The Wedding Escape (24 page)

A shriek of outrage burst from the alley, followed by a foul streak of child-pitched cursing. Praying that this captor was better able to protect himself than the last, Amelia began to run once again. Her breathing was labored and her ribs flexed painfully against the constriction of her corset as she hurried down the narrow laneway and turned a corner.

“Let go, ye stinkin' old bastard!” swore the boy, struggling wildly.

He twisted and turned in a desperate attempt to land a blow, but Oliver was having none of it. With one gnarled hand holding fast to a tangled hank of hair and the other wrenching the boy's arm behind his back, the old man appeared to have the outraged thief firmly under control.

“Ye may as well stop yer thrashin' about, because I'm nae lettin' ye go until ye've returned the lady's reticule and said ye're sorry,” Oliver sternly informed the youth. “I'm nae goin' to turn ye over to the police—do ye hear?”

“Soddin' liar!”

“I truly just want my bag back,” Amelia assured the boy. “It's no good to you anyway—there's no money or jewels or anything of that kind in it.”

The lad stopped struggling suddenly and flashed Amelia a look of pure disgust. “There ain't?”

“I'm afraid not.”

He looked thoroughly annoyed, as if Amelia had totally wasted his time. “Fine, then,” he relented, glaring at Oliver. “Let me go, ye old bag o' bones, so I can pull it from my coat.”

“I'll get it,” said Oliver, who knew better than to trust the little wretch. He released his hold on the boy's hair while keeping his skinny arm held securely behind his back. “An' if ye try to kick me, I swear I'll blister yer backside so ye'll nae be able to sit for a week.” With that improbable threat hanging between them, Oliver reached into the boy's coat and retrieved the reticule from where he had stuffed it.

“There.” He passed the silk-and-velvet bag to Amelia. “Now apologize to the lass.”

The boy snorted with contempt. “Why? She's probably got a hundred of them bags at home. She wasn't goin' to miss one o' them.”

“Apologize, ye wee ruffian, afore I change my mind and hand ye to the bobbies.”

The lad glowered, but it was clear that Oliver's threat had at least some affect. He shifted his glare to Amelia. “Sorry,” he bit out succinctly, the word dripping scorn.

“There now, was that so hard? Ye young thieves today have nae honor or tact,” Oliver complained, still holding the lad by his wrist. “Now, when I was a lad—”

“If we're finished, I'm goin',” the lad interrupted rudely.

“Where are you going?” asked Amelia as Oliver reluctantly released him.

The boy stared at her with naked hostility. “Why? So ye can send the bobbies to nab me once ye're off in yer fancy carriage?”

The loathing oozing from him was so intense it took Amelia by surprise. His eyes were a dark, clear green, and the only part of him that wasn't utterly coated in filth. Was this how Jack and his brothers and sisters had been when Genevieve rescued them from prison? she wondered. Had they been so hungry and desperate and hardened by their horrible existence that they immediately hated everyone who had more than they did?

“I was just wondering if you would like to come home and have dinner with me.”

Both the lad and Oliver looked at her in astonishment.

The lad recovered first, snorting with derision. “Ye must think I've piss for brains, to think a lady like you would have me in her home. Or were ye plannin' to feed me some old, greasy scraps in the yard, like a dog?” He spat on the ground, making it clear what he thought of that idea.

“I'm inviting you to eat a nice hot dinner at the table with me and the rest of the family,” Amelia told him.

“Course ye are,” drawled the boy sarcastically. “Ye're thinkin' what a fine thing it is to have me sharin' a plate with yer brats. Sort of a lesson in life, like. Sod it. I dinna need them lookin' down their noses at me.”

“Actually, I don't have any children,” Amelia told him, but it suddenly occurred to her that Annabelle did. How would her hosts feel if Amelia showed up with this extremely belligerent young thief and asked that he be welcomed in their beautiful home? Would Annabelle think this was a noble and generous thing to do? Or would she worry that the boy might curse and swear in front of her children, frightening and confusing them?

“There's nae lads or lasses at Jack's,” Oliver pointed out, attuned to her concern. “We could take him there.”

Amelia bit her lip, uncertain. “I wouldn't want to disturb Jack.” In truth, she didn't want to even see him, but she could hardly tell Oliver that.

