Page 83 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

“Go on, Tom, make your bow, the way Mrs. Timmons taught you,” Mrs. Wadley urged.

The boy’s chin jutted out for a moment, but he executed a neat bow.

“There! Very good.” Mrs. Wadley’s voice rang with delight.

“If we could speak with Tom alone, Mrs. Wadley...”

“Yes, yes, of course.” The woman whipped out of the room, closing the door behind her.

“How are you doing, Tom?” Reed asked. “You want to sit?” He gestured toward an ottoman.

This offer seemed to relax the boy, for he plopped down on the round leather seat, the defiant tilt to his chin dropping. “I’m a’right. Mrs. Timmons’s got me in the next year’s grammar. Says I’m a helluva reader. Better wif numbers, though.”

Tom had a curious accent, his words slipping into deep cockney now and then, while others were carefully correct. Learning to speak like a gentleman, Desmond thought, as he himself had.

“Somehow I doubt those were Mrs. Timmons’s exact words,” Reid commented. “But I’m glad you’re progressing.”

“I figure I can get more skimmin’ from the till than liftin’ wallets.”

A pained expression crossed Reed’s face. “The goal was for you to get an education so that you could make a better living legally.”

The boy grinned, his blue eyes twinkling. “Just jokin’ with you, guv’nor. I’m not lookin’ to wind up wif...with my neck stretched.” He looked over at Desmond curiously. “’Oo... I mean, who’s he?” He expelled his h’s forcefully. “Not a nob like you.”

“Mr. Harrison is a friend of my sister’s. He’s trying to find someone, and I thought you might be able to help us.”

“Yeah? How’s that?” Tom’s attention was fully caught now, his eyes bright with intelligence.

“A fellow came by to threaten him,” Reed explained.

“What for?”

“It’s a far too long and complicated story,” Reed told him. “I’m not sure I understand it entirely myself. But the thing is we want to locate the ruffian who threatened him. I thought this might be within your area of expertise.”

“Expertise,” Tom repeated. Desmond could almost see him rolling the word over in his mind and storing it away. “Something I’d know, right?”

“Exactly.”

“Sure. I know ’em all. The O’Tooles and the Cooper lot, those Scots boys—you don’t wanna be dealing with them, I’ll tell you.”

“He didn’t sound Scottish,” Desmond said. “In fact, now that I think of it, he didn’t have much of an accent.”

“A toff?” Tom asked.

“No. But I’d say not someone from Seven Dials, either. He wore a suit rather like mine and a bowler—he didn’t look like a ruffian. Blond hair, light-colored eyes, blue or gray, I’m not sure. Tall.”

“Tall as you?”

“No. Not that tall—nor as tall as, um...” Desmond gestured toward Theo. He didn’t know the man’s title—what had Mrs. Wadley called him? He went on hastily, “More like Lord Moreland, perhaps a bit shorter. But wider.” He held out his hands to indicate the man’s girth. “Not fat, either, just big.”

“A punisher, sounds like,” Tom said knowledgeably, nodding.

“I believe he works for Mr. Zachary Wallace.”

“What owns the warehouses? I mean, who owns the warehouses.”

“I don’t know,” Desmond said, surprised. “It’s odd—I’ve never really thought about how he makes his money.” He thought. “I believe Carson once said Wallace was in shipping.”

“Aye, that’d be them. They’re down at the docks.”