birth, abandoned in the alleyway and left to die, Jamie, affectionately called "the monkey" had been taken in by Dunn and his clan.  Now he was one of the very finest pick pockets around, watches and fobs
  his specialty. Jamie had never come close to being nabbed.  Built low to the ground, swift on his short, bandy legs, he was difficult to catch.  "Is Robbie about?"

"Got 'ere less than five minutes ago.  Mumblin' beneath 'is breath."  He nodded in the direction of the tallest of the buildings.  "Went inside, 'e did.  By the looks o'
'im, 'e wasn't all all 'appy."

"No...most definitely not."  Dawn let out her breath in a long sigh, thankful that Robbie was safe. 
"Nearly got caught todaiy...."

"No....!"

"Yes....!"

"Got to taike care.  Gettin' more and more dangerous it is, workin' in the light."  The little man's thick brown brows drew to
gether in a scowl.  He tugged her sleeve, wanting to hear the story but Dawn shook her head.  She was tired.  All she wanted was a cold glass of cider and a place to rest her aching legs.

"I'll give it to ya in detail when we sup."  Jamie was one of the fourteen in their group who slept, worked and ate together.  He was an odd sort of guardian to both Robbie and her.  Of all the thieves he had been the kindest, taking them under
his wing right from the first.

"Awroight 'en."  With a smile he tipped his hat again then merg
ed with the crowd.

There was a
cold air of desolation on the shadowed street. Human forms in various shapes and sizes littered the curbs.  One man staggered drunkenlt about, roaring out a bawdy ditty.  A small crowd had collected around a trio of giggling women, imbibing the contents of a bottle of gin and bitters.  A few lost souls loitered about the gin shops, squabbling in the center of the road.  Every lamppost supported a figure, leaning against it as if in fear of toppling into the dirt, face first.  Gin was the misery of both rich and poor.  Indeed, more than half the grain sown in England was used to make some kind of liquor.  Like the poverty, it was just something a person soon got used to. 

"Any shillings Dawnie dearie?"  A bleary eyed man blocked Daw
n's way, holding out his hand.

"Not a farthing, Will.
I"ve come back empty 'anded."

"More's the pity.  Black John is in a surly mood.  You'll be addin' to it."  Shrugging his shoulders
, he took a step back, allowing Dawn to step by.  His words were only too true.  When Robbie revealed that she had held such an amply coined pouch and let it go, she would be in for certain trouble.  Nonetheless she hurried on.  She wasn't a coward, wasn't afraid of a licking.  Over the years she'd toughened her sensitivity, indeed her very hide to such things.  Besides, Black John was often times "more blow than go," as Robbie said.  A whirlwind of bluster.

"I'm not afraid of Black John!"  she said under her breath a dozen times or
so.  And yet when a cat suddenly pounced down beside her from an upper story window, she jumped.  "Shadow!  Silly cat, ye scared me within an inch o' me life."  The gray tabby greeted her with enthusiasm, rubbing against her, entwining himself around her legs as she tried to walk.  "No, I 'aven't been to Billingsgate todaiy.  No fish."  Reaching down, she scratched the cat under the chin.  "But if there's any bacon left from sup' I"ll give ye a bit."  Bounding atop a waterbarrel, then to a window sill, Shadow meowed his approval. With a  leisurely  stretch, he jumped back to the ground to follow up the steps and through the doorway.

The large tenement room was dirty, ill-proporti
oned and in a shambles from disrepair.  Plaster had fallen from the walls, windows were broken and stuffed with rags, straw mattresses lined the walls with not even a partition between them.  Clearly, privacy was at a premium here.  The women slept on one side of the room, the men on the other, but it was not unusual to hear sounds in the night that told very plainly what was going on. Dawn had been accosted in such a manner until she had learned how to defend herself.  Now she was a scrapper, known to have the claws of a lion and to pack quite a punch.

In the corner of the smoke-filled room
stood a wood-burning stove with an iron frying pan atop it.  The smell of frying bacon scraps and cheese mingled with the aroma of onions.  A single candle on the wooden trestle table in the middle of the room lighted the gloom of the interior.  Cracked plates, cups and several burned out candle stubs littered the planked wooden table where several of the tenants had already gathered, anxious to get their share of food.

"Farley..."  Dawn nodded in the  old man's direction.  "'Ow was pickings todaiy?"  His lay was stealing luggage by cutting the ropes which bound traveling chest
s to carriages.  Beside him sat Murdock, who had apprenticed himself to be trained in the same skill.  Murdock's specialty was waiting in inn yards, offering his service to carry baggage, then stealing it.