“Ye wouldn't,” Oliver assured her. “He's taken to workin' late each night. I'm nae supposed to fetch him this evening 'til after midnight, and I'm certain between you, Eunice and Doreen, ye could have this lad well fed and even cleaned up a wee bit by then.”

“Here now, what are ye blatherin' about?” demanded the boy. “I'm nae cleanin' up nothin'. Ye can take me as I am,” he declared forcefully, “or bugger off. I've other places to go where they don't give a piss what I look like.”

“That's because the people there look and smell even worse than ye,” Oliver said impatiently. “If ye want to enjoy what I'm sure will be the best meal ye've ever had in yer life, ye'll shut yer filthy mouth and let us scour some o' that dirt off ye.”

The boy folded his arms defiantly across his lean chest. “Piss off.”

“You needn't decide so hastily,” said Amelia. “Why don't we go home and see what Eunice and Doreen have made for dinner, and then you can decide whether or not it is worth it? Eunice does make a wonderful roast lamb with garlic and herbs,” she continued, “and a delicious date pudding with a warm sticky toffee sauce. She also bakes the best bannocks you've ever tasted—all soft and tender, which she serves with lots of fresh butter and cheese. I'm quite certain you would enjoy it.”

The boy's eyes widened as she described this veritable feast. “Nae tricks?” he demanded, suspicious. “I can just eat and leave?”

“No tricks,” Amelia assured him, her expression solemn. “All I ask is that you permit us to clean you up a bit before you come to the table. I don't think Eunice or Doreen will permit you to touch anything without at least washing your hands and face.”

“Fine, then,” he sniffed, making it sound as if this was an extraordinary sacrifice on his part. He stalked toward the carriage, jerked the door open and climbed inside.

“Do you think Eunice and Doreen will mind?” Amelia asked Oliver, suddenly worried that she might be imposing upon them by appearing with this foul-smelling urchin.

Oliver chuckled. “They'll be so pleased to see ye, they'll nae care who ye've brought with ye,” he predicted. “An' they're well accustomed to dealin' with crabbit lads like this.”

“I hope you're right.” Amelia accepted Oliver's hand as he assisted her up the step of the carriage.

“What's your name?” she asked brightly of her hostile young dinner guest.

“Alex.”

“That's a very handsome name,” Amelia commented, trying to put him at ease. “Is it short for Alexander?”

The boy regarded her contemptuously. “Where are ye from, that ye talk so strange?” he demanded, ignoring her question.

“I'm from America,” Amelia explained, not bothered by his rudeness. “From a lovely city called New York.”

“An' is that where ye got yer spectacles from?” he asked sarcastically. “New York?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I'm thinkin' ye was cheated when ye bought them,” he ground out acidly, “since any bloody fool can see I'm a lass.”

With that Amelia's guest folded her arms across her flat chest and glared sullenly out the window, filling the carriage with awkward silence.

 

Y
E NEEDN'T BE DROPPIN' FOOD FROM THE TABLE INTO
yer lap,” Eunice said, carving another slice of lamb for Alex.

“I'm not,” she protested innocently.

“Give it over.” Doreen held an empty plate in front of her.

“There's nae to give,” Alex insisted, scowling.

“Ye'll nae win against these two,” Oliver speculated, mopping up the last of his gravy with a thick chunk of dark bread. “Ye'd best give up now and save yerself a bit o' peace.”

“There's nocht in my lap.”

Eunice shook her head in wonder, marveling that so many years after Genevieve started bringing home wayward orphans, children could have changed so little.

“I'm fixin' to pack ye a grand basket filled with all yer favorite treats that ye can take with ye when ye go,” she told Alex. “So there's nae need to be stealin' food from the table and makin' a mess o' Doreen's lovely linen cloth.”

“If the grease sets, I'll be settin' ye to work scrubbin' it out after supper,” Doreen warned sternly. “And there'll be nae puddin' with toffee sauce till it's all out, nice and clean.”

Amelia watched as Alex glowered at the three elders, looking for all the world as if she were being most unfairly victimized. Just when Amelia was about to come to her rescue and suggest that perhaps Eunice was mistaken, Alex snorted with irritation and shoved her chair back, revealing the sloppy mess of food she was hoarding in her linen napkin.

