The Historical Collection 2018. Candace Camp

exchange for keeping your mouth shut. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Starting the blackmail a bit early, I must say.”

      “My mum always said I was advanced for my age.” The boy grinned, revealing a gap between his front teeth. “But it’s not money I’m after. My family’s flush with it. My father made a fortune in coal. Name’s Trevor, by the way.”

      “If you try to spread this tale, Trevor, no one will credit it. You live in Mayfair; you should already know how the snobbish ton thinks. They won’t take the word of some new-money brat over that of a duke.”

      Ash brushed past the boy and started down the alleyway at a brisk pace.

      Of course the boy followed.

      “You’ve got me all wrong,” Trevor said in a loud whisper, trotting at Ash’s side. “I don’t want to expose you. I want to be your associate.”

      That brought Ash to a standstill. “My associate?”

      “An assistant. An apprentice. A protégé. You know what I mean.”

      “No. I don’t.”

      “I’m going to join your wanderings at night. Help you mete out justice. Pound footpads and such.”

      Ash looked the boy up and down. “You couldn’t pound a lump of bread dough.”

      “Don’t be so certain about that. I’ve a weapon. A secret one.” The boy looked both ways before withdrawing something from his pocket and holding it up for Ash to see.

      “A sling. This is your secret weapon.”

      “Well, you already have the walking stick. And a pistol or blade seemed out of character for us.”

      “There is no ‘us.’”

      “Too violent, you know. We’re peacekeepers.”

      “There is no ‘we,’ either.”

      “A sling would set me apart, I reckoned.” The lad plucked a pebble from the ground and fitted it in the leather pocket. “See that crate at the corner?” He flicked his wrist a few times, building momentum, then released the sling.

      The pebble smacked into a stable door on the opposite side of the alleyway.

      A horse whinnied. From the loft above, a sleepy groom called out in anger, “Oi! Who’s there?”

      Trevor looked at Ash. Ash looked at Trevor. They each mouthed the same word at the same time.

       Run.

      Once safely down the lane and around the corner, Trevor put his hands on his knees and panted. “I’m”—huff—“still working on my aim.”

      Ash walked on, hoping to lose the boy while he was winded.

      “Next I’ll need a disguise, of course. I’m thinking a mask. Black, or perhaps red. And a name, naturally.”

      Ash growled. “There will be no disguise. There will be no name. Do you hear me? Go home before I take you there myself and have a word with your father.”

      “What do you think of this? The Beast of Berkeley Square.”

      “More like the Pest of Piccadilly.”

      “Or we could go with something simpler. Like Doom. Or the Raven.”

      “I suggest Gnat. Or the Measle.”

      “Maybe the Doom-Raven?”

      Ash shook his head. “Jove that thunders, you are a menace.”

      “Wait. That’s brilliant. I’ll be known as”—he swiped one hand before his face, as if tracing a broadsheet’s headline—“the Menace.”

       Oh, indeed you will be.

      Ash stopped, turned, and stared down at the boy. “Listen, lad. I am returning to my house. You are returning to yours. And that is the end of it.”

      “But it’s not even midnight. We haven’t thrashed any scoundrels yet.”

      Ash grabbed Trevor by his jacket and lifted him onto his toes. He bent forward and lowered his voice to a threat. “Consider yourself fortunate I haven’t thrashed you.”

      As he strode away, this time he heard no scampering steps in pursuit.

      Thank heaven.

      “You’re right,” Trevor called after him cheerily. “Tomorrow night’s better. I need time to sort out my disguise anyway.”

      Ash tugged down the brim of his hat and groaned.

      If this boy was indicative of the next generation, God save England.

      Emma tripped down to the servants’ hall, intending to request eggs be added to the evening’s dinner menu. To every evening’s dinner menu. Eggs were rumored to increase the chances of conception, weren’t they? Perhaps nothing but superstition, but it wouldn’t hurt to try.

      She stopped just outside the door. The servants seemed to be having some sort of a meeting. Khan stood in front of a large slate—the one usually employed for the day’s menus—with the remainder of the house staff huddled around the servants’ long dining table.

      She was about turn around and come back later. Then the topic of conversation reached her ears.

      “Think hard, all of you,” Khan said. “Swanlea wasn’t enough. We need a new plan.”

      A new plan?

      Emma wasn’t an eavesdropper by nature, but further “plans” involving her marriage seemed good cause for an exception. She tucked herself in the wedge of space between the open door and the wall. From here, she could not only listen, but peek through the gap.

      “Well, it has to be a ball,” Mary said. “Balls are ever so romantic. Surely they’ll receive an invitation to one.”

      “The duke would never accept,” one of the footmen said.

      “Then perhaps we could host a ball here,” she replied. “As a surprise.”

      “Perhaps we could,” said Khan dryly, “if we all wished to be summarily executed.”

      Mary sighed. “Well, whatever we do, we must do it soon. Once Her Grace is with child, it will be too late.”

      A scullery maid hooted with laughter. “That won’t be long, will it? What with them humping like rabbits all over the house.”

      “Not only the house,” a groom said. “The mews, as well.”

      Mary hushed them. “We’re not supposed to let on that we’ve noticed.”

      “Oh, come on. How could we not?”

      Oh, Lord. Behind the door, Emma cringed. How mortifying. Although she supposed it was to be expected. They had polished every stick of furniture in Ashbury House with her hiked petticoats. They weren’t especially quiet, either. Naturally, the servants had noticed. As the groom said, how could they not?

      “Ahem.” Khan tapped his chalk against the slate. “Let’s return to the list, please.”

      The servants burst out with a flurry of suggestions.

      “Set a small fire?”

      “Rig one of the carriage axles to break. Accidentally. In a storm.”

      “Oh! They could go swimming in the Serpentine.”

      Khan refused to even chalk that one on the slate. “It’s nearly December. They’d catch their deaths.”

      “I suppose,” Mary said. “But there’s nothing to encourage affection like a good scare. Perhaps we could make one of them just a little bit sick?”

      “The