The Earl and the Pickpocket. Helen Dickson

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      Could this delectable, lovely young creature be the boy Ed?

      A young woman dressed in an extremely fetching buttercup-yellow dress stood by the window, her hands clasped at her trim waist. Small and as slender as a willow, she was watching him warily. Without taking his eyes off her, Adam moved toward her, staring in disbelief.

      “Good Lord!” The words were uttered on a breath. “I should have known.” She had a femininity he could have put to his lips and drunk, and she was so close he could feel her breathing, feel the warmth of her, and smell her natural scent. She was quite enchanting.

      Rather nervously Edwina withstood the intensity of his gaze. His dark brows lifted a fraction in inquiry.

      “Well, Ed? What do you have to say for this deception?”

       HELEN DICKSON

      was born and still lives in south Yorkshire, England, with her husband, on a busy arable farm where she combines writing with keeping a chaotic farmhouse. An incurable romantic, she writes for pleasure, owing much of her inspiration to the beauty of the surrounding countryside. She enjoys reading and music. History has always captivated her, and she likes travel and visiting ancient buildings.

      The Earl and the Pickpocket

      Helen Dickson

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MILLS & BOON

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      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

       Chapter One

      London, 1770

       A murky haze hung over the narrow alleyways and squalid, rickety hovels in the secret world of St Giles—a wretched, brutal, frightening place, cramped, dark and noisy, where violence and death were an inescapable fact of life. The air was foul, and the humid, sweltering heat pressed down on its inhabitants—a churning crush of people, the flotsam of human life. These were thieves, cutthroats and beggars, painted harlots and scavengers, a ragged, unwashed assortment of men, women and children, most of them prematurely aged by poverty and hunger, their only recourse to be found in the gin shops. This tax-free liquor was in plentiful supply, its consumption endemic—a perfect antidote for dulling pain, replacing lost dreams and deepening despair.

      Moving among the jostling crowd, Adam carefully scrutinised every face, searching for one that was familiar, unaware of the youth following him closely—a slight, inconspicuous-looking lad in shabby garb and a shapeless hat pulled well down over his ears, who nimbly danced out of his sight whenever he turned about.

      Adam was so deeply engrossed in his mission that it was a moment before he reacted to the body suddenly thrust against him, and the pull at his watch. Clapping his hand to his chest, a vicious curse exploded from him when he found he had been relieved of his timepiece by somebody with the manual dexterity of a practised thief. He whirled in time to see a ragged urchin dart away. Immediately he gave chase, following him through a network of narrow alleyways.

      Eventually the lad was delivered up to him by a couple of youths anticipating a reward. Tossing them a shilling apiece, Adam gripped the young thief’s arm, ignoring his strangled squawk as he dragged him aside. He grasped the thin arm more tightly as the lad struggled against him, wincing and loosening his hold when he felt a boot rebound against his shin.

      Slipping from Adam’s grasp, in a blur of panic the youth turned to run, only to find a long booted leg thrust out, obstructing his path. Unable to check his momentum, he stumbled and fell, landing on his stomach in a mud puddle. His posterior pointing skywards, he lay for a moment winded and stunned, successfully managing to hold back tears of shame and humiliation that gathered in his eyes. Covered in mud and slime, he was heaved from his ignoble position by the seat of his breeches, and with a string of outraged curses he quickly danced away and whipped a knife from his belt, wielding it in front of him.

      ‘I’ll have your blood,’ he snarled, glaring at his abuser as ferociously as a wild animal.

      Like lightning Adam drew his sword, placing the point at the lad’s throat, locking eyes—the youth momentarily mesmerised by the terrible deadly grace of the stranger’s swift manoeuvre.

      ‘I wouldn’t try it,’ Adam ground out, backing his captive into a corner. ‘Do not add murder to your crime. Lower your weapon and give it to me,’ he coolly ordered, ‘and slowly, if you please. I am far from amused.’

      Glowering out of a dirty face at him, breathing fast, his cheeks pink with a combination of rage and fear, reluctantly the youth did as he was told. Adam gave the knife no more than a cursory glance before sliding it down the top of his boot and sheathing his sword. ‘A nasty weapon for a boy,’ he remarked, his stern gaze raking the lad. ‘Very clever, you young guttersnipe. However, you should have studied your craft more and not allowed yourself to be caught.’

      Adam’s fingers had bit painfully into the lad’s arm, who now rubbed the offended member, still scowling up at the giant who loomed above him, looking very small and fragile now he had no weapon with which to defend himself.

      ‘What’s the matter?’ Adam growled. ‘Afraid of the law, are you?’

      ‘You hurt my arm,’ the lad snapped, his eyes narrowed accusingly.

      ‘Rob me again and I’ll hurt more than your arm, you young whelp,’ Adam promised direly. He held out his hand. ‘My watch, if you please.’

      The youth’s clear blue-green eyes glared hotly back at Adam, and he continued to fidget beneath his close inspection. He felt anger towards the stranger for catching him, but most of his anger was directed against himself for getting caught. He was aware of the painful gnawing of his stomach, and the dinner the proceeds of selling such a fine watch would have provided—after Jack had had his cut.

      ‘I repeat. Give me back my watch.’ Adam’s eyes narrowed when the lad remained mute, and there was a glint in his eyes that warned the youngster against pushing his luck further. Taking him by the front of his jacket with both hands, Adam lifted him so the toes of his ill-fitting boots barely brushed the ground,