The Historical Collection 2018. Candace Camp

But I would stick her with pins. A large number of pins.”

      “That, I can almost believe.”

      “I mean it. A great many pins. She would look like a hedgehog by the time I was through with her.”

      Emma fumed. Her anger was no exaggeration. She might have envied or resented Annabelle Worthing in the past, but in that moment, she truly despised the woman. How dare she. She’d convinced a brave, loyal, decent man that he was a monster. A creature who deserved nothing more than scraps and shadows of affection, and even then, only in the dark.

      “Do you know, this room is rather charming,” he said, in an obvious attempt to change the subject.

       “Charming?”

      “It has possibilities. All it needs is a few draperies, better furnishings, a coat of paint, a mattress stuffed with straw from this decade, a few dozen scrubbing brushes, and a vermin catcher. Where’s your imagination?”

      She gave him a dry look.

      “Of course, there is one thing in the room that requires no alteration.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead.

      “Nicely rescued.”

      “Are you hungry at all?”

      “Not very.”

      “Well, I’m famished.” He pulled on his trousers and shirt, then jammed his feet into his boots. “I’ll see about calling for some breakfast and a cab.”

      When he opened the bedchamber door, however, a deafening clamor rose up. Shouts and cries from the public rooms below. Footsteps pounding madly up the stairs.

      A man elbowed his way into the bedchamber and slammed the door shut behind him. “You don’t want to go down there. Trust me.”

      The stranger wore a mask of black mesh and a similarly dark jerkin cinched over black trousers and a dark shirt. In his hand, he carried a slingshot.

      Emma shook her head, bewildered.

      Her husband, however, seemed to understand.

      “What are you doing here?” He waved a hand at the newcomer’s strange attire. “And what is all that?”

      “Like it? My old fencing kit, a bit of bootblack . . . and here I am.” The intruder pushed the mask back, revealing his face. He bowed to Emma. “At your service, Your Grace.”

      With the mask dislodged, Emma could see that he was only a boy. Eleven or twelve years old, perhaps. Tall for his age, with jug-handle ears and a gap between his front teeth.

      And this boy, whoever he was, seemed to be well acquainted with her husband.

      She turned to Ash. “May I trouble you for an introduction?”

      “This? This is Trevor.”

      The boy jabbed his elbow in Ash’s side. “Ahem.”

      Ash rolled his eyes. “Right. This is the Menace.”

      The Menace? Oh, Emma couldn’t wait to hear this story.

      “I’m the Monster of Mayfair’s associate,” the boy said. “Apprentice, if you will. His protégé.”

      “How remarkable. How did this come about?”

      Her husband gave her a blank look. “I’ve no idea.”

      “You’re bloody fortunate it did.” The boy walked between them and dropped onto the bed with a creak and a bounce. “All London’s gathered outside, waiting on the Monster of Mayfair to make an appearance.”

      Ash went to the window. “I should have known this would happen. Last night . . . I wasn’t thinking.”

      “No, you weren’t thinking.” Emma crossed to his side, taking his arm. “You were caring.”

      “That and a penny will buy you stale bread. It’s not going to help us now.”

      “Would it be so terrible if the world learned the truth?” she asked.

      “Considering that I’m known about London as a child-snatching, bloodthirsty monster who sacrifices small animals to the Dark Lord? Yes, I think it would be.”

      Emma bit her tongue. She longed to point out that perhaps he should have thought about all this before encouraging his notoriety. But it wouldn’t do any good just now.

      “Well, if you mean to remain anonymous, what do you propose to do?” she asked. “There isn’t any rear exit, and I’m not jumping out that window.”

      “You don’t need another exit. All you need is a diversion,” Trevor said.

      “No diversion will tear that mob away,” Ash said. “Maybe a fire, but even that’s questionable.”

      “It’s simple.” Trevor picked up Ash’s hat and placed it on his head. It settled halfway down his ears. “I’ll be the Monster. You be the Menace.”

      “That’s ridiculous.”

      “No,” Emma countered, “it’s brilliant. Think about it. The crowd down there isn’t waiting for the Duke of Ashbury. They’re waiting for the Monster of Mayfair. A man in a black hat and cape.”

      “He’s not a man. He’s a boy.”

      “I’m tall for my age,” Trevor said defensively.

      “A minute or two is all we need. By the time they realize he’s not the Monster—”

      “You’ll have skirted the crowd and escaped.” Trevor flashed a smug grin. “And I have a hackney waiting on the next corner.”

      “My goodness,” Emma said. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you? What a fine assistant you make.”

      “Stop encouraging him.” Ash said.

      “Did you have a better plan?”

      “Unfortunately, no.” He handed her one of the wool blankets. “Wrap yourself in this. We can’t risk anyone getting a glimpse of red silk.”

      Emma wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. It smelled bad and chafed worse, but it was long and thick enough to serve its purpose. She would take a long, hot bath at home later.

      “Leave the rest to me.” Trevor launched to his feet. Not three paces away, the boy paused. Then, with a snap of his neck, he looked back at them. He raised a single eyebrow. “You’ve been menaced.”

      Ash scowled. “What is that?”

      “It’s my new signature phrase. A calling card. Still working on the delivery.” Trevor lowered his voice to a sinister growl, then lifted the same eyebrow. “You’ve”—pause—“been menaced.”

      Emma pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh.

      “Or there’s this way. You’ve been”—pause, eyebrow lift—“menaced.” The boy cocked his head. “What do you think?”

      “I think,” Ash said tightly, “you should take them both and—”

      “Alternate between them,” Emma interrupted. “They’re both excellent. Quite memorable.”

      “Thank you, Your Grace.” Trevor bowed over her hand and kissed it. “Until we meet again.”

      With a flourish of black cape, he was gone.

      Finally, she allowed herself to laugh. “What an extraordinary young man.”

      “That’s one way of putting it.”

      Emma cinched the scratchy wool blanket about her shoulders. “I need a better costume. And a name of my own. Oh, how about the Needle? I can prick ruffians with a long, sharp sword.”

      “Don’t