Chapter 5 #3
Within a minute, the Lion and Lamb emerged from the fog.
The gaslight spilling out from the doorway and the establishment’s large bay window revealed that the pub was packed with rough, working-class men.
It was the sort of pub that Phinn used to frequent before some strange twist of fate had turned him into a marquess.
He was almost tempted to push his way through the crowd into the taproom and order a pint of ale, except his expensive attire would mark him as someone who didn’t belong even if his Irish brogue and bulky physical build screamed lowborn.
And he just wasn’t in the mood to deal with drunken louts who might decide to “have a go” at him because they thought he was a toff.
But you are a toff, O’Connell, whether you like it or not, Phinn reminded himself as he lingered in the murky shadows on the opposite side of the street.
He’d paused at the entrance of an alley that was littered with refuse piles and only heaven knew what else.
There was a soft noise—a muffled scuffing sound behind him—but when Phinn glanced over his shoulder, he saw nothing and no one.
And that’s when he felt the lightest tug on his greatcoat—a movement that was barely perceptible.
Feck! Had he been marked as a target by a feckin’ pickpocket?
Phinn shot out a hand and his fingers closed around a scrawny limb—an arm that was half-buried in his coat’s pocket.
“Oi, sod off, you bleedin’ sod. Let me go,” cried the owner of the arm. A street urchin by the looks of him. He twisted and kicked out, but given Phinn’s size and strength, the boy would’ve had better luck pushing over a brick wall. “You’re bleedin’ hurtin’ me, you bloody bastard.”
Phinn immediately adjusted his hold so he was gripping the boy’s collar, but he wasn’t about to let go.
“Hasn’t anyone t-told you that it’s bad m-manners to steal?
If you needed m-m-money, you could’ve just asked.
I’d be ha-happy to give you some.” It wasn’t a lie.
There was nothing worse in this world than seeing children deprived of the basic necessities.
To see them so desperate, they had to resort to thievery in order to survive.
He understood because in Dublin, he’d been desperate and hungry too.
The boy stilled and squinted up at Phinn from beneath a shock of matted brown hair. Then he spat on Phinn’s boot. “A likely bloody story. Why should I believe the likes o’ you?”
Phinn bent down and stared straight into the urchin’s eyes. Fear lurked behind the bravado. He knew the feeling well. “Be-because believe it or n-not, just like you, I’ve stolen to survive.”
“You’re nuffink like me. You’re Irish,” accused the boy, planting his grubby hands on his hips. “A bleedin’ potato-eatin’ Paddy.”
“There’s nothin’ wrong with p-potatoes. Or the eatin’ o’ them,” said Phinn. “Especially roasted in g-goose fat until they’re crispy and g-golden. Or slathered in lashings o’ b-b-butter. Or m-mashed with cream and bacon and ca-cabbage to make colcannon.”
As Phinn described his favorite potato dishes, he swore the boy’s mouth began to water. At least his eyes gleamed with a yearning that was hard to hide. And then the lad’s stomach rumbled louder than the omnibus that had trundled past not ten minutes ago.
Phinn’s grip slid to the lad’s shoulder and he gave it a pat.
“I’d warrant you’re starvin’.” He glanced at the public house, but that was no place to take a child.
Of course, he could give the boy money, but pickpockets, more often than not, worked in gangs and the leader would take most, if not all of the proceeds their young thieves managed to pilfer.
Although, this particular boy seemed to be on his own. Phinn frowned. “Do you have a f-family? Do you w-work for someone? Are you in a gang o’ pickpockets?”
The urchin crossed his arms. “I ain’t tellin’ you nuffink,” he retorted.
Then his expression grew fierce and he took a step back.
“’Ere, you ain’t one o’ those dirty geezers who likes dustbin-lids, are you?
’Cause if you are, I’ll rip your bleedin’ nuts off and feed ’em to some butcher’s mongrel.
Or some mangy tomcat down the alley.” He gestured with a thumb over his shoulder.
