PLAYED BY THE EARL Page 3

  He pushed her into the wall of a building, and her chin struck the bricks. Ignoring the sting, she spun around, pressing her back against the wall and holding her hands up in front of her.

  The man who’d caught her stealing his pocket watch, Alfie, loomed over her. Without his drunken friends around him, he looked even less friendly than he had earlier. And that hadn’t been friendly at all.

  “What do you want, mister?”

  Casually, as though she were nothing more than a fly he was swatting, Alfie raised his arm and struck her with the back of his hand.

  She stumbled, landing on a pile of empty crates, and pressed her palm to her burning cheek.

  “It’s Lord Devlin to you.” He straightened the cuff of his jacket. “And what I want is to make it clear that no one, least of all trash like you, steals from me.” Grabbing the front of her shirt, he hauled her to her feet.

  She didn’t see it coming. Just off her triumph over the earl and a tasty breakfast, her internal warning system was too slow. A sharp pain arced into her abdomen, and she gasped.

  “Filthy scum.” Alfie lowered his face to whisper in her ear. “You’re not even worth the time it would take to fetch a magistrate.” He pulled his arm back and stabbed her again.

  A roar filled Netta’s ears. The pounding of her blood, a commotion from the street, it didn’t matter. When Alfie pushed her away and the back of her head hit the brick wall, the roar faded away.

  She slid down the side of the building, holding her hand to her abdomen. She tilted sideways, her vision closing in on itself. The last things she saw were the heels of Alfie’s pumps as they skittered from view.

  Chapter Three

  “Why?” John craned his neck, trying to keep the thief in sight. He glared at Wilberforce. “Why is it you feel the need to save every stray, sad-luck case you encounter?”

  He would have thought that after thirty years of seeing the realities of human nature, Wil would have shed himself of his savior complex. But no, the runaway sneak had piqued his servant’s protective instincts and when the boy had slipped away, Wilberforce had followed.

  Leaving John no choice but to do the same. It was either trail after Wil or have a discussion he didn’t want with his brother. The decision had been easy. And when he’d finally noticed the emptiness of his pocket, his step had quickened until he’d caught up to Wil.

  Damned sneaky child. After he retrieved his blunt and gave the boy a good scare, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with him. Such inventiveness, distracting John by tripping the waiter, should be rewarded. If it hadn’t been his money that had been lifted, John would have been tempted to congratulate the imp.

  They waited for a carriage to pass then crossed the street after Pickle. John hesitated. The boy had disappeared. He pointed to the mouth of an alley. “There. He must have gone that way.”

  Wilberforce nodded and they strode to the mouth of the alley side-by-side.

  “Not everyone can be saved,” John reminded him. “The boy is most likely….”

  Getting the piss beat out of him.

  The arsehole from earlier, Devlin, held Pickle by his collar. Silver flashed, and before John could shout a warning, Devlin had plunged the blade into Pickle’s round belly.

  Heat flared through John’s body. With a roar, he leapt forwards.

  Devlin tossed the boy against the wall and took off running.

  Indecision stalled John a moment. He longed to tear after Devlin, mete out his own form of justice. No one should hurt a child. But he merely glared at the man’s retreating back and dropped next to the boy. He’d handle Devlin later.

  “Pickle?” He tapped the boy’s smooth cheek, but the lad didn’t respond. “Ned?”

  “How bad is he hurt?” Wilberforce squatted next to him, an angry red flush darkening his face.

  “I don’t know.” John moved his hands to the boy’s torso and frowned. “What the hell?” He pressed again, and instead of pudgy flesh, a soft bed of feathers met his fingers. He ripped open the shirt and gaped down at the pillow tied around a girl’s abdomen.

  No, judging by the ripeness of the breasts the padding had hidden, the woman’s abdomen. Not only was Ned not a boy, she wasn’t a child, either.

  Two cuts sliced through the pillow, and red streaks stained the fabric. John slid his own knife from his boot and cut the strings holding the pillow in place. He raised the woman’s chemise above her trousers, exposing her wounds.

