Lord of Darkness (Maiden Lane #5)(53)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

Godric stretched his arms overhead and jumped, grasping one of the supporting rails of the balcony. He curled his legs up, his left shoulder aching as he felt the stitches pop from the wound. His legs were suddenly near the horse’s head and the animal was startled at his movement. The dragoon pulled hard on the reins, trying to control the beast, and the horse reared.

Godric swung and dropped in back of the horse, rolling away as he hit the hard cobblestones and rising with his long sword out and up.

But the first dragoon had wheeled his horse around by now, trapping Godric between the two mounted men. The only thing he could be glad of was that the dragoons seemed to be by themselves, a mounted patrol of two.

“Surrender!” the second dragoon shouted, his hand reaching for the pistol holstered in his saddle.

Damn it! Godric leaped for the man, catching his arm before he could lay hand on the pistol, and yanked hard. The dragoon half fell over the side of the saddle. His horse shied violently at the shift in weight, and the man tumbled to the ground.

Godric turned to the first dragoon in time to parry a sword thrust aimed at his head. He was at a disadvantage on the ground, but he was in no mood to retreat. He swung at the mounted man, missed, and only just in time saw the flicker of the other man’s eyes.

Or perhaps it wasn’t quite in time.

The blow from behind knocked him to his knees. His head spun dizzily, but his mood was foul. Godric twisted and embraced his attacker’s legs, toppling the dragoon. He swarmed up the other man’s supine form, straddling him, and—

God fucking damn!

The dragoon really shouldn’t have kneed him in the bollocks.

Godric sucked in a pained breath, reared over the soldier, and slammed his fist into the man’s face. Over and over again. The smack of bare flesh on flesh savagely satisfying in the dark alley. Behind him, the other dragoon was shouting something and the horse’s hooves were clattering dangerously close to where they were sprawled, but Godric just didn’t give a damn.

Only the sound of more horses nearing made Godric stop. He stared at the man beneath him. The dragoon’s eyes were swollen and his lips split and bleeding, but he was alive and still struggling.

Thank God.

He was up and running in less than a second, the horses close behind him. A barrel at the corner of a house gave him a leg up and then he was climbing the side of the house, toes and fingertips straining for holds before he reached the rooftop.

A shout came from below, but he didn’t take the time to look back, simply fleeing over the roof, loose tiles sliding and crashing to the street below. He ran, the blood pumping in his chest, and didn’t stop until he was nearly a half-mile away.

Only then, as he leaned panting against a chimney, did he realize he was still being followed.

Godric drew his short sword, watching as the slim shape cautiously made the ridge of the roof and nimbly began climbing down. He waited until the lad came abreast of him. Godric grabbed him by the collar, arching his head back, laying the short sword on the bared neck.

“Why are you following me?”

Quick, intelligent eyes flashed to his, but the boy made no move to free himself. “Digger Jack said as ’ow you’d be wantin’ information ’bout the lassie snatchers.”

“And?”

The wide mouth curved without mirth. “I’m one o’ ’em.”

TWENTY MINUTES LATER Godric watched as the boy stuffed his face with tea and lavishly buttered bread. He’d revised his estimation of the former lassie snatcher’s age downward. When he’d first seen the boy, Godric had thought him a young man, but that was because he had the height of a grown man. Now, sitting in the kitchens of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children, he saw the boy’s soft cheeks, the slim neck, and gentle lines of his jaw. He couldn’t be older than fifteen at the most.

His brown hair was clubbed back with a ragged bit of string, strands falling out and around his oval face. He wore a greasy waistcoat and a coat several sizes too big for him and a floppy hat pulled low over his brow, which he hadn’t bothered removing even when inside. His wrists were thin and rather delicate and the nails on both hands were rimmed with grime.

The boy caught him staring and jerked his chin up defiantly, the corners of his mouth wet with milky tea. “Wha’?”

Winter Makepeace, sitting beside Godric, stirred. “What is your name?”

The boy shrugged and, apparently sensing no immediate threat, turned his attention to the plate of bread before him. “Alf.”

He spooned out a huge blob of strawberry jam from an earthen jar, plopping it on a slice of already buttered bread, and folded the bread around the gooey middle. Then he shoved half of the bread into his mouth.

Godric exchanged glances with Winter. It had taken quite a bit of persuasion—as well as a threat or two—before he’d been able to get Alf into the home. Godric daren’t remain outside in St. Giles while the dragoons were abroad, and he certainly wasn’t about to take a strange lad back to his own house.

Especially when the lad was an admitted lassie snatcher.

“How long have you been employed by the lassie snatchers?” Winter asked in his deep, calm voice.

Alf gulped and washed down his bread with a long drag of tea. “’Bout a month, but I don’ work for them arse’oles no more.”

Winter refilled his teacup without comment, but Godric was less forbearing. “You led me to believe you were a lassie snatcher now.”

Alf stopped chewing and looked up, his eyes narrowed. “An’ I’m the best yer gonna get. Ain’t none o’ them ’oo’s lassie snatchers now gonna talk to yer. Best settle for me.”

Winter caught Godric’s eye and shook his head slightly.

Godric sighed. He was finding it difficult to quiz this youth while keeping his own voice to a whisper so it might not be recognized in the future. Besides, Winter had far more experience with boys.

Even difficult ones.

“How did you become a lassie snatcher?” Winter asked now. He reached for the loaf of bread and sawed off two more slices.

Godric raised his eyebrows. Alf had already eaten half the loaf.

“Word gets ’round,” Alf said as he started smearing large lumps of butter on his bread. “They like to work in teams, like, a bloke an’ a lad. Knew one o’ their snatcher lads ’oo got run over by a dray cart. Busted ’is ’ead an’ were dead in a day. So there were an openin’ like. Pay was good.” He paused to take a slurping gulp of tea before covering the bread with jam. “Job was fine.”