Each of Black John's people had a 
specialty, a method to come up with his weekly allotment of goods.  Dawn's eyes scanned the group.  Newton was a rat catcher, sent aboard cargo ships to get rid of the destructive vermin.  Little did the ships' captains know that he carried the same live rats from vessel to vessel,  creating the opportunity to steal as he went.  She shuddered to see him playing with two of his caged creatures. Rats!  How she abhored them.  She'd befriended the gray tabby cat, allowing it to sleep on her bed of rags, just to keep any rats away.

Three of the women and two of the children were mudlarks, or scuffle hunters as some called them.  They would wade in w
ater, lurking in silt beneath moored ships to catch the packages thrown to them from those aboard who were in cahoots.  For Black John, that was the most profitable bit of trickery.

Taddie pr
etended to be blind, robbing unsuspecting victims.  Doris used her beauty to lure men, then stole the poor blokes blind.  Dawn's favorite of all, however, was a newcomer to their group, a poet by trade.  He supported himself by his verses. Rhymes were a haypenny, longer poems a shilling.  Sensitive and vulnerable, Arien had been friendless and in dire poverty when he'd met Black John.  Now he was the heart and soul of the little group.

"Ah, fairest flower.  Come, sit beside me," he said now, nudging Taddie aside.  I'm writing a sonnet to a lark.  A gentleman on
Bond Street gave me three shillings for inspiration."

"A lark?"  Smiling, Dawn took a seat next to him, wondering how he could possibly get any inspiration from these surroundings.  It was almost as if he could actually see things the others could not even imagine.  Flowers where there was only rags and refuse.  Stardust where there was only dirt and grime.  Diamonds where there
were only tears and raindrops.

Once again Dawn looked around her, trying to see the room through Arien's eyes.  The floor was strewn with all manner of debris.  Heaps of rags, old jackets, shawls and coats made up the beds.  The walls were dirt
y and cracked, the ceiling was lopsided due to a leak in the roof.  The stairs leading to the room were old and rickety.  In truth, it was merely a place to sleep and eat, hardly fit living quarters, certainly not a real home.  And yet to Arien it had become special.

"Listen..."  Uncrumpling the piece of parchment, Arien began.  "High above the blue canopy of the sky a white bird wings his way.  Glid
ing, soaring, flying like...."

"Enough!  I have other things to sa
iy to ‘er."  Black John's booming baritone shattered the spell as he came to stand behind the poet.  He pinched Dawn as he grasped her shoulder.  "Robbie tells me ye filched  a purse together, you and 'e.  Ye knows the rules.  Goods before food."  He held out his large, thick fingered hands, hands that were nonetheless agile for thievary.  "Give!"

"I...I don't 'ave the purse."  Dawn watched a  nervous tick set the scars on the swarthy man's face dancing.  It was a dangerous
omen and proved his agitation.

"Don't have it!"   The large jutting nose, like the beak of a hawk, cast an ominous shadow across the width of the table.  "Bloody damn! Ye'd best
'ave a reason."

"I lost it in flight but
…but it might 'ave been much worse.  Either Robbie or I might 'ave been nabbed."

"Ggruh...!"  Running a hand through his coal black hair, he grumbled. 
"Times is gettin' 'ard.  Pickin's meagre.  We'll all starve if it don't chainge."  He was a large boned, stocky man.  His protruding belly told clearly that
he
was in little danger of starvation.

"I'll give Dawn my share!"  Arien was quick in his offer of generosity though of
all of them he had the least.

"Argh...."  Folding his arms across his masive chest
, Black John tapped his foot, eyeing Dawn up and down with annoyance.  "Todaiy the little laidy 'ere didn't pull 'er proper weight.  'At cain't be allowed.  Leavin' the pickin's behind is neigh on to a sin.  Nor is she ter get special treatment. A mistaike is a mistaike...."

"It really wasn't 'er fault, John."  Bounding into the room Robbie came to stand between his sister and the pick pocket impresario.  "I  was too cheeky I'll admit.  Nearly got us both caught, I did.  Blame me i
f ye've got ter blame anyone."

"Yeh?"

"Yeh!"  Like two hounds about to fight they circled each other, but just as suddenly Black John broke into laughter.

"Ah, 'at's wot I likes about ya, Robbie.  A spunky lad ye are.  But we got us no need to quarrel.  My pride and joy is wot ye be.  Come, sit down.  Sit down.  It's the first time ye ain't brought some
thun back.  I can forgive ye."

"Oh, but I did."  With a mischievous grin, Robbie reached in his pocket, bringing forth a fat bulging pocket book.  "Got this down by the docks, I did, and it got me to thinkin'.  Ye talk 'bout slim pickin's but there's
a world o' wealth down 'ere."