  “The cuts don’t appear life-threatening.” John cursed. “The damned pillow saved her life, preventing the knife from going deep.”

  The woman mumbled, her eyelids flickering before settling back down.

  John skimmed his fingertips over her hair. He pulled off the wig before examining her scalp. “She’s got quite the lump.”

  Wilberforce picked up the wig and pillow. “She’ll need a quiet place to rest after the sawbones sees her.”

  John rolled his gaze in Wil’s direction. “You are all that is subtle.” He gathered the woman in his arms, her padding-free frame still feeling soft and plush against his body. “Go hail a hackney.” He stood, a slight twinge in his knee telling him he’d done so too quickly. Bloody birthdays. “We have a new stray for you to protect.”

  ***

  Netta swam through the swirling fog. The back of her head throbbed, and memories of the alley twisted through her brain.

  She blinked awake. A satyr danced above her, his frolics on the ceiling joined in by three women in Greek gowns that barely covered their abundant curves.

  What the…?

  She turned her head and shrieked. A face was planted on the bed not two inches from her own.

  The girl jerked back. “You’re awake. Good. I thought perhaps you’d never wake, and that I wouldn’t ever get a chance to serve as a lady’s maid. If you’d died, my plans for advancement would have been severely thwarted.”

  Netta scooted away until her back was against the headboard, ignoring the dizziness that threatened. She searched the strange bedchambers she was in, the salacious fresco on the ceiling, but no explanation appeared. “What? Who are you? Where am I? What is going on?”

  The girl, or young woman as Netta now saw, stood and dropped a quick curtsy. “I’m Mags and we’re in the Earl of Summerset’s home. The one in London, not his country estate. Either of them. Nor his castle in the south of France. Cor, how I’d love to see that.” Mags clasped her hands to her bosom and sighed. “As to what’s going on, I have no earthly idea. No one tells me anything. Just to watch you and make sure you’re all right and serve as your abigail if you woke.”

  “If?” Netta raised an arm to feel her aching head, and pain sliced through her side as the skin stretched.

  “When.” Mags skipped to a pitcher on a side table and poured a glass of water. “I’m sure I said when.”

  “I’m sure you said no such thing.” Summerset glided through the open door. “What have I told you about lying, Mags?”

  “To only do it when it will improve my situation and there’s no chance of being caught.” Mags handed Netta the glass. “I don’t think she would have caught me out.” The girl turned wide brown eyes on Netta. “Would you?”

  Netta looked at the maid, looked at the earl, and took a large swallow of water. Truly, her head must have suffered quite a blow.

  A fat orange-haired cat trotted into the room and twined around Summerset’s ankles. The earl toed it aside and stepped to the bed. “You’d best be wary of this one, Mags.” Summerset ran his eyes up and down her body.

  Netta followed his gaze. An unfamiliar night rail, one made with a great deal of semi-transparent lace and without much substance, sloped off one of her shoulders. She hiked it back into place and pulled the coverlet up to cover her bosom.

  “Our guest makes her living at deception,” the earl continued. “She is quite an expert at it.”

  Netta frowned. The judgment in his voice was rich. Her
foray into petty theft was recent. Besides, nothing she had done could compare with the deceit baked into the Beau Monde. Her first teachers had been from men of his station.

  “I’m an….” She trailed off. It wouldn’t do to tell the man her profession. What he deemed deception, she knew to be protection. The less he knew about her, the easier it would be to escape him, should escape become necessary.

  She wrapped herself back into her character. The sex might have changed, but the identity of street urchin remained. “So, I’m a girl.” She sniffed. “Wot’s it to you?”

  The coverlet slid to the side, and she grabbed for it. When she righted it, an orange head popped over the edge of the bed and the cat crawled next to her, butting her with its head. She set her glass on the side table and let the animal sniff her hand.

  Summerset leaned his shoulder against the bottom post of the bed and crossed one ankle over the other. His pantaloons, lime-green today, stretched snugly over leanly-muscled thighs. And other things.

