Bella’s Band
A 2015 RONE Award Finalist
Soul Mate Publishing
Saddled with his brother’s title and debts, nothing about this new life makes the Earl of Hackwell want to stay—until he meets a lady with a secret that can change everything.
* * *
Chapter One
On these London streets, a lady with lads in her keeping needed the sharp eye of a military scout.
The damp December greyness seeped through thick woolens, sent chills into the skin, and settled over dangers. Yet Annabelle Harris could see very well, and she had spotted the gentleman on horseback a block earlier. That he’d kept pace with them, his eyes burning her back, proved the need for her watchfulness.
“That swell, Mum.” The finger poking out at the man had a coating of grime as thick as the boy’s accent. She’d fetched Thomas from chasing the cat in her small garden and dusted him off. Somehow he’d managed to get dirty again.
And lose his gloves. Annabelle captured the chilled hand. “We do not point, Thomas, especially with a finger this dirty. And how cold you are.”
“Aye, but he’s starin’. An’ I’m too old for hand-holdin’.”
“Nevertheless.”
Curse her stubbornness. She should have taken Rosalyn’s offer of transport. “Come now. Her ladyship is expecting us. Robby?” She gripped the smaller boy’s hand. “My two handsome lads, let’s walk a little faster.” Away from the curious gentleman.
This world was not always kind to handsome boys. This world needed climbing boys, and beggars, and pickpockets, and . . . and others.
She’d learned about the others from a girl who’d handed over her brother, a boy no older than five, before their so-called father could sell him to work in a den far fouler than any conventional brothel.
Annabelle had not wanted to believe such places existed. Mr. Quarley, the vicar who came to tend their abandoned sheep—and chase her friend Rosalyn Montagu—had listened, shocked, and, without confirming or denying, had bidden Annabelle to speak no more of it.
The memory still made her bristle. She was no addlepated woman, no weak-kneed silly young lass who fainted at the mention of body parts.
The clop-clop of that horse brought her back to the present. A fine handsome animal it was, like the man riding it, she’d seen that quickly enough. His coat and cravat and hat spoke of privilege. The wrinkles in the fabric, the flop of the neckcloth, and the skew of that fine beaver at this hour? Ah, he’d been up all night drinking, gambling, and whoring. A very fine gentleman, indeed.
At the corner, she dared to look again. Too close, her eyes fixed on the still-gleaming boots, the skin-tight breeches that swelled with firm muscle, and the wide span of his shoulders. Bleary blue eyes lifted from Robby and met hers with speculation. Annabelle stiffened and stared back until his lips curved and he saluted.
Robby lifted his hand and waved. Those bleary eyes brightened, the handsome face creased in a wide grin, naughty, and almost innocent.
He stopped and waved her on. She rushed the boys across the street.
Shouting erupted in front of a shop on the next block. Three urchins whirled out of nowhere, one of them bumping Annabelle and careening off Thomas.
“You sod.” Thomas yanked out of Annabelle’s grip and was off like a shot.
An apron-wrapped man pushed his way around a gawker. “That’s ‘im.”
The man was pointing at Thomas.
* * *
The crew of wee filchers scattered past him like the balls in a billiard game.
Like the infantry in full retreat.
His blood quickened. Steven Beauverde, Earl of Hackwell, wheeled his battle-trained bay and followed the blond head that was close on the heels of a tattered dark boy.
Shouts of “Grab him” and “Stop, Thief” pursued them. The blond boy, quick as a harrier, tackled his larger quarry in the street. They rolled, punched, and growled foul obscenities.
The fair-haired boy had bottom. If they were allowed to finish, Steven would lay odds on him.
Steven eased closer, the crowd dodging out of the way of his mount. The pummeling had stopped and a workman had each of the boys by the scruff.
“That’s ‘im.” A thin man in an apron pushed his way closer and pointed at the blond lad. “Nicked a coin, he did.”
The boy’s eyes went wide. “Did not.”
“What’s this one?” The captor shook the dark boy.
“Him, too,” the shopkeeper said. “Together, they are.”
A woman pushed through the crowd, another blond boy perched on her hip.
Ah, it was she, the dark-clad woman escorting the boys. When she reached for the fair-haired captive, the man holding him pulled him back.
“Release him this instant. He is with me.”
Her cultured tones and air of command silenced the crowd and sent a ripple of admiration through Steven. Plainly dressed and well-covered, she passed for an upper-floor servant. But a housekeeper would not have a cockney boy in tow, and a nursemaid would not speak so well. A governess—well, the little one in her arms was too young for a governess.
The shopkeeper narrowed his eyes at her. “I seen him.”
She drew herself up taller. “You are mistaken. He was walking with me. Now hand him over.”
The man bristled. “The watch will—”
“Hand him over to the lady, there’s a good man,” Steven said.
All eyes turned up to him, but it was the pair of grey ones that snared him.
He knew this look. He’d seen it in Spain, in the eyes of the liberated. Not defiant anymore, she was taking his measure. Friend or foe?
He raised an eyebrow and held her gaze.
Yet in his peripheral vision, he saw that the rest of them watched also.
It was the aggrieved shopkeeper who spoke first. “The Watch—”
“Fine, fine, keep the dark one for the Watch.” Steven flicked a spot of dust from his coat. “The fair-haired one you will turn over to the lady. He was holding the lady’s hand when you were robbed.”
“He was running—”
“Because that one”—Steven pointed at the other boy— “assaulted his lady. Were you also robbed, Miss?” Or Madam?
She patted her clothing in several interesting places.
“I was not, sir.” Her attention went to the crowd. “And there you have it. A witness.” She reached for the boy and this time they released him. “Come along then, we’ll be late.”
Steven watched her and her two charges hurrying off toward the wealthiest section of Mayfair.
The section where Hackwell House stood. Where he was currently encamped.
The lady owed him a thank you. He wondered just how hard it would be to identify her and collect on her debt of gratitude before he turned his horse.
For now, he also was late.
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