A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(34)
He pulled on a shirt, pants, and a dressing gown, and ambled into the kitchen. There was Alf, presiding over the stove and dishing out bacon and eggs, while the two girls put together a tray, giggling.
“Well,” he drawled, leaning on the doorframe. “This is a nice domestic little scene.”
Alf turned and winked. “Iss Chrissmuss, an’ ye give the char the day orf. So she wuzn’t gonna be ’ere t’ be outraged. Figgered we’d give ye breakfuss in bed, an’ we’d be orf oursel’s.”
“I’ll take the tray myself,” he said, and did so. The blond gave him a saucy wink as she passed it to him, then sat down to her own breakfast. Alf followed him out for a moment.
“Lissen, guv, Oi’m roight sorry about thet liddle bitch—” He shook his head. “Iff’n Oi’d’a knowd—”
“She’s gone, right?” he asked.
“Not ’ide nor ’air,” Alf confirmed, frowning fiercely. “Dunno where she went, and don’ care. ’Ope she turned inter a icicle or fell in th’ bloody Thames, Oi do.”
Anger flared in him, but he let it die down. “That makes two of us. But you made it up to me, so all’s even.” In fact, now that he was fully awake, the pleasant smell of well-cooked eggs and beans and bacon were wafting up to his nose, and knowing he had triumphed in his magic last night—all things considered, last night’s little dust-up was a mere trifle. The blond had been . . . very satisfactory. Even imaginative. “It’s all right. And . . . my business last night went well enough. When the house is empty again, I’ll show you.”
“Roight.” Alf hesitated. “Ye moind if I keeps ’em around a liddle longer?”
Dear god. If such a thing is possible, I really am going to ask for his sexual stamina, I swear. “Suit yourself, Alf,” he replied. “As long as they don’t get too comfortable. You are the one who told me about not letting whores stay too long.”
“Roight ye are, guv.” Alf gave him a two-fingered salute, and headed back to the kitchen. Peals of giggles greeted his arrival.
With an amused snort, Alexandre took his tray to the sitting room. This might be a good chance to peruse The Book, and determine exactly what first to ask of the entity in exchange for his services in . . . strengthening it.
7
KENSINGTON Garden on Christmas Day, late morning was, as predicted, deserted. Those who had assembled to see the Swimming Club swim the hundred-yard “Peter Pan Cup” race in the freezing water of the Serpentine were long gone, and winner and losers alike were probably on their third or fourth “medicinal” brandy. The Park was dotted with snowmen and snow forts, all deserted. An overcast day promised more snow later. Suki romped on the path ahead of them, bags of breadcrumbs stuffed in both pockets to feed the birds, eyes bright as she looked everywhere for Robin.
They had both decided to bring Suki along. After the excitement of opening presents was over, and breakfast was eaten, when the time came for the (hoped-for) rendezvous with Robin Goodfellow, Nan and Sarah just couldn’t leave Suki behind. She adored Robin, and he for his part seemed to have a soft spot for children. And they didn’t like to ask Mrs. Horace to either take Suki with her to church, or stay behind and watch her. So when Mrs. Horace went off to her midday church service, the three of them walked until they could summon a cab and drove the rest of the way here.
“Where do you think he might choose to meet us?” Sarah asked, shading her eyes to peer ahead.
Nan was going to answer with her best guess—when a sprightly voice spoke up from practically in her ear.
“Look behind you!”
Her heart jumped into her throat and she and Sarah both whirled to find Robin standing behind her, grinning.
Today he looked just like any sort of ordinary adolescent boy you might find in the Garden on a late Christmas morning; cap pulled down on his head, muffler tied around it and wrapped around his neck, mittens, stout coat, corduroy trousers and waterproof Wellington boots. But Sarah and Nan would have known him anywhere, for surely there was not a single living soul on this earth that had those brilliant, emerald-green eyes.
Suki must have heard him too, for they heard her scream, “Robin!” in delight, and a moment later, she hit Robin like a little cannonball. He caught her effortlessly, and just as effortlessly swung her around several times before putting her down.
“Did you bring crumbs for the birds and sweeties for my friends?” he asked her, for the moment paying no attention to the adults. When she nodded vigorously, he turned her around and pointed over her shoulder at a congregation of wild birds (strangely, none of them pigeons, which was unheard of in this park), some rabbits and squirrels, and two creatures of the sort that had appeared in Beatrice Leek’s house. “Go play!” he ordered, and with a squeal, Suki pelted toward them.
“Are those brownies?” Nan asked, incredulously.
“Hobs,” Robin corrected. “brownies won’t leave housen if they can help it, except t’move. Mistress Leek’s brownie brought the note to her hob, and her hob brought ’em both to me. She don’t know she got a hob; he minds her garden and her dovecote.” He eyed them both gravely. “You were right to be troubled. Something dark’s on the move. Dunno what it is, neither, but I can feel it, pushing to come through.”