  She glanced away, heat rising to her face, and stroked the cat’s back.

  “Your deceit is nothing to me,” he said. “Nothing but a curiosity. Why pretend to be a boy?”

  “It’s safer.” And that was the truth. Walking around London at night as a woman was fraught with trouble. She loved the nights she and Cerise would don trousers and wigs and stroll the city streets after dusk. The freedom a costume gave her was immeasurable. A man such as the earl could never understand.

  “Mags, I believe I hear my brother at the door, and you know how he likes to tromp mud in.” Summerset crossed his arms. “Will you go tell him to wipe his feet before dirtying the carpet in my drawing room?”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “And take this, will you?” Summerset picked up the cat and handed it to the maid, but not before giving it a small scratch to the chin.

  Mags took the animal and skipped from the room.

  Netta stared at Summerset.

  He stared back at her.

  The silence grew thick, uncomfortable.

  She tucked the coverlet firmly about her waist. “You stopped that git from beating me? I s’pose I owe you one.”

  “Ah, you recognize debts, do you? I wasn’t sure someone in your situation would.”

  “Wot’s that s’pposed to mean?” Netta rolled to her knees and planted her hands on her hips. Nausea slid through her stomach and her head spun, but she ignored it. “You lot think jus’ because I’m poor I don’t know right from wrong?”

  “You did steal from me. Twice.” He patted his jacket pocket. “Luckily for you my banknotes are back in their rightful place.”

  “Only because that other man stopped me.” She shuffled forwards on her knees and stabbed the air with her index finger. “I got you good.”

  Summerset’s lips twitched. “But you were caught nonetheless. And by someone not as kindly as I am.” His expression hardened. “Perhaps if you were a better student of right from wrong, you wouldn’t have been stabbed.”

  “Stabbed?” She slid her hand to her abdomen. Her fingers brushed the bandage under her night rail, and she winced. “I’d forgotten.” She sank back on her heels. What an odd thing to forget. “It felt like he ‘it me.”

  The earl pushed off the bedpost. “You were fortunate with your padding. The blade barely entered you. Now, as I can no longer call you Mr. Pickle, thank all that is holy, tell me your true name.”

  “Netta.” She didn’t see the harm in him knowing that much. But she flashed him a wide smile when she said, “Miss Netta Pickle.”

  He winced. “It had to still be Pickle.”

  “Nothing wrong with me name.” Cerise said she was always getting herself into one pickle or another. She thought it suited.

  “Well, Miss Pickle, how do you fare? The doctor believes you will make a full recovery.”

  Considering she’d been stabbed and knocked about, she was feeling remarkably well. “Right as rain. If you’ll jus’ point me to my clothes, I’ll be on me way.” She hopped to the ground, and black dots swam before her eyes. She swayed on her feet, the earl’s hands on her elbows the only thing keeping her upright.

  Remarkably well might have been a stretch. “Just a bit light-headed.” She blinked, but there were still two devilishly good-looking earls frowning down at her.

  “I brought you to my home to heal.” He guided her back into the bed and pulled the coverlet over her form. “I won’t have you insulting my hospitality by leaving too early.”

  “If you put it that way,” she murmured. She sensed no threat from him. No reason why she had to leave the soft sheets and fine attentions of a grand house. Not yet in any case. “If it makes you ‘appy, me lord, I s’pose the least I could do is stay a bit longer.”

  “Your condescension knows no bounds.” He brushed a strand of her hair off her cheek.

  The caress was gentle, one a parent might give to a beloved child, and unbidden tears burned her eyes.

  She turned her head so he wouldn’t see them.

  He was a stranger, one showing a bit of kindness. That shouldn’t be something that made her want to weep.

  She rolled onto her shoulder, giving Summerset her back. It had been a trying day. A couple hours sleep and she’d be back in her usual spirits.

  The door eased closed behind her, and Netta let herself relax into blessed sleep.

  Chapter Four

  John stopped at the bottom of the stairs, looking back in the direction of Netta’s room. “Did you find him?” he asked the man lurking in the shadows.

