Page 1 of Crimes, Conspiracies, and Courtship (Paddy’s Peelers Mystery #1)

PROLOGUE

November 1798

St. Giles Rookery, London

H arry scooped out the ashes from the kitchen hearth and dumped them into a bucket. He took it outside to the alley and spread it in a wide line along the edge of the opposite building, knowing the rain would eventually wash it away. Swiping at his nose with a ragged coat sleeve, he stifled a cough. If the doxies knew he was getting sick, they’d throw him out. Most would scoff at the idea of a brothel being a good home, but it was better than where he’d come from.

True, he had a shared bed at the orphanage instead of the floor by the hearth. But the caretakers had been quick with a stick or their hand, whether it was for disobedience or to soothe their own foul mood. The schoolmaster had been particularly cruel, only leaving marks beneath the children’s drab clothing. But the brutish schoolmaster had not worried about visible marks when Harry had tried to stop him from paddling the new girl.

She’d been the same age as him, around six, but so thin a stiff breeze could have knocked her over. The girl had stuttered, then shut her mouth tightly, and refused to answer the man’s question. The smell of fear had hung heavy in the classroom. The schoolmaster had bent the frail girl over a table and began his customary ten smacks on her backside. The silence in the room had only intensified the girl’s whimpering. By the fifth whack , she’d let out the most pitiful scream, and Harry had reacted without thinking.

Putting his hand on the man’s paddle, he had looked up defiantly at the tutor. His stomach had knotted as he realized he would now take the punishment for the girl. Her ten smacks and ten more for his impudence and disobedience. Harry hadn’t been able to sit for a week without holding back tears.

He had vowed during those seven days that he would never take another beating willingly, even if it meant being cast out or worse. So when the thin, crow-faced mistress struck him with the back of her hand for dropping a bucket, Harry had lost all sense—and hit her back.

The horror on her face had been a short-lived satisfaction.

His grin had been the last straw.

That afternoon, three women in tight-fitting, low-cut dresses and painted faces came to visit, watching him as he worked scooping coal. He was used to the people who paid to look at the orphans, though he had never understood it.

“How strong is he?” asked the plump woman with the frizzy blonde hair. “Let me see him lift something.”

Harry carried two buckets of water across the stone floor of the kitchen, and they bobbed their heads as if pleased. His muscles strained, pulling on his shoulders and sending a dull ache down his back. A heavy flowery scent seemed to float off the ladies.

“Can he start a fire?” the older woman asked. Her hair was dark but streaked with gray. “We need someone to tend to the hearth.”

“Aye, he can,” Crowface said with a smug smile.

“He’s no’ a bit puny.” The older woman approached him and squeezed his arm. She tipped his chin and pulled down his lower lip, squinting at his teeth. “Can you run fast?”

Harry nodded.

“Good, I don’t like waitin’ when I send you out on an errand.”

“How old is he?” the redheaded woman asked. “I don’t want ‘im too old, or he’ll skip off afore I get my money out of ‘im. But I ain’t gonna be accused of abusing a babe.”

“Nine and growing stronger,” Crowface had answered. Harry had bit his lip, knowing to correct the mistress would earn him a slap on the head.

“I suppose he’ll do,” said the older woman. She handed the mistress a tiny pouch of coin.

“He’s slow, if ye know what I mean, so I expect he’ll be loyal.” Crowface shoved Harry toward the ladies, hissing in his ear, “Ye’re where ye belong now. Good riddance.”

“Wha’ about me belongings?” he asked, his dark eyes darting from the group of ladies to the hall door. Could he get past her to run and get his box?

“I want another set of clothes to go along with ‘im,” said his new owner. “And let the poor lad collect his things.”

Harry nodded at her in thanks and dashed to the dormitory room where all the boys slept. He wouldn’t miss this sterile white room with its rows of identical counterpanes. Running down the second aisle of beds, he skidded to a stop before a middle mattress and dove underneath to clutch the small wooden box with the name WALTERS crudely carved into the top. He wouldn’t be able to say goodbye to any of his friends. Not that he had many.

When he returned to the kitchen, the women bundled him into a hackney coach, and the wheels lurched forward.

Away from the orphanage.

Away from the horrors of his childhood.

Away from the only home he’d ever known.

* * *

He soon learned his new lodging was a house of prostitution. Harry was in charge of the kitchen fire, being instructed to keep it going all night long. Visitors often asked for meals during their nightly—or hourly—stays. The women also gave him daily errands to run, and when he finished his work, he was free to find more odd jobs to earn his own coin for clothing and entertainment.

He had a roof over his head and a thick blanket on the floor near the fire that he only shared with a few bedbugs. He had enough to eat. Other than an occasional smack if he got too impudent, he was left alone. After two years, he’d come to a conclusion.

Life was better with the ladybirds.

He mopped his forehead with a rough woolen sleeve, trying to wipe away the growing fever. There was a new abbess in charge, and she hated any kind of sickness, terrified even a mumbling of an affliction would chase away customers. Or worse, she might contract a disease. Harry knew he had to hide his condition and continue his duties, or she’d toss him in the alley. She’d done it to one of the “boarders” last month.

But two days later, he woke to a foot kicking him in the side.

“Wake up, ye lazy swine.” A shadowy form hovered above him, and he squinted. The voice reached down and touched his face. “Gordon! Come fetch this lad and get him out of here.”

“Where ye want me to take him?”

“The workhouse for all I care. His face is as white as haddock’s belly, and he’s sweatin’ like a horse after a long race. He ain’t good for business, so he can’t stay here.”

Harry vaguely realized he was being carried. How could his skin be so hot, yet he felt so cold? He thought the bouncer was speaking to him, but then he was sitting on the cold ground, the smell of urine and rotting garbage filling his nostrils. Gordon pushed something under Harry’s coat. His box.

Harry leaned his back against a hard stone wall. It was so cool against his skin, and he fell into a feverish sleep.

His dreams were vivid and frightening. The schoolmaster was chasing him, throwing pencils at him like knives. He jerked at the prickling sensation, wondering if he was bleeding. Then he was in the Thames, the muddy water rising about him. He splashed at the water, trying to reach the shore, but his legs were numb from the frigid river.

So cold. So tired. If he just rested for a while…

Harry woke in a groggy state, hands pulling at him, voices yelling and cursing him to move, get up. He felt the blow on his cheek, a pressure against his cheekbone, but not any pain.

Maybe he was already dead. But he was still cold. A person couldn’t be cold in heaven.

Hands pulled at his coat, and his brain began to churn. His box. They were trying to steal his box. With his arms tight around his middle, he ducked his head. They would have to kill him first.

A roar brought him fully awake. Several boys were above him, trying to steal his coat and boots. Harry kicked at them in a panic. The booming growl sounded again. The boys looked up, their eyes wide, then ran. A giant’s shadow covered him now, so he shut his eyes, waiting for the end.

But Goliath picked him up and wrapped him in something. It was heavy and so warm. Harry snuggled against the soft wool, sniffled, and sighed.

“I’ve got ye, boyo,” said a deep, rumbling voice, “and ye’re safe now. Let’s just hope my Maggie t’inks dis is a grand surprise and not a terrible idea.”