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His hand was still there, at her back, stroking. “Your father is Alfie Trumbull.”
Her gaze shot to his. “How did you—”
“Our visitors at the Hungry Hen.”
“You were half dead.”
“Excuse me, I was not.”
She slid him a look, but did not argue.
“I might have been worse for wear, but my hearing was in pristine order.”
He’d known. All this time, he’d known who her father was. And still, he’d made love to her. Still, he’d held her in his arms and fed her and touched her and listened to her. Trusted her.
Loved her.
Impossible. He must not understand. “Alfie doesn’t just own a warehouse in Lambeth. He’s the leader of The Bully Boys. The gang is literally named for him.”
“Two rival gangs, brought together by a fearsome leader.” This, too, he knew. “The scourge of South London. Believe it or not, they’ve come up in Parliament a time or two.”
“And you’ve paid attention?”
He looked positively offended.
“Apologies,” she said instantly. “Of course you did. You’re you.”
“That, and my brother has been in debt to them on more than one occasion.”
She shook her head. “Your brother is not very intelligent.”
“I am hoping his new bride will sort that out.” He fed her a slice of apple. “He is the handsome brother, though, so at least he has that.”
She smiled. “What with you being so ghastly looking.” Even bruised and bloodied and full of half-healed wounds, he was the handsomest thing she’d ever seen.
“Not anymore.”
“No?”
He shook his head and said, “Not now that my nose is broken.”
She laughed, and the moment was a gift—a calm before the storm she was about to loose. “My father—he was... a king. He has never owned a single thing he did not believe he might one day sell for more than he paid. Everything had a price, and Alfie Trumbull’s goal was to demand the highest one. Always. Everything in his possession, everyone in his employ—if they did not hold monetary value, they were not for Alfie.” She paused, then added, “And that included me.”
His touch stuttered on its path down her spine, just barely. Just enough that she looked to him again, finding his eyes clouded with something she might like if she were willing to think on it.
“My being his daughter wasn’t enough. I needed to pull weight.”
“So you became a pickpocket.”
She nodded. “A nipper. Lots of girls did—when you’re small and fast, you’ve a better chance of cutting a purse and not being caught.”
He nodded. “And you were good.”
She couldn’t stop her proud grin. “Aye,” she said, letting the South Bank into the words. “Stickiest fingers in all South London. Mayfair never saw me coming.”
He laughed. “They deserved what they got, I assure you.”
“Toffs never expect it inside their own circles. And let me tell you,” she underscored, “there are a half-dozen people with titles who are cutpurses themselves.”