“Thank ye.” Doreen matter-of-factly plopped the greasy bundle onto the bare plate, then took it to the sink.

“Here now, have a wee bit more lamb,” cooed Eunice, laying a thick slab onto Alex's plate. “And more tatties and peas as well.” She spooned a generous pile of each beside the meat.

“Mind ye dinna eat too fast, or yer belly will heave it up,” warned Oliver.

“I'm not,” Alex protested, cramming the food into her mouth.

Amelia watched the girl eat as if she was afraid someone might suddenly steal her food away from her, pausing only for an occasional gulp of water and a quick wipe of her mouth against her grimy sleeve. It was obvious Alex was unaccustomed to having so much food offered to her at once, and she was determined to ingest as much as she possibly could before she found herself on the streets once again.

“Where do you live, Alex?” Amelia was concerned about what was to become of her.

“Wherever I please.” The words were muffled beneath her chewing and swallowing.

“Then I take it you don't have any parents or relatives looking after you?”

“I can take care of myself,” Alex assured her fiercely.

“Yes, you made that quite clear today. But what I'm wondering is, do you have some place where you normally go to spend the night?”

“I have my places.” She eyed Amelia warily, unwilling to give her any further details.

“How old are you?”

Alex snorted with contempt. “How old are you?”

“I'm nineteen,” Amelia told her, ignoring her impertinence.

Alex regarded her doubtfully. “Are ye sure? Ye look forty.”

“ 'Tis those spectacles of yers, lass,” Oliver explained, amused. “They add a few years to yer face.” He regarded her meaningfully, reminding her that she was in disguise.

“Ye should toss 'em,” Alex advised, scooping up another creamy spoonful of mashed potatoes. “They make ye look all crabbit and old. And ye should think on changin' yer hair as well,” she continued, evaluating Amelia with a critical eye. “There's nae ye can do about that ugly color, o' course, but ye could arrange it so ye dinna look like such an old hen.”

“Thank you for your advice,” Amelia managed. “How is it that you are such an authority on revising one's appearance?”

“I like to watch people.”

“Aye, I'm sure ye do.” Doreen's narrow mouth twisted with disapproval. “Ye watch folk by the hour when ye're decidin' who's worth fleecin' and who isn't.”

“That's part o' the work.” Alex's tone was heavily superior, as if she thought Doreen was too ignorant to understand such matters.

“But ye didna do such a good job when ye snatched Mrs. Chamberlain's reticule here, did ye?” observed Oliver. “Thought it would be full o' brass, and all she had was some papers worth nothin' to ye.”

Alex shrugged her shoulders. “I thought it was bonny.”

Amelia stared at the girl in surprise. In her filthy, tattered trousers, shirt, and jacket, Alex could not possibly have any use for Amelia's dove gray silk-and-velvet bag, with its ivory tassel and soft wrist cord. The idea of this little urchin girl actually carrying it and using it was ludicrous.

“If you like it, I'll give it to you, Alex,” she said. “It's yours.”

Alex adopted an air of scornful indifference, barely raising her head from her plate.

“Fine. I know a place where I can sell it.”

“Ye'll nae be sellin' any gifts that Mrs. Chamberlain might be givin' ye,” objected Eunice firmly. “If it's brass ye're needin', we can find ye a bit and pack it with yer food and yer clothes.”

“Once I give the bag to Alex, it is hers to do with as she likes.” Amelia was fascinated by the girl's attempt to make it seem like she honestly didn't care about the reticule. “Only she can decide whether she wants to keep it or not.”

Alex's expression was shuttered as she continued to stuff food into her mouth. When she finally could not manage another bite, she shoved her plate away, gave her mouth a final smear upon her sleeve, and belched loudly.

“Here now, we'll have none of that at the table,” scolded Doreen, wagging a blue-veined finger. “And if ye come to our table again I expect ye to use yer napkin on yer mouth, instead of fillin' it full o' food when ye think no one is looking.”

“Where's the pudding?” demanded Alex.

“It's coming.” Eunice smiled, always pleased to feed someone with a good appetite. “A fine date pudding with sticky toffee sauce—one of Jack's favorites.”