Page 15 of The Spy Who Loved Her
But she wasn’t going to tell them. Not yet, at least. Not just yet.
∞∞∞
A scratch at the door of Rafe’s study. “Enter,” he called.
His housekeeper, Mrs. Morris, cracked the door open. “Message for you, sir,” she said, in a dour tone.
A small scuffle ensued in the hall, and a young, annoyance-inflected voice screeched, “Oi! Don’t you pinch me! I’ll give it to ‘im m’self!”
Rafe’s brows lifted in surprise. “Mrs. Morris, have you got a child out there?”
“Says he was sent round with a note,” Mrs. Morris said flatly. “I’ve told him to give it over, but he won’t—”
“I got to get paid, don’t I?” A small boot slipped through the crack in the door; a sorry specimen of one at least, with laces gone nearly to rot and water-stained leather that attested to a great deal of time spent out of doors in London’s notoriously soggy weather. “I was promised a shillin’!”
“Notby Lord Rafe,” Mrs. Morris said severely. “You ought to have gotten it from your employer.”
“Ain’t my employer,” the boy spat. “Lemme go, you old bat!”
The boy was going to get his ears boxed at this rate. Rafe rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed, “Let him in, Mrs. Morris. The sooner he’s done with his business, the sooner he’ll depart.”
A brief pause in the skirmish, and Mrs. Morris sighed, “If you’re certain, sir.” She released her death-grip on the door handle and the door slammed open to crack against the wall as the boy burst inside, a scrap of paper clutchedtightly in one fist.
He was perhaps ten years old on the upper end, and a scruffy young lad indeed. His hair was a few inches too long and looked like it hadn’t seen the business end of a comb in at least a month, if not longer. His shirt was too big for him—probably someone else’s cast-off—and his trousers had holes in the knees. There was a long swipe of dirt down his right cheek, which Rafe suspected had been there a few days at least. But then, the likelihood of this scrappy lad’s family owning a mirror was low.
Ifhe had a family to speak of.
“I’ll handle the boy, Mrs. Morris,” Rafe said. “He’ll be on his way presently.”
The boy thrust out his chin in a pugnacious manner, which Rafe assumed meant that the boy didn’t intend to go anywhere before he had gotten his promised shilling. But Mrs. Morris knew it for the polite dismissal it was, and she closed the door as she left.
“What’s your name?” Rafe asked as he pushed himself up from his chair.
The child blinked incongruously large brown eyes behind the mop of his bangs. “What’s it to ye?”
“I prefer to know with whom I am doing business,” Rafe said. He dug in his pocket for his coin purse and withdrew a shiny silver half-crown. The boy’s eyes locked upon the coin—more than double what he’d been promised. “So I’ll need your name and the name of whomever has sent you to me.”
“Dannyboy,” the boy said at once. “S’what my mum calls me. Dunno the man what gave me the note. ‘E was dressed like a toff, but ‘e didn’t talk much like one.”
Chris, then, no doubt. Probably he’d decided to keep his distance for a time, and had sent the boy with a note in lieu of a visit.
“The coin for the note,” Rafe said, holding the coin out, pinched between his finger and his thumb.
Quick as the strike of a snake, the boy snatched the coin from between his fingers and pitched the note—crumpled into a ball—onto Rafe’s desk. Even in the peaks and valleys wrought from the pressure of the boy’s fingers, Rafe recognized Chris’ spiky, inelegant scrawl.
From the fierce clench of the boy’s hand around the coin, Rafe supposed he considered the half-crown to be a small fortune. He had a mum—or said he had—but if the woman let her son wander about the streets of London as ragged as he was, then it was a near certainty that the family as a whole was in dire straits.
Satisfied with his payment, Dannyboy shoved the coin into the pocket of his trousers and turned for the door. “Fanks, guv,” he said, stretching his grimy hand for the door handle. “Gonna eat well enough tonight, I reckon.”
From the set of the skinny shoulders beneath the bagginess of his shirt, Rafe supposed it had been at least a few days, perhaps more, since he’d been able to do so. “Are you in need of work, Dannyboy?” he asked.
The boy paused, retracting his hand. His dark brows scrunched down over his eyes, suspicion drawing his mouth into a pinch. “What sort of work?”
“A few errands,” Rafe said. “Perhaps carrying a note from time to time. I’ll pay you well for your troubles.” Perhaps he’d send the boy round to Emma. She had a way about her with children. She’d better be able to ascertain the boy’s circumstances, and would be well-positioned to step in on his behalf if she deemed it necessary. “Could you find the toff who gave you that note again?”
“I can find anyonein London,” Dannyboy said, his nose tipped superciliously into the air. “Penny post would be cheaper, though.”
“Penny post goes through more hands than I’d like,” Rafe said. “You didn’t let Mrs. Morris take the note from you. That tells me you can be trusted to carry correspondence.” He let his gaze slide toward the crumpled little ball on his desk. “I’d prefer it if mine arrived in better condition than that, however. And, more importantly, unread.”
