Loving Julia Read Free

would have looked like a boy. But he was nearly sixty, they said, and he was one of the best, a master pickpocket. He had recognized Jewel’s talent early on, and gave her the respect one professional accorded another. Jewel admired him, but she was also wary of him. Another of Willy’s lays was the providing of females to Mother Miranda, the notorious abbess. Jewel had no wish to end up lining Willy’s pockets by being sold off like a parcel to that one.
    “Not too likely, Willy,” Jewel responded. Her tone held the respect an apprentice owes a master, and the old man grinned at her before moving on. She didn’t like the idea that word would soon be out on the streets that Jewel Combs had turned whore, but there was nothing she could do about it.
    “ ’ist, ya bleedin’ wantwit, keep yer mind about ya! ’Ere comes a ripe ’un.”
    Jem’s near shout of a whisper came from a recessed doorway some few feet behind Jewel. Jewel looked up quickly to see a young man, a toff by the evidence of his fancy wine coat and tan breeches. He was staggering down the street and she was amazed that she had not noticed him some ten minutes earlier. He was singing “God Save the Queen” at the top of his lungs; the sound echoed off the narrow buildings to provide its own ringing chorus. From his singing, to say nothing of the way he stopped to lean a hand against a storefront for support from time to time, it was clear that he was extremely well to live. Jewel’s eyes gleamed as he passed beneath a streetlight, and she saw that he was very young, not yet twenty, she guessed. An easy pigeon to pluck, she thought with relief. Mick should have no excuse to rough him up at all.
    The old whore in the faded dress perked up and started toward the yodeling newcomer. A furious mutter from behind her reminded Jewel that she had better make a move fast. As drunk as this young toff was, he was unlikely to be discriminating in his appraisal of female flesh.
    “Sorry, ducks, but this gent be mine,” Jewel said as she overtook the old whore. Sidling up to the gentleman, she slid a hand caressingly up his velvet sleeve, giving the other woman an ungentle shove with her hips at the same time.
    “I saw ’im first!” the whore screeched as she recovered from her sideways totter, glaring at Jewel, who glared back. Both were prepared to fight for their prize like hungry mongrels, if need be.
    “This is-is most flattering, ladies, but b-believe me, there is no need,” the gentleman interrupted, his eyes blinking as he focused on first one then the other of them. Jewel was ready to swear that he could not differentiate between them. He was really magnificently dog-bitten; the odor of rum hung about him like the old whore’s cheap perfume.
    Jewel glared at the other woman, who was trying to edge back into contention, then smiled at the young gentleman with exaggerated sweetness, thrusting her chest forward provocatively. He was not to know that her ripe looking curves had been greatly enhanced by the old rags she had thrust down into the too full bosom of her dress to fill it out and force her own small breasts upward. From above, all a gentleman could see was creamy, ripe looking flesh.
    “Listen, you bitch, that’s my fella!” The old whore, enraged by Jewel’s success in fixing the gentleman’s attention at last, gave the younger girl a hearty shove. Jewel staggered, keeping herself upright by her hold on the gentleman’s coat—he staggered with her—then swung on the other woman, her lips parted in a vicious snarl.
    “Get on away from ’ere, ya scraggy ol’ witch, afore I knock yer block off! Ya ’ear me, now?”
    “I tell ya, ’e’s mine!”
    The battle was about to begin in earnest when the gentleman stepped between them, shaking his head with regret. Under the gaslight Jewel noticed with the tiny part of her mind that was not focused on her rival that his hair was very blond….
    “Ladies, I beg you, do not fight over me. I