“Or some sewer rats down the Fleet Ditch. Or—”
“All right. All right,” said Phinn. “I t-take your point. And no. I’m not one o’ those ‘geezers’ as you c-call them.
If you know anyone like that, p-point me in his direction and I’ll knock his block off.
” And he meant it. While Phinn’s chest tightened in sympathy for the boy, his guts churned with anger.
To think what this child must have seen while living on the streets.
No doubt he was wise beyond his years. It was difficult to tell his exact age in the uncertain light—that and the fact his face was smudged with grime—but Phinn estimated him to be about seven or eight years old.
And then a novel thought struck Phinn like a lightning bolt from above. “What’s your n-name, lad?”
The urchin’s eyes narrowed. “I told you, I ain’t tellin’ you—”
“I know, I know. You’re not go-goin’ to tell me anythin’.
” Phinn crossed his arms, mirroring the boy’s stance.
“Until you decide to tell me your n-n-name, I’ll call you Tom Fleet.
In honor of the alley c-cats and sewer rats you men-mentioned.
” Then he drew a breath. “So, Tom, why don’t you come b-back to me house in Eaton Square, and I’ll have me cook f-f-fix a meal for you.
And if you like it well enough there, you c-can stay.
You’ll have your own bedroom. N-new clothes.
You won’t be hungry or c-c-cold or have c-cause to fear anythin’ at all. ”
The boy hiked up his chin, his gaze sharp with suspicion. “Why? Why would you do somefink like that? Why should I believe a toff like you? Your sort usually cuff ragamuffin children like me around the ears before you try to ’aul me off to the coppers.”
Phinn rubbed the back of his neck. There was no sense in lying, not to this streetwise child.
Honesty would be the best policy. “Even though I’m wealthy and wear f-fancy clothes, I sta-sta-stammer.
And I want to hire a gov-governess to help me cor-correct it.
The problem is, I’m not … I’m not married and haven’t any children, so I need a w-w-ward.
And by the looks o’ things, you n-n-need a safe place to stay. ”
The boy scowled. “I don’t want to take no bleedin’ lessons from no snooty governess.”
“You w-won’t have to,” said Phinn. “She’ll be t-t-teachin’ me.”
“You do ’ave a bleedin’ awful stammer,” agreed the boy. “Makes you sound like a right pillock. And you’re Irish. No wonder you don’t ’ave a wife.”
Phinn spread his hands. “So you see my prob-problem.”
“I s’pose I do.” The urchin scrunched up his nose.
“All right then. I’ll visit your ’ouse, mister.
I’ll take a look around.” But then he pointed a finger at Phinn.
“But listen ’ere and listen well. I’ve got a ’at pin ’idden on me person.
And if I don’t like anyfink that you do, I reserve the right to stick you wiv it. ”
Phinn bowed his head. “And rightly so. I … I would-wouldn’t want it any other way. My n-n-name is Phin-Phineas O’Connell, by the way. Lord K-K-Kinsale.”
The boy’s eyes turned into saucers. “Cor blimey. You are a bleedin’ toff.
” He began to walk alongside Phinn as they followed the laneway back toward the road that would lead them to Leicester Square.
“You can call me Tom Fleet. I reckon it’s as good a name as any seein’ as I was born in the Fleet Ditch. ”
“Very well then, Tom Fleet,” said Phinn. “I was b-born in a tiny village in County Cork in Ireland. Bally-Ballybrook. I’ve lived in the b-b-backstreets o’ Dublin too.”
“’Ow’d you get to be a toff then?” asked Tom.
“You know, that’s a very good ques-question,” said Phinn as they paused on the corner of Cranbourn Street and Charing Cross Road and Phinn hailed a hansom cab.
Tom Fleet’s clothes were threadbare and he wasn’t wearing any shoes.
Phinn couldn’t, in all good conscience, make the boy walk two miles to Belgravia.
Grinning down at Tom Fleet, he answered the boy as best as he could.
“To be sure, it m-m-must be the luck o’ the Irish. ”