The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(65)

Helena would.

Bloody hell.

The knots tightened and with his breath rasping in his ears, Robert broke into a run, shoving through the throng of coarse street folk.

“You bloody cork-brained bastard,” Helena shouted, glorious in her crimson-cheeked fury, as she shook her fist at the young earl. “What manner of brute are you that you’d put your hands on a child?”

Lord Whitby, one of the ton’s notorious dandies, stood, mouth agape. Of course, with her elegant muslin cloak and cultured tones, he couldn’t know what to make of being challenged by a lady. “Madam,” he at last sputtered. “This thief lifted my timepiece.”

Fire flashed in Helena’s eyes, and she put her arms behind her, protectively touching the child. Robert narrowed his eyes as with the faintest flick of her hand, she slipped the timepiece from the boy’s hand. She marched so close to Whitby that their noses nearly touched. “I’m sure you are mistaken.” And had Robert not been studying her movements so closely, he’d have failed to see the flash of gold before it disappeared.

Whitby scowled. “I assure you I’m not.”

She placed her hands on her hips. “Check your pockets.”

His eyes bulged. “How dare you—?”

“I demand you check your pockets, sir.” Her sharp cry shook with fury.

“I am a lord.”

“I do not care if you’re God in Heaven come to call—” At her escalating pitch, Robert stepped forward.

“Whitby,” he drawled, even as tension thrummed through him. What in blazes was she thinking risking her safety in this way?

Because that is the manner of woman she is . . .

The cluster of people assembled swiveled their gazes to Robert.

A gasp rang from Helena’s lips and she touched her hand to her breast. “Rob—my lord,” she whispered. Was it shock that filled her expressive eyes? Guilt? What should she have to be guilty of? Did she think he’d condemn her for her intervention? Or did something else bring her here this day . . . ? All number of inquiries tumbled forward, and he thrust them aside. For now. There would be time enough later to put his questions to Helena Banbury.

The child, with his dirt-stained cheeks, alternated his attention between Helena and Whitby and backed slowly away. Robert rested his hand on the lad’s small, narrow shoulders. “Miss Banbury, a pleasure, as always,” he greeted.

The Earl of Whitby opened and closed his mouth. He scratched at his head. “You know this chit?”

The lady darted her eyes about, giving her the look of a doe caught in the hunter’s snare. He positioned himself between her and a path of escape, and then turned his attention to the dandy in his yellow satin knee breeches. “Indeed. My family is quite closely connected with her father’s.” He gave the other man a hard look. “The Duke of Wilkinson.”

Whitby emitted a strangled cough. He offered a belated bow. Then: “She’s come between me and my timepiece,” the man said in a remarkably brave display. Or stupid.

“The lady said to check your pocket,” Robert said coolly.

“The boy lifted . . .” At the hard look Robert fixed on him, the man gulped audibly, and patted his jacket.

“See? It is as I—?” The man froze, and shook his head. “I don’t . . . ?” He scratched at his puzzled brow. “I didn’t have it a moment ago,” he mumbled, his cheeks flushed, as the small crowd dispersed.

“I take it the matter is settled?” he drawled, winging an eyebrow up. The street urchin wiggled, and he tightened his grip.

“The apology,” Helena piped in. They looked to her. “He owes the boy an apology.” She tipped her chin up a notch.

“Wait, just a moment,” Whitby began, the color heightening in his cheeks. “I do not apologize to street—”

Robert glowered him into silence. Granted, with her sleight of hand, she’d maneuvered the stolen timepiece back onto the man’s person, but what manner of life had she known, as a lady outside of the peerage?

“What is your name?” he gently asked the boy, aching inside for all Helena had known, and now this boy.

The boy, with his gaunt cheeks and tired eyes, jutted his chin at a mutinous angle, and Robert’s heart pulled. That defensive, proud gesture so very much Helena’s. “James,” he said, reluctance drawing out that utterance.

“An apology for James,” Robert said tersely.

Some emotion flared powerful in Helena’s eyes, and then she dropped her gaze to the boy’s head.

“I apologize,” Whitby bit out.

Robert inclined his head. “Oh, and Whitby?” he halted, as the dandy turned to go. “If you raise that cane or a single hand to another man, woman, or child, I’ll beat you with it. Are we clear?”

The earl emitted a strangled choke and with his cheeks flushed, he gave a jerky nod.

“That will be all, Whitby,” Robert said in austere tones.

Dropping a tight bow, the other man wheeled on his heel and sprinted down the street.

Robert fished out a fat purse and handed it to James. “You are, of course, free to continue picking pockets until you find yourself swinging from a hangman’s noose.” He paused. “Or you can use that coin and have a hack deliver you to the Marquess of Westfield’s residence in Mayfair.” Robert fished around for a card and finding one, he held it out.