A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(67)

And most important of all, no female of any age of a good family would be out alone. If a girl couldn’t get a male escort, she’d go with a gaggle of friends. Could he handle more than one, even with the entity’s help? He didn’t think so.

Suddenly the coach stopped, and he heard Alf fling himself off the box. He made sure Katherine was still sleeping, then flung open the door of the coach just in time to see Alf pull down a fleeing street urchin into a snowbank. He rushed to Alf’s assistance; Alf had the brat by the ankles, and the little wretch was flinging chunks of snow at Alf’s face. Alexandre flung himself bodily over the boy’s torso and was rewarded by several vicious elbow-blows to his ribs. He gritted his teeth on the pain, and awkwardly beat one-handed at the boy’s head; Alf let go of the brat’s ankles, scrambled to his feet, slipping in the snow, and administered a scientific blow to the boy’s head with his favorite cosh. The brat went limp.

Alexandre got to his feet, looking warily up and down the street to see if the ruckus had attracted any attention. They were still inside the bounds of Battersea, in one of the areas of waterfront warehouses. There wasn’t a sign of anyone coming to the boy’s assistance, much less any police.

“Liddle barstard wuz tryin’ t’rob the boot,” Alf explained as Alexandre dusted himself off and rolled the boy over with his toe. “Snuck outer th’ lane, ’e did. ’Opped up there quiet’s a mouse, I waited till ’e wuz thinkin’ ’bout wut wuz i’ the boot an’ not me.” He kicked the boy vengefully in the ribs. “Reckon ’e’ll do?”

Alexandre huffed in surprise at the thought. True, the entity had not specified females. True, the entity had specified “pure,” but the brat couldn’t be more than twelve, and it wasn’t all that likely he’d had any sexual experience yet. Although with these street Arabs, you never knew . . .

Still. “Never turn down a gift horse,” Alexandre stated, to Alf’s approval. “Let’s get him sorted out and secured. I’ve half a mind to stick him in the boot, once he’s secured.”

Alf laughed. “I don’ want ’im crushin’ nothin’, guv.” Together they heaved him onto the floor of the coach; Alf got back up on the box and Alexandre trussed the brat up and gagged him, taking revenge for his bruised ribs by tying the wrists and ankles extra-tight, and not only tying the boy’s hands behind his back, but tying him at the elbows as well, wrenching his shoulders back in what would be a very painful position once he woke up.

Then he strapped the boy down on the floor and took his place on the seat, putting his feet up on the bench as well. This was going to be interesting.

Sooner than he would have thought, he heard changes in the boy’s breathing that indicated he was conscious again. A moment after that, he heard sounds indicating the brat was testing his bonds. Of course, it was pitch dark inside the coach, so the little bastard didn’t know he was there. He listened to the muffled grunts and futile kicks for a while, before speaking out into the darkness.

“I wouldn’t bother,” he said, as the sounds immediately ceased. “I’m very, very good at tying people up.”

After he spoke, there was nothing in the coach but the boy’s labored breathing, Katherine’s drugged breathing, and the creaks and rattles of the coach itself.

“You probably think I’m taking you to the police,” he continued, after what he considered to be a suitable length of silence. “I’m not.”

He let the silence lengthen again. When he judged enough tension had built, he continued. “Your next guess would be that I am taking you to a ship, to be used as labor. Or straight to one of the penal ships, to be taken to Australia. I’m not doing that, either.”

He was enjoying this . . . this was almost as much fun as tormenting that ugly, ugly girl had been. He sensed he probably wouldn’t be able to break this brat’s spirit, not in the short period of time he had before he left the little bastard in the basement. But he could certainly terrify him.

“Now, I want you to bestir what few wits you have, and try to think of every terrible thing that could befall a boy like you at the hands of a man like me,” he said softly, allowing menace to creep into his tone. “A man with no morals, no Christian virtues. A man who enjoys inflicting pain. A man who thinks creatures like you should be exterminated like cockroaches. A man who does not know mercy or pity. Just think about everything I could do to you. I have a house with a deep basement. No one will hear your screams. And I have a drop straight into the sewers. No one will find your body until it washes up somewhere downstream. Why, it might even get as far as the Channel.”

A moan of terror escaped from behind the gag. The boy began to pant with terror. Alexandre let the silence linger one last time.

Then he leaned over where he knew the boy’s head was, and whispered, “Whatever you are imagining . . . it’s going to be a hundred times worse.”

Then he laughed.

About that time, the coach came to a halt, and he knew they must be in the lane behind the house. The coach rocked as Alf climbed down off the box. The door opened, and Alexandre leaned down to unbuckle the straps holding the boy down. It was nearly as black outside as it was inside the coach, but Alf had put out the coach lamps. They didn’t dare chance one of the neighbors looking out at the wrong time. “Yew got ’im trussed up good, guv?” Alf asked.