Лиза Клейпас - Chasing Cassandra

Tom’s gaze didn’t stray from the pages of masonry and bridging estimates in front of him. “Who’s back?” he asked absently.

“The chats.”

Blinking, Tom lifted his head. “What?”

“Bazzle’s chats,” Barnaby clarified, looking grim.

“Is Bazzle here with them, or did they decide to drop by on their own?”

His assistant was too distraught to find humor in the situation. “I told Bazzle he couldn’t come in. He’s waiting outside.”

Tom let out an exasperated sigh and stood. “I’ll handle it, Barnaby.”

“If I may point out, sir,” Barnaby dared to say, “the only way to be rid of the chats is to get rid of Bazzle.”

Tom shot him a sharp glance. “Any child, rich or poor, can be afflicted with lice.”

“Yes, but . . . do we have to have one in the office?”

Tom ignored the question and went downstairs with irritation needling all through him.

This had to stop. He couldn’t stand interruptions, vermin, or children, and Bazzle was all three combined. At this moment, other men of his position were attending to their business, as he should be doing. He would give the boy a few coins and tell him not to come back. Bazzle wasn’t his concern. The boy would be no better or worse off than thousands of other little ruffians who roamed the streets.

As Tom passed through the marble entrance foyer, he saw a workman on a tall ladder, festooning ledges and window sashes with swags of greenery tied up in red bows.

“What’s that for?” Tom demanded.

The workman glanced down at him with a smile. “Good morning, Mr. Severin. I’m putting up Christmas decorations.”

“Who told you to do that?”

“The building manager, sir.”

“It’s still bloody November,” Tom protested.

“Winterborne’s just unveiled their holiday window displays.”

“I see,” Tom muttered. Rhys Winterborne, with his unflagging appetite for profit, was singlehandedly starting the Christmas shopping season earlier than ever before. Which meant Tom would have to endure a full month of holiday festivities, with no possible escape. Every house and building would be choking with evergreens and silver gilt decorations, every doorway hung with a mistletoe kissing-bunch. There would be stacks of Christmas cards in the post, and pages of Christmas advertisements cluttering the newspapers, and endless performances of Messiah . Packs of carolers would roam the streets and assault innocent pedestrians with off-tune warbling in exchange for spare pennies.

It wasn’t that Tom hated Christmas. Usually he tolerated it with good grace . . . but this year he couldn’t have felt less like celebrating.

“Should I stop hanging the evergreens, Mr. Severin?” the workman asked.

Tom pasted a shallow smile on his face. “No, Meagles. Go about your work.”

“You remembered my name,” the workman exclaimed, pleased.

Tom was tempted to reply, You’re not special: I remember everyone’s name , but he managed to restrain himself.

The bitter wind cut down to the bone as he stepped outside. It was the kind of cold that shortened the space between each breath, and made the lungs feel brittle enough to shatter.

He saw Bazzle’s small, knobbly form huddled on the side of the stone steps, with a broom laid across his knee. The boy was clad in garments that could have been pulled straight from the ragman’s bin, his head topped with a threadbare cap. As he sat facing away from Tom, he reached up to scratch the back of his neck and head in an all-too-familiar gesture.

What a small, inconsequential wisp of humanity, clinging to the very edge of survival. If Bazzle suddenly vanished from the face of the earth, few people would care or even notice. Tom was damned if he knew why the fate of this boy should matter to him.

But it did.

Damn it.

Slowly he made his way to Bazzle’s side and sat on the steps beside him.

The boy started and turned to glance at him. There was something different about Bazzle’s gaze today, the pupils like the dark centers of broken windows. As the wind whipped across the stairs, he vibrated with chills.

“Where are your new clothes?” Tom asked.

“Uncle Batty said they was too lardy-dardy for me.”

“He sold them,” Tom said flatly.

“Yes, sir,” the child said through chattering teeth.

Before Tom could air his opinion of the thieving bastard, a frozen gust caused the boy to steel himself against a wracking shudder.

Reluctantly Tom took off his suit coat, made of superfine black wool and lined with silk, delivered just last week from his tailor at Strickland and Sons. It was cut in the latest style, single-breasted with no seam at the waist, and deep fixed cuffs on the sleeves. Naturally, he would have worn this new coat today instead of an older one. Suppressing a sigh, he settled the luxurious garment over the boy’s dirty frame.

Bazzle made a little sound of surprise as the warm cocoon of wool and silk surrounded him. He clutched the coat around himself and drew his knees up inside it.

“Bazzle,” Tom said, feeling as if every word were being pried out of him with steel tweezers, “would you like to come work for me?”

“Already do, sir.”

“At my house. As a hall boy, or apprentice footman. Or they might need you at the stables or gardens. The point is, you would live there.”

“With you?”

“I wouldn’t say with me. But yes, in my house.”

The boy thought it over. “Who would sweep your office?”

“I suppose you could come here with me in the mornings, if you like. In fact, it will annoy Barnaby so much, I’ll have to insist on it.” At the boy’s silence, he prompted, “Well?”

Bazzle was unaccountably slow to respond.

“I didn’t expect you to jump for joy, Bazzle, but you could at least try to look pleased.”

The child gave him a profoundly troubled glance. “Uncle Batty won’t like it.”

“Take me to him,” Tom said readily. “I’ll talk to him.” As a matter of fact, he was damned eager for the chance to tear a few strips out of Uncle Batty’s hide.

“Oh, no, Mr. Severin . . . a toff like ye . . . they’d cut yer liver an’ lights out.”

A bemused smile touched Tom’s lips. He’d spent most of his childhood in slums and train yards, fending for himself, constantly exposed to every manner of vice and filth humanity was capable of. Fighting to defend himself, fighting for food, for work . . . for everything. Long before Tom had been able to grow a proper beard, he’d been as seasoned and hard-bitten as any adult man in London. But of course, this boy had no way of knowing any of that.

“Bazzle,” he said, looking down at him steadily, “there’s no need to worry on that account. I know how to handle myself in worse places than St. Giles. I can protect you as well.”

The boy continued to frown, and gnawed distractedly on the lapel of the wool coat. “No need asking Batty noffing about noffing. ’E’s not me uncle.”

“What kind of arrangement do you have with him? He takes your earnings in exchange for room and board? Well, you can work exclusively for me now. The accommodations are better, you’ll have enough to eat, and you can keep the money you make. What do you say to that?”

Bazzle’s rheumy eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You ain’t after breeching me? I ain’t a sod.”

“My tastes don’t run to children,” Tom said acidly. “Of either gender. I prefer women.” One in particular.

“No buggerin’?” the boy persisted, just to be sure.

“No, Bazzle, you’re in no danger of being buggered. I have no interest in buggering you, now or in the future. The amount of buggery at my house will be zero. Have I managed to make that clear?”