15. A-Counting We Shall Go

15

A-COUNTING WE SHALL GO

Mikey's thumb nail, intentionally jagged and lined with dirt, worried the edge of the letter.

–S– of Stanton House continued to mightily pique his interest.

'Twas an annoying, rather welcome, realization as so little did these days beyond work.

Alas, I still must destroy your words. Forgive me.

After committing the handwriting of the brazen saucebox to memory—and everything she had penned to Susanna Oliver—he further infixed the list the younger woman had recently provided, locking its contents in his mind before touching flame to the page and allowing it to burn to ash before approaching the stirring lad.

"Wake now, boy." He gave the child's shoulder a slight shake, tamping down the reluctance to enlist the little thief's aid. In addition to recalling damn near everything he had ever read with startling precision, he knew to make the most of every situation—and person. "I have a job for you, lad."

Bleary eyes gazed up at him, clearing after quick darts around the room reminded the urchin where he was.

He pushed off the covering Mikey had drawn over him and sat up. His legs swung off the bunk, small feet in deplorable excuses for shoes dangling inches above the floor. "Job? Doin' what?" he asked with more than a glimmer of suspicion.

Mikey intentionally remained on his feet, leaning against the open doorway that led to the larger saddle room and not coming forward to kneel and meet the boykin eye to eye. They were not equals nor peers. "Mikey" held the status, the power in any exchange they might make. Best the laddie respected him from the start.

But none of that prevented his hardened heart nudging toward an ache at the distrustful yet hopeful expression the youngling hadn't had completely beat out of him.

When he'd caught the boy pilfering belongings from passengers exiting detoured coaches the prior morn, his instant anger had melted upon seeing the old bruises beneath the too-short sleeve of the ratty coat and low on his neck where a scarf should have been but wasn't. "Shall we come to an agreement, you and I?"

"What sort o' agree-ment?"

"The kind where I trust you to deliver a parcel and a message, and in exchange, I pay you for your efforts." The little whelp narrowed his eyes, a smart brain behind the untrimmed mop of dirty hair.

"No, you don't—I can see it in your eyes. You nip out with the package? Without sharing the message? You shall wind up with less than you would otherwise have."

"How do I know you ain't lying?"

"That, my boy, is twofold."

"Eh?"

Mikey subdued his grin. Wouldn't do to have the lad think he was laughing at his ignorance. But there was something surprisingly pleasing about a stubborn seven-year-old standing up to a man with forty years and 150 pounds on him. "It means there are two different ways you will know I speak the truth. The first is trust . Trust me and what I say. Did I not honor my word earlier? With both food and a safe, warm place to sleep? Asking nothing in return."

"Did so ask for something in return. Made me give back what I'd nipped."

It took more effort to keep his humor from showing at that. "Those things weren't yours to begin with. So I shall ask again. Did I not grant you what I promised?"

He waited until the boy gave a grudging nod before continuing.

"All right. You deliver the package and message for me. Come back with the coded word in response and receive your reward. Your payment."

"Coded word?"

"A watchword, a signal, a token between mates so the one you deliver the message to knows that it came from me, and what he tells you allows me to know he received it."

A small grubby hand rubbed a chin, as the child evaluated both Mikey and the empty waxed paper on the floor. Evidence of Reaver's own theft. He turned curious eyes back to Mikey. "And the second way? You said there was two."

"Go wash your face, visit the office and come back. We will count out your reward together. You will know what coins are waiting for you upon your return."

"Upon my return with your watchword?"

"Correct."

Belligerence. Embarrassment. Both of those filled the boy's gaze, each vying for dominance. "I cannot do that. The counting part. I do not know my numbers."

He had assumed as much. "Which is why we shall do it together."

Monied coves were rum as a two-headed beetle. He'd only ever seen one of those (and suspected his cousin had pasted on one of the heads). So out-of-the-way!

The "parcel" Nipper (what his mama had called him before she died) was to deliver was just as peculiar, to his way of thinking, made up of:

-coins (counted, together with the odd stable master, twice —ugh!)

-the lone remaining stocking (one of two) he (Nipper) had nipped off the pretty lady earlier the day before, and

-a tin of boot blacking

-a 3-item "spoken message" Mikey had made Nipper repeat thrice .

(Oy. So much counting, his head was going to blast open like a grenade.)

