A look of unease still shadowed the younger boy’s face, so she quickly added, “Truly, there is nothing to worry about. The people pictured in my prints sometimes have their lackeys visit Fores with either threats or bribes to avoid further ridicule. He always sends them away with a flea in their ear.”
“Aye,” agreed Raven. “No reason te get your guts in a twist.”
“He wuz there to make trouble,” insisted Hawk. “I wuz watching his peepers. They were sharper than Bloody Jack’s razor.”
Charlotte felt a clench in her chest. The boys shied away from any talk about their past, and she hadn’t pressed them. But she was under no illusions about the brutal realties of life on the streets. Unspeakable horrors were rife in the twisting alleyways. She saw the wariness in their eyes, even around her. Trust made one vulnerable.
And predators pounced on those who betrayed any hint of vulnerability.
“Even with razor-sharp eyes, he won’t find A. J. Quill.” Taking up a rag, Charlotte carefully wiped the smudges of ink from her hands. “I’m famished. Will you join me in some bread and butter, and a cup of tea?”
Hawk shot his brother a pleading look. God only knew when was the last time they had eaten. They were nowhere to be found when she had come down from her tiny bedchamber this morning.
“Yeah, I suppose that would be all right,” allowed Raven. The boy was thin as one of her artist’s pencils, a fact made even more apparent by his having grown several inches over the last few months. But there was a whipcord toughness to his leanness, and a sense of coiled tension ready to snap at any moment.
He brushed back a tangle of hair from his cheek. At first glance it was black as his name implied, but as he moved through a shaft of sunlight, glints of mahogany softened the darkness. “That is, if you are fixing something for yourself.”
“I am.” She set the kettle on the hob and unwrapped a chunk of dark bread, wishing she had spared the extra expense for a fresh white loaf at the market.
Ah, but if wishes were horses then beggars would ride.
On that cheerful note, she set out three cups and cut off several slices. There wasn’t much butter left, but she quickly fetched the jar of jam, which she used sparingly. She tried to feed the boys regularly, but they still were wary of accepting too much from her.
“Come sit.”
They joined her at the little table close by the stove.
“Mr. Fores sent this. He says it’s a small token of his appreciation.” Raven fished out a purse and passed it over. “The print of the murder sold out in an hour.”
Charlotte could see there was a promising bulge in it. An unexpected addition to her nest egg—any extra was most welcome.
“I heard talk in the shop that Bow Street sent a Runner to quiz the earl,” volunteered Hawk. He was smaller and just as skinny as his older brother. But everything about him had less of an edge. Every angle and plane of his narrow face was softer, and his hair was several shades lighter. “Ye think he’ll swing for it?”
“It’s not for me to say,” she replied absently, unknotting the strings and shaking the money into her palm. “Thank you for bringing it, Raven. Allow me to give you something for your efforts.”
Charlotte slid a halfpenny across the scarred tabletop. The boy looked at it for a moment, then took a bite of his bread. “Naw, you keep it. I was comin’ in this direction anyway.”
“Don’t speak with your mouth full,” she chided. “It’s very ungentlemanly.”
Both brothers grinned.
“Aye, proper little gents we is,” chortled Raven, setting Hawk to giggling.
“Well, you never know when you might be invited to take tea with the Prince Regent.” It was a standing jest between them, but her efforts were having some effect. They no longer ate like wild little wolves.
Now, if only she could convince them to run a washrag over their grubby faces and hands more often....
“I’ve an idea,” she went on. “How about I use your coin to purchase a bit of beef and I’ll make stew for supper to celebrate our good fortune.” She usually limited meat to a few nights a week, but the boys were looking painfully thin.
Hawk’s eyes widened in delight. “Hooray!”
“I’ll wager if the fancy toff swings fer the murder, your print of it might earn an even bigger token of appreciation,” mused Raven. “Maybe even a bagful of guineas.”
Hawk sucked in his breath. “Guineas.”
Guineas, thought Charlotte. Lud, wouldn’t a bagful of them be a godsend. But a clench of guilt swiftly silenced the speculation. Yes, she made her living poking fun at the foibles and miseries of her betters. However, death was another matter entirely.
“Let us not speculate on profiting from the hangman’s noose,” she said softly. “We don’t know if the authorities have any suspects for the crime.”
