Page 5 of To Dare the Devil

Hart shrugged. “I suppose.”

“Can I meet him too? Please, Hart?”

“It isn’t a place for—”

“Don’t you dare say it!” Kathy waved a finger in his face. “I’m not a child, nor a proper lady. Not really.”

Hart’s expression darkened. “That’s exactly what you are, no matter how you argue the toss. Oh, stop pouting. I can hardly leave you here, and Burt’s expecting me. Come on, now, but for the love of God, stay close and keep your eyes down.”

Grinning with triumph, Kathy hurried beside her brother, staying close like he’d asked but finding it impossible not to stare about her. Her eyes widened with growing astonishment and horror as he led her down the narrow, filthy roads. The jingle of a costermonger’s cart and the weary tread of a flea-bitten donkey echoed through the high-sided streets, where the buildings leant close to each other as if whispering secrets. It was a sunny morning, but the light barely penetrated the skinny thoroughfares of the Dials. Though the refuse was thick underfoot, Kathy did her best to avoid it, stepping around an especially large and mouldering pile of manure and rotten cabbage leaves and inadvertently stepping on something that squelched unpleasantly under her boot. Grimacing, she hurried on, increasingly overwhelmed by the noise that seemed to boil together into a constant hum of sound, of men shouting, dogs barking, basket women chattering as they hurried to market. Turning a corner, a pie man shouted, inviting people to try the quality of his wares for themselves. The smell of cooked meat melded with the general stench of the streets, and Kathy’s stomach gave an uneasy growl of disquiet.

“Mornin,’ handsome! Want some company?”

Kathy looked up to discover a barely clad woman leaning out of a first-floor window, grinning at Hart. Her hair was loose, hanging in lank curls, and she held a gaudy shawl about her naked shoulders.

“No, thanks,” Hart replied, darting a glance at Kathy. “Eyes down,” he hissed.

Sighing, Kathy complied, mostly so she didn’t tread in anything else, though it was nigh on impossible when the streets were so thick with waste and… ugh! Swallowing a shriek, she grabbed her brother’s arm as an enormous rat ran in front of them and disappeared down an open drain.

“Still glad you came?” Hart asked her dryly.

“Yes,” Kathy shot back. “It’s fascinating and dreadful. How these poor people live, Hart. My word, how you lived.”

She stared up at him, only now realising the true horror of what his life had been, why he worked so hard to repay their parents by making a success of himself. Surely, more of these people could do the same with a little help?

Hart shrugged. “I was lucky, I barely remember it,” he lied.

“You remembered Burt well enough,” she pointed out.

Hart laughed, which was a rare enough sound for her to stare at him in surprise. “I did, but then Burt is hard to forget.”

She discovered the truth of that a moment later when Hart knocked on a sturdy oak door. It appeared to be the only sturdy thing about the building, at least from the outside. They waited until the door swung open and a small boy of perhaps seven or eight years old peered owlishly up at them.

“Whatcha want?” he demanded.

“I’m here to see Burt,” Hart said. “He’s expecting me.”

The boy’s eyes narrowed and then widened as they looked at Kathy. “Are you a lady?” he demanded, gawking at her.

Kathy blushed, wondering if he was mocking her for a moment until she realised his expression was one of sincere interest.

“Yes,” Hart told the boy firmly.

Kathy snorted. “No. Just a Miss. Miss de Beauvoir, pleased to meet you, Master…?”

“I’m Pike,” the boy said, standing a bit taller.

“Master Pike,” Kathy repeated with a smile.

Another voice called from inside the gloomy building. “Pike? What’s all… Well, I’m blowed. You came!”

Burt—as Kathy assumed this was he—hurried to the door, gesticulating madly. “Come in, come in! Don’t jus’ stand there. Put the wood in the ’ole afore all the world knows our business.”

The fellow was whip thin and all angles, and Kathy could not begin to guess his age beyond somewhere between fifty and seventy. His face, wrinkled with glee upon the sight of Hart, had creased like old leather, the deep grooves about his eyes and mouth giving him the look of a malnourished gargoyle. His clothes hung off his narrow frame, worn and with patches over patches about the elbows. He and the building they entered were clean if threadbare, however, at least compared with the alley they’d just left.

Burt clucked, shaking his head and walking a circle about Hart, looking him over.

“I still can’t get over it. Whatever did they feed you? Lord, but you’re as big as a bleedin’ horse, and such a skinny bit of bone you was too. But… never tell me this is your sister. What the devil did you bring such a pretty child to this hellhole for? You ’ad more sense at six, my lad.”