After repeating the message that third time, glaring at the stable master all the while (because he had knowed it just fine after the second time and the man had the swagger to tack on a fourth item), Mikey sent him to find the "Second- tallest , hairiest -faced fellow among the loudest group of men in the tavern. Sorrel-colored hair, like a squirrel. Name's Benny."

Easy enough.

But double oy . And not just because he'd had to repeat that three times back as well. Nay, triple oy. Because he suspected which group he was being sent to siddle alongside…

Upon making his way to East Crossings and the tavern, Nipper had seen which louts were the meanest . Had taken pains to avoid them earlier when their voices got louder and louder with every ale or gin or shouted, lewd verse worthy of the raff. When his pater drank to loudness (or lewdness), Papa's fives came out. And Nipper knew to hide.

With the winter weather huddling everyone inside, The Filthy Pig was thronged. 'Twas toilless enough to flit between the women's skirts and men's backs until locating the buck he sought.

Just to make certain sure he winnowed out the right cove, he ran up to the table, crying, "Uncle Benny!"

Aye, the fellow he'd picked out jerked sharply toward him, striving to keep the surprisal off his face. He needn't have worried none, well-nigh half of it was hidden by whiskers.

The dumbfoundering erased as soon as it had flashed, the man whisked his chair back, making room. "What the devil are you doing here?" he asked, all thundering outrage.

This Benny was a clever whipster, latching on fast.

"Mum sent me," Nipper trembled his lip, thinking to do this right. Had that fat reward waiting for him and all. "Och, Uncle Benny, I thought I'd lost ya in the storms."

"Pardon me." The shaggy-faced man said, speaking to the gruff, scarred-up fellow next to him. Then he rose to his feet causing Nip's eyes to go wide. Gore. He was big.

The tall, hairy "uncle" grabbed hold of his shoulders and aimed Nipper toward the kitchen, speaking clamorously. "Your mum knows better than to send you out after me when I'm off an' working. You best…"

His words drifted quiet as soon as and they were out of the others' sight. His hard hold gentled some too.

Pulling Nipper around to the far side of the big stove sticking out from the wall, Benny dropped to his knees. Green eyes—brighter than Nipper had ever seen—swept him up and down. "So, Nephew. Explain."

"Got a message for you. And this."

Nipper pulled the package from deep in his pocket and thrust it over. "Hide that. And listen good."

Shifting to one foot, but keeping the other knee on the ground, Benny pocketed the parcel and nodded.

Puffing out his chest, determined to get this nonsensical list right, Nipper counted off on his fingers.

"One. Mikey says get shackled and get out—no dallying."

"Shackled?" Those green eyes grew wider than a wheel.

"Two. The one with the crying tot. Second floor. Middle room, fracted window lookin' out at the stable."

"Tot?"

"Three. Hide your face. They know you ain't being candid. Knows you're crooked."

"Crooked?"

Nipper nodded, finally expelling a hard breath, now that his official package and messages had been dispatched. "He didn't say it, but me? I'm thinking those uglies in there—they want you gone."

"Gone?"

"Dead." Nipper huffed. And he'd thought the gent was nimble minded? Oy, not with these one-word grunts this bufflehead kept giving him. "Now gimme the coded word so I can get me reward."

"Coded word?"

"Are you a simpleton? Guess I was wrong 'bout ya, Professor. 'Cause you ain't saying much o' sense at all."

Nay, he wasn't.

Because Timothy Benton, currently heir to his father's marquisate (and not speaking to the man after a decided difference of opinion), known in London by his courtesy title of Lord Wrothington (or "Wrath" after his temper earned him the rights to that), reeled.

Reeled, the "buffled" head he'd just been accused of spinning like a top.

This little bugger, looking half starved and so earnest Tim's arms ached to reach out and hug him—because the little ladkin reminded him of his two favorite nephews, boys he missed like he would a severed arm—had just delivered some of the most startling news to cross his awareness in months. Ever since portraying someone he wasn't.

Though he'd tried, more out of spite than desire, living the life of a vagabond wasteling obviously wasn't something he excelled at, not if those he sought to spy on had figured him out, now planned to exscind him.

He had a bounty on his head? Dashed inconvenient.

The coins he had just pocketed were more than a little. Easily enough for several days' hard travel. But the rest of this? 'Twas the words that pitch-kettled his stomach… Get shackled to the lady with the tot ?

