Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] Read Free Page A

you like to ride back with me, and I'll fix you up right and tight?"
    The boy took a step back. "On the 'orse, guv?"
    "Of course on the 'orse," said the marquess, leaping onto the back of the big bay. "Well?"
    The boy hesitated, and the marquess impatiently said, "Make up your mind."
    The boy held up his arms, and the marquess hoisted his scrawny weight behind him. "Hold tight!" he called and kicked the horse into a gallop again.
    The streets were a little quieter as the theater crowd and the hawkers who catered to them had gone home. There were enough people abroad, however, to keep the ride lively and to call up comments from the marquess's nervous passenger. "Gawd's struth."
    "Watch it, Guv!" and—when the driver of a gig was so startled he steered his horse onto the pavement—"Wha' a slowtop."
    The steaming, frothing horse was reined up at a grand mansion in a square in Mayfair far from the urchin's usual beat. The nob slipped off the horse and called back, "Watch the nag a minute!" as he raced up the wide steps. As a bell in a nearby church began to chime the hour, huge double doors at the top were flung open to greet him, spilling glittering light down the wet stone steps.
    A delicate vision in white—white from her loose silver hair to a flowing lace gown to white slippers—flung out her arms and cried, "You did it! You did it! I knew you could." The marquess gathered her up and swung her around as she squealed at how wet he was.
    As his debtor went into the house, the street Arab heard him laugh and say, "To the devil with your gown. I prefer you without one anyway. Where's Dare?" The big doors closed on the light.
    The boy, who went by the name of Sparrow, or Sparra more like, shivered in the chilly damp. "Scummered for sure," he muttered. "Left perched on the back of a soddin' horse. Thank Gawd the beast's too shagged to move." It was a long way down to the ground.
    After a while, though, when the horse showed signs of coming back to life, the boy chose the lesser of the evils. Grasping the pommel, he slid down, falling flat in a puddle when he landed. The horse looked around in mild affront.
    "'S'alright fer yous," Sparra muttered as he rubbed at the slimy mud on his already wet and dirty rags. "Sooner nor later summen'll rub yer darn, give yer a feed. They cares for their 'orses, does this lot. I should've grabbed the bloody goldfinch."
    He looked the horse over to see if there was anything worth nicking.
    Just at that moment thick fingers yanked at his grubby collar, and he was hauled around to face a burly giant of a man. "What are you doing with my horse, you devil's spawn?"
    "I—I—" Sparra was half-throttled and scared out of his wits. He kicked and wriggled, but the man's hand was like a vice.
    "I'll teach you to take a gentleman's mount, you wretched cur," snarled the man, and swung his riding crop down on Sparra's body.
    "Ow! Please, guv... Aah!" The crop whistled and cut again and again.
    A cool voice broke in. "I hardly think this is the place to correct an erring servant, sir."
    The man stopped the beating but held on tight to his captive. "And who the devil are you, sir? And what business is it of yours what I do?"
    The newcomer had obviously just arrived in a handsome traveling chariot. Everything about him spoke of top quality, Sparra decided with a beggar's unerring eye. Not just his perfectly cut caped greatcoat and his gleaming boots, his elegant beaver and tan gloves, but the way he stood and the softness of his voice.
    A powdered footman stood behind him shielding him from the elements with a large black umbrella.
    "I am the Duke of Belcraven, sir," the newcomer said, "and this is my house which you are disturbing with your brawl."
    Sparra wished he could see the bully's face at that. He also wished the man would loosen his grip, instead of making it tighter. Then he could get out of here—fast. He wanted nothing to do with dukes, and horse-stealing got you knocked down for a crop.
    "I beg