Page 96 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

Cricket was older, then. Probably the bully in charge of the youngest ones.

“She’ll make more tomorrow. You can sleep in the kitchen until they’re done, then take some back to Cricket.” It was a lie. Peter was never letting this child go back to the likes of Silas, but Tie wouldn’t believe or trust that right now. These children lived on bartering—or what they could steal—and so that’s what Peter would do. He just hadn’t gotten to what he wanted in return.

The boy’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, and he set the tarts away from him with obvious reluctance. “Why?” was all he said.

“Because I need to know something from you.” He arched a brow. “Tell me about what you do with my father.”

“I don’t do nothing with ’im. He’s a bleeding earl.”

Peter didn’t argue. An older child—or a harder one—wouldn’t say anything. But Tie was still young enough to be manipulated. “You carry messages, right? Can you read them?”

“Course not!”

“And what’s important is written down, right? That’s why they send you. Because you can’t read it.” Peter shook his head. “They must think you’re too stupid to understand.”

“No,” interrupted Mr. Powel. “That can’t be right. Even I can see that this boy knows more than he says.”

Peter nodded, pleased with the help from Mari’s father. “I think so too. I think he knows the plan, even if he can’t read a single word.”

“I ain’t saying. Not for a couple of tarts.”

Mr. Powel made a dismissive sound. “What do you want for it?”

Peter winced. That was the tactic of a wealthy man. Whatever nonsense came out of the boy’s mouth, Mr. Powel could probably afford it. But Peter didn’t bargain from a place of weakness.

“It’s not worth more than a few pennies,” Peter said with a grumble. “I’m just angry at my father for cutting me out.” His eyes narrowed on the boy. “Unless you want to help me. I’ll give you a piece of what I get.”

The boy lifted his chin. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing drastic,” he lied. “Just watch. Say nothing now. Then I’ll get my fair share from my father after it’s done. And you can have a couple of quid for telling me the when and where of it.”

The boy sat there, chewing on his lip as he thought. A moment. Two. Damn it, the boy wasn’t going to bite. And then Mr. Powel dropped his chin on his hand with a loud huff.

“He doesn’t know anything. Best go get Cricket. He probably read the notes.”

“He cain’t read any more’n I can!” the boy cried. “And he don’t know the plan, ’cause he didn’t see the pictures. I did.”

“Pictures, eh?” Mr. Powel said. Then he leaned back in his seat. “Well, that’s interesting, but I have no more time for this.” He pulled out a pound sterling and set it on the desk. “You’ll get this now, boy, if you tell us everything. Pictures and all. And then you’ll stay in my kitchen and take a bath until we’ve found out if what you say is true.”

“And then wot?” the boy challenged.

And then the boy would be shipped off to Sommerfield to a new life, because the one he had here wouldn’t last long. But Peter couldn’t say that out loud. “Then I give you another quid as your share.”

“My share oughta be bigger!”

Peter shook his head. He needed to stay firm to maintain the child’s respect. So he kept his glare hard as he held out Mr. Powel’s quid.

“Do you want this or not?”

Of course, the child wanted it. It was more money than he’d touched in his entire life. He gave in with little grace and a great deal of grumbling, but Peter recognized the swagger for hidden glee. The child pocketed the coin, then set out with much gesturing and dramatic embellishes to tell the plan. Better yet, he was able to describe in great detail all the previous robberies orchestrated by the Earl of Sommerfield.

And wasn’t that a grim realization? His own father was a thief. And not a common one, but a man who orchestrated the movements of children like Tie, all to his own benefit. What the hell was he going to do about that? And more worrisome, what was Mari’s father going to do now that he knew?

*

Mari toweled off her hair and shoved a few pins in. There was no time for even a simple braid, but if she let it dry untamed, she’d spend the rest of the week fighting it. Or perhaps she was very focused on her hair as a way to avoid her mother’s too-wise glare.

“You chose to leave the ball just like that? Mari, imagine what could have happened to you.”