His commander had gone daft, undoubtedly from inhaling too much horse shit. Farnsworth wanted him to pretend to be married to some female with a baby? Had his superior drunk himself under the table and hit his head on the way down?

"A lady with a baby?"

"Ain't that what I just said? Told you? Second floor. Middle room. Broke window. Stables. Watchword? What is it?"

He didn't have an inkling what sort of "word" Farnsworth expected. Wagered that was something between him and the youngling, to ensure the bag of coins didn't disappear into the night. "Do you know the female? Is she single? Alone?"

Smashing. He'd have an irate husband challenging him to a duel come noon. Yet another reason for his father to deride his choices.

"Course she ain't alone, Professor, you addle-pate. Did I not tell you she was here with a baby ?"

Both of them spoke in hushed whispers, and had since retreating to the empty kitchens. Empty in every way possible. The pitiful inn, after being besieged with unexpected guests, had been depleted far earlier that night, now many lay sprawled or propped up, sleeping or capsized. Unlike them, he was still sober. And awake, hoping to glean something useful.

So dashed tired of pretending to be uncaring whether he bathed or shaved, forcing himself to talk crude and coarse. Even worse, having to listen to the others. To laugh and join in even when what they said roiled his stomach. Least Tucker was spared that, didn't have his garret filled with the filth this crew spewed from daylight till dark and beyond.

As to Tim?

He just wanted a bath. And a bed. Preferably one without a "wife" and baby.

He bit back the urge to growl. "Tell me what you know of her, and I'll give you the word."

"Aye, I knows her." The boy gave him a boastful smile. " Knows what her stockings and shift looks like too."

Timothy wouldn't touch that one with a ten-foot rod. "Bolt out the rest, if you will. A description of her wouldn't be amiss. If your messages are to be believed, we should not dally."

"Don't question me messages. I might filch your shoes as soon as look at ya, but I ain't no liar. And I just 'membered four ." The stripling held out four fingers—but not until counting off the first three again. "Four. You's to tell the lady that Liddy's daddy sent ya."

Oh, hell. Hell and the apocalypse.

Liddy? Lydia, Farnsworth's daughter who disappeared more than a decade ago? He knew about it. Everyone his generation did.

Above their own allure, dukes' daughters were sought after because of their proximity to such a title. He'd been on his Grand Tour, gadding about Italy or some such at the time. This was before he and Father nearly came to blows; before Timothy joined the navy. Rumor and rattletrap had it that Lydia had been more vivacious than her mother had been, more apt to enjoy parties and such. To keep her out of trouble, and after some rebellion since her mother had died, Farnsworth had taken his daughter in hand, and she traveled with him beyond London for several years.

Only to defy his wishes and succumb to the flattery of a lowly sailor without any exalted connections to recommend him, fleeing off to wed him over the anvil. And before a month had elapsed, he returned to Farnsworth, begging forgiveness because the man's only offspring had vanished under his care.

Liddy's daddy sent me.

And the "mother" he was to introduce himself to and convince her to portray his wife had been close enough to Lydia to understand that message?

Well now. If he hadn't been sufficiently riddled with nerves before—at the thought Bowyer or that bragout Haggard wanted his head on a pike—he was appropriately anxious now. One hand met his jaw, scratching through the thick beard he'd grown the last two months. Thicker than many could grow in two years. But at least that gave him an idea.

No time to waste, really, not with the lack of travel options tonight.

And he was supposed to disappear? Hide his face? Right. Six foot four and reddish hair that resembled a fox more than not? He was certainly noticeable.

And if the female upstairs had known Lydia, there was a good chance she would know him too. At least know of him.

Which should be true in the reverse, aye? If you and the female have a past acquaintance, should that not smooth things over? Grant yourself a safe haven in her room tonight? Wait for the others to clear out tomorrow…

He thrust his hand in the opposite pocket, where he knew a couple coins resided, pulled one out by feel and held it up between them. "Can you get me a sharp razor? Shaving equipment? Without anyone being the wiser? And bring it to me in her room?"

The boy all but chortled, a gleeful expression climbing over his wearied face. "Without question. You knows I can."

When the child reached for the coin, Timothy curled his fist around it. "When I see you upstairs. And I'll add another to it if you can find me a hat as well. Something at least halfway clean."

Appeared he had a "wife" to meet and convince to help him.

"And you will tell me the word then? So I can get my reward from Mikey?"

As soon as he deduced something that might work. "Absolutely."