Dance of Seduction Read Free Page B

with a tall, broad-shouldered stranger, who seemed to be restraining the boy from running off.
    Reminded of this morning’s incident with Samuel, she shouted, “Stop the coach!” As it shuddered to a halt, she opened the door and leaped out. Telling the coachman to go on and Samuel to wait at the top of the alley, she headed toward the imposing gentleman dressed in a ragged frock coat and battered beaver hat.
    The alley stank of fried herring and cabbage and the quiet fear that pervaded Spitalfields. It wasn’t fear, however, but alarm that spurred her toward the man gripping Johnny’s shoulder with firm intent. Because morning sunlight glinted off the gold watch dangling from Johnny’s hand, and that could mean only one thing.
    Another one of her pickpockets was headed for trouble this morning.

Chapter 2
…converse not with any but those that are good,
sober and virtuous. Evil Communications
corrupt Good Manners.
A Little pretty pocket-book: intended for
the instruction and amusement of little
Master Tommy and pretty Miss Polly, John Newbery
    V ainly trying to smother her distress, Clara vaulted the rest of the way down the alley. She was just in time to hear Johnny’s squeaky voice say, “Now see here—”
    “Johnny!” she said sharply.
    The boy’s head whipped around, and his ruddy cheeks paled to the color of milk. “Bloody hell,” he mumbled as she approached.
    She leveled on him her famous Stanbourne Stare, which generally sent her children scurrying to behave. “Give the gentleman back his watch this minute!”
    Johnny hesitated, then handed the watch over. As soon asthe stranger had it, he lifted cool black eyes to her. Fear banished her irritation at Johnny. The only men in Spitalfields with that direct a stare were watchmen. Or worse, officers of the law.
    Sick with worry, she stepped up to place a proprietary hand on the other shoulder of her hapless charge. “Please, sir, I’m sure Johnny didn’t mean to take your watch—”
    “What concern is it of yours whether he did or not, madame? Are you the lad’s mother?” The man’s hand still gripped Johnny’s shoulder and seemed to tighten as they both stood there holding on to the boy.
    Her panic increased. The stranger’s faintly accented English wasn’t a foreigner’s exactly, but it wasn’t an Englishman’s either. Which didn’t rule out his being an officer.
    She forced a conciliatory smile to her lips. “I’m a guardian of sorts to him.”
    “Me mum is dead,” Johnny interjected helpfully. “This here’s Lady Clara.”
    “ Lady Clara?” Instead of tipping his hat or begging her pardon, he muttered a French curse under his breath. Then he surveyed her hair, her gown, and even her boots with a brusque, impersonal scrutiny. “What’s a lady of rank doing in Spitalfields?”
    “I run the Stanbourne Home for the Reformation of Pickpockets. It’s the brick building on the next corner. Johnny is one of my residents.”
    A thin, ironic smile touched the man’s hard mouth. “I see that his reformation is progressing nicely.”
    She colored. “Lapses happen occasionally, sir, but they’re unusual. I’m only sorry you had to witness this one. Now if you’d be so good as to release Johnny, perhaps we could better discuss the…er…situation.”
    Johnny remained silent, his gaze bouncing anxiously between her and the stranger.

    The man stared at her long enough for her to glimpse a native intelligence in his fathomless eyes and wary expression. Then he shrugged and dropped his hand from Johnny’s shoulder. Casting the watch a cursory glance, he shoved it into his coat pocket.
    She breathed easier. “Thank you, Mr…. Mr….”
    “Pryce.” Then he added, almost as an afterthought, “Captain Morgan Pryce.”
    Oh, dear, a captain. But what kind? When he offered no more information, she examined him more carefully. He dressed shabbily—patched fustian coat and waistcoat, decidedly ragged stock, scuffed boots—and his black