Page 26 of To Dare the Devil

Max went to answer, only to find a blank. He frowned, a panicky sensation flitting around in his chest.

“Don’t remember?”

Max shook his head.

The boy sighed. “Ah well. We’ll call you Valentine. That’s what old Mrs Wilkes called you, on account of you being so pretty, she said. Burt said you might not remember stuff. Said when you get a big fright like you did, it can addle your brain box.”

“It can?” Max asked, casting around his beleaguered mind to remember what else he knew of himself.

“Oh, yes,” the boy said, with all the assurance of a small boy who knows everything. “It’ll come back, don’t fret.”

Max nodded, deciding he was too exhausted to worry, anyway. This was his second chance, that much he remembered clearly. There was likely a reason he was here, a reason his memory was gone, so he may as well let things play out. Looking around at the room, with plaster falling off the walls and an unpleasant mouldy stain decorating the ceiling in the corner, he knew one thing with certainty. He’d never been in a room like this in his life. His world had been one of privilege and ease.

“My things?” he asked the boy, who was watching him avidly.

“Well, they robbed anything valuable afore we got to you, save for your boots. They’re here. I polished ’em for you. Must have cost a bleedin’ fortune. Your clothes were here too, but they’re so bloody and messed up they’re no good for you now. Burt sold ’em because some of the material was good. Expensive cloth.”

“He sold my clothes?” Max asked, taken aback.

“Yeah. Only to buy you new ones.” The boy glared at him. “We ain’t thieves here.”

“I beg your pardon,” Max said at once, aware he’d caused offense. This boy and his father had cared for him when they could barely care for themselves. “I meant no insult to you or your father. I’m most grateful to you.”

“Cor, don’t you talk funny? You a lord or summat?”

A lord? Max turned the notion about in his head. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I… I think I might be.”

“That explains it, then. You sound like a toff.” The boy nodded, satisfied with this explanation. “Burt’s not my pa, anyhow. He just took me in when no one else wanted me. Why’d someone try to snabble you, then?”

Max shrugged and then sucked in a sharp breath as the motion tugged at the wound in his side. “Any number of reasons,” he replied on a gasp, knowing that much was true, which was a sorry indictment of his character, when he could remember that much and not his own name.

“A bad ’un are ye, then?” There was no judgement in the boy’s eyes, only curiosity, so Max nodded.

“Yes. I was, anyway. I’ve decided I shan’t be bad anymore.”

“That’s good. Burt says wicked fellows go to hell. He reckons it's good to help people out. Like takin’ me in. I ain’t the first, neither. Do good things and good things come back to you. That’s what Burt says.”

Max smiled. “Burt sounds like a wise fellow. Do you think he could teach me to be good?”

The boy considered this for a moment and then gave a decisive nod.

“Reckon,” he said.

Present Day…

27th May 1842, Church Street, Isleworth, London..

Kathy poured herself a small glass of brandy and took a hesitant sip. Screwing up her face, she winced as she swallowed. Well, it was medicine, she supposed. At least, Mama always said it was medicinal when she had a glass after a difficult day. She swore it soothed the nerves. As a pleasant glow of warmth bloomed in her stomach, Kathy realised she might have a point. Taking her glass with her, she made her way to her brother’s greenhouse. Hart wasn’t here today, which meant she had the place to herself. She let herself in and took a deep breath, inhaling the warm damp air with a sigh of relief. It was strange, as she’d never been overly fond of the countryside, preferring the life and bustle of the city, but there was something about the greenhouse that quieted her, and she always felt better here.

She took a seat on the high stool by the workbench, and a larger swallow of the brandy, forcing it down. The next swallow was rather easier, and she felt the tension in her shoulders unknot a fraction. She could not get the image of that big, ugly brute trying to strangle the life out of Lord Vane from her mind. Somehow it got tangled up with the image of him years ago, fighting for his life on that meagre little bed in that dreadful building in the Dials. Emotion snarled in her chest, making her breathless, and she took another sip of brandy, blinking back tears. She did not want to feel this way. Oh, why had she crossed paths with him after all this time? And why had she been so stupid as to guilt him into giving her this job? Though the job was everything she wanted, there was no avoiding being in his company and, the more time she spent with him, the worse this would become. He was just so likeable, and wasn’t that just typical? Why was a man who was a womaniser and libertine not as ugly as his actions? But then he’d not have much success at being a libertine, would he? Kathy groaned and put her head in her hands.

“What the bloody hell are you playing at, you little dimwit?”

Kathy jolted, almost toppling from her stool as her brother’s voice.

“What?” she squeaked, alarmed. “I didn’t touch anything. I’m just sitting here!”

Hart muttered a rude word under his breath and strode in. “I mean, what’s this I hear about your new job? Mama said you’re working for Lord Vane. Are you out of your tiny mind? Or are they for allowing it? I thought you said you were working with Eliza.”