  “Yes.” Wilberforce separated from the wall and shuffled towards him.

  “Has the message been sent?”

  Wil nodded. “Lord Devlin won’t be hurting children any time soon.” His gaze flicked up the stairs. “Or at least what he believes to be children. He’ll be limping as badly as me for the next few months until he recovers.”

  “Who did you take with you?” Over his years as a spy, John had developed a network of men who were willing to dirty their hands for the right amount of blunt. Or if the fancy took them. And delivering a punishment to a man who would stab a woman or child would strike many of their fancies.

  John tapped the balustrade. He wished he could have joined them. Hearing Devlin squeal like the pig he was would have been gratifying.

  “I took no one. I handled him on my own.”

  “Wil.” John pressed his lips together. He’d known the man since they were both children. Such foolishness shouldn’t have surprised him.

  Wil neatly changed the subject, nodding to the drawing room. “Your brother seems in high dudgeon. Or more so than usual. Go talk with him.”

  “And now you give me orders in my own house.” John arched an eyebrow. “We truly need to discuss the finer points of the terms ‘master’ and ‘servant’.”

  Wil snorted. “Go on. And don’t be too hard on him. Brothers shouldn’t fight so.”

  John flipped his hand at Wil in a dismissive gesture and turned for his drawing room. He wasn’t the brother that needed the lecture.

  Robert sat in the seat below the window, his elbows propped on his knees, his face buried in his hands. He lifted his head when John shut the door.

  “I’ve bungled it up.” His brother’s eyes were rimmed red. His scars seemed to stand more to attention against the pallor of his skin.

  “Of course you have.” John circled behind his desk and dropped in his chair. His brother could never pay him a call to say he’d invented a new method to improve their harvest, or found employment, or even found a woman. No, the only time John saw him was when Robert needed his help. “What have you done this time?”

  Robert laced his fingers together, his knuckles going white. “I lost the deed to Crowhaven.”

  John’s heart stopped. “Repeat that.”

  “Crowhaven. It’s gone.” Robert shot to his feet and paced the room. “I should have won. The dice were go
ing my way all night.”

  John pressed his palms flat to his desk, the wood cool beneath his heated skin. Slowly, he pushed himself to standing. “Do you mean to tell me that you gambled your estate away in a game of hazard?” His chest heaved with his rapid breaths. His mouth went bone dry. “Your home that was left to you from our father’s mother? The property that contains England’s only known supply of chromite? That’s what you lost?”

  Robert clenched his hands in front of his chest. “I had him, John. He threw a main of nine. The odds were in my favor. He bid twenty thousand pounds, and all I had was—”

  “Everything.” John’s legs crumpled and his arse hit the chair hard. “Crowhaven was everything to the Summerset estate. The source of all our wealth.” Dark circles danced in his vision, and he blinked. “We’re ruined.”

  “I’ll win it back.” Robert started pacing again. “No man can be that lucky every night. I’ll challenge him to another game.”

  “You’ll do no such thing.” John turned his chair to stare out the window. He could fix this. He had vowed the House of Summerset would never be impoverished again, and he would stand by that oath.

  A watery reflection stared back at him in the glass. Instead of a man, a small boy. Instead of a silk jacket, a torn and dirty rag clothed the image.

  His hand trembled, and he balled it into a fist. “Who holds the deed?”

  “Sudworth. Harlow Sudworth.”

  John tried to picture the man. They had only met once or twice, but his story was known well in London. Born to a family of little means, Sudworth had sailed for India as a young man. He’d returned wealthy. Wealthy enough that he was allowed entrée into the higher echelons of a society that respected birth above all else.

  And now he held everything that John had worked for his entire life.

  “I can beat him.” Robert gripped the back of a chair and leaned forwards. “I just need one more game.”

  John steepled his fingers and blew out a breath. “You’re a fool, just like father.” He ignored the way his brother blanched. He couldn’t understand it. They had seen the horrors of unchecked gambling, watched as their father bankrupted their estate. How could his brother have fallen into the same trap?