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His brows rose. “Really?”
She ticked them off on her fingers. “Oxford. Tillborn. Lady Weatherby.”
He was astonished. “They’re good?”
“No, they’re terrible. They’d be knifed inside of two minutes in Lambeth. But like I said, toffs never expect it inside their own circles. And unlike the rest of us, aristocrats don’t get caught.”
His grip tightened on her hip. “You’ve been caught?”
“You don’t get to be the best cutpurse on the South Bank without learning what happens if you fail.”
“Tell me.”
She risked a look at him to find him there, watching her. For a moment, she searched his gaze, sure she’d find judgment. Instead, she found him, open and welcome. A man who’d shared his own secrets, thinking they were dark. Not knowing what a secret might be. “Sunlight is the enemy of most criminals, but it was always my friend. I cut most of my purses early in the morning, when the sun was just peeping over the rooftops, turning the whole filthy place to gold. The pockets were light from nights of drinking, but easier to take. Drunk and tired marks made for stupid ones. And I learned early to take advantage.” She paused. “That, and if I made myquota early in the day, I could spend the rest of the day doing as I pleased.”
“Exploring London’s bridges?”
“Every one of them,” she said. “’Course, it was the bridges that got me into trouble.” She lifted a bit of food from the plate and nibbled at it, taking the excuse to think. “I mistakenly thought that early morning in Mayfair would be the same as early morning in Lambeth.”
He sucked in a breath, even as she gave a little laugh. “The mark caught me the second I sliced his purse.”
“How old were you?”
“Eight.”
He went hard like stone, every muscle in his body tensing, and she looked at him. “Henry—”
“I want his name.” The words came on a scrape, like carriage wheels on cobblestones.
“For what, punishment?”
“Damn right.”
She gave a little laugh. “You’re so righteous.”
“You were a child.”
“And you know better than most that such a thing did not matter.”
His eyes were dark with fury, his words clipped when he asked, “What happened?”
“The magistrate took pity on me.”
“Released you.”
She cut him a look. “No. He gave me sixteen days.”
“Sixteen—” He stopped, his fists clenching. “Christ, Adelaide. In jail.”
She nodded.
“I’m going to find that bastard and destroy him. I’ll end him alongside his friend who thought to send an eight-year-old to the magistrate.”
She couldn’t help the warmth that flooded her at his angry words. “You think to destroy every person who has ever harmed me?”
“Yes.” The response was instant and categorical.
What would her life have been if she’d had this man by her side from the start? What a partner he would have made. Would make. What a father.
