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“I understand, Your Grace.”
“Immediately. As soon as I’m gone.”
“At once, sir. Will there be anything else?”
“Pray, Bedrick. Pray it’s not too late.”
“As you wish, sir.” Dutifully, Bedrick slipped the note into his pocket and moved away.
The dying man stared after him, drifting into a world where the past flowed forward, melding into a soothing haze with the future.
Then the last duke closed his eyes.
“Give me back my wallet, you filthy urchin!”
Red faced and sputtering, the gentleman waved his cane at a cringing lad. “I said, hand it over!” Violently, he thrust his gloved hand forward.
None of the hundreds of people flocking into Newmarket’s Rowley Mile Course paid the slightest heed to the ongoing confrontation. Bound for October’s Champion Stakes, they had little time to witness a common pickpocket being apprehended.
“You heard me, you wretched bandit! Return my money. Instantly. Or else I shall haul you off to the local magistrate!”
“I…I…” The lad wiped a muddied sleeve across his forehead, his eyes wide and frightened.
“Excuse me, sir. I believe there’s been some mistake.”
The nobleman whipped around. “I beg your pardon?” Stiff with outrage, he glowered at the stranger who towered over him.
“I said, I believe you’re mistaken,” the newcomer returned, his tone as hard as his features. “This lad didn’t take your wallet.”
“He most certainly did. I witnessed the theft myself.”
The enigmatic stranger shook his head. “What you witnessed was an unfortunate coincidence. The wallet fell from your trousers. This boy merely had the bad luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He didn’t steal anything.”
“Why, how dare you. I’m positive—” The elder man stopped in mid-sentence as the stranger flourished the missing billfold in his face.
“I saw it fall to the ground and retrieved it,” the stranger explained. “I was about to return it when you wrongly accused this poor lad.” He patted the boy’s shoulder and extended his other hand. “Your wallet, sir.”
“Why I was sure—that is, I spied—at least I thought I spied—” The nobleman drew a disconcerted breath as he took the proffered billfold. “Thank you for restoring my property and alerting me to the facts,” he amended with stilted dignity.
“You’re welcome.”
“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Lionel Graband, the Earl of Caspingworth. And you are?” He paused expectantly.
“Thornton.”
“Lord Thornton.” The earl bowed politely.
The stranger didn’t. “Not Lord Thornton,” he corrected brusquely. “Thornton. Pierce Thornton.”
Caspingworth blinked. “My mistake. Thornton.” Smoothing his mustache, he assessed Thornton’s tall, powerful frame, the expensive cut of his clothing. “I’d like to offer you a token of my appreciation.”
“Don’t. Instead, offer an apology to the boy.”
A sharp gasp. “Apologize? To this riffraff?” Caspingworth glared disdainfully at the grimy-faced lad who was inching away. “I assure you, if I wasn’t his intended victim today, someone else was. He’s a common pickpocket. He should be tossed into prison where he belongs. Good day, Thornton.” With
exaggerated offense, the earl turned on his heel and strode off.
Pierce stared after him, a muscle working in his jaw. Simultaneously, his hand clamped down on the retreating boy’s shoulder. “Wait.”
