Taming of the Beast (Scandalous Affairs #2) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,37
his voice threadbare. From around Tynan’s broad frame, she made out a hint of a small towhead dropped in a palpable shame.
“Yea, we were wrong to doubt ye.”
She held her breath, all her nerves tingling as she prepared to throw the doors open and come to the defense of the anxious pair of children.
“Yes, well, knowing all you do about Newgate, you were right to bet on the prison. Alas, those walls couldn’t hold me.”
Sinking back on his haunches, he shifted a fraction, and she caught the tension as it seeped from the children’s frames.
When she’d been a small girl, she’d always despised how her parents would tower over her as they spoke. In addition to making her feel small and scared, she’d also felt… insignificant. Her brother, Tristan, however, had dropped to a knee and met her at eye level whenever he’d spoken to her. He’d, however, been the only gentleman she’d ever known to speak to her, or any child, in that manner. Not his friends, not anyone else in their family, and certainly none of the lofty guests her mother and father had entertained, back when there’d still been guests to entertain.
Just then, something moved inside her chest… moving her along with it.
Faye swallowed a curse as she pitched too far sideways and knocked one panel wide open.
Pausing mid-word, Tynan shifted his gaze to her. He discreetly motioned her back in.
Faye grabbed the panel and drew it shut… or attempted to.
She glared down at the same skirts Tynan had cursed a short while ago, and pushing the door open once more, she grabbed for the voluminous muslin, stealing a peek at the trio.
Where two small boys stared baldly back.
Faye gave a jaunty little wave, and looking between the children, she adjusted her hold on the book in her hand.
Tynan’s gaze landed on it, and his eyes widened a fraction before he whipped that furious stare up to hers.
Hugging that beloved volume, Faye couldn’t help but smile.
Tynan gave his head a frustrated shake.
Each boy stared, wide-eyed, at her.
Alas, when one’s hiding place was so badly revealed, one had two choices—slink back inside and hide, or boldly face the ones who’d seen you.
She opted for the latter.
Gathering up her skirts in one hand and tightening her hold upon the book in the other, she scooted forward, the fabric of her dress rustling loudly as she squirmed herself out and upright into a standing position. When she regained her feet, she favored the gawking duo with a smile. “Hullo,” she greeted.
All three seemed equally unimpressed or charmed by her smile. In fairness, though, Faye had never been the Poplar sister or woman to charm… anyone.
“Who’s that?” That gruff cockney belonged to a child of no more than eight or nine years of age. Possessed of the same grease-slicked hair and wary tones as Finnegan, the child proved to be another street waif who’d come to Tynan for assistance.
Tynan swiped a hand down his face. “No one, John. She is no one.”
“Then what’s she doin’ in the cupboard?” John asked. Confusion and wariness brought his brows dipping even farther.
“First, I’m not ‘no one.’” Sweeping forward, she held a palm out to the child who’d put the question to Tynan. “I am a friend of Mr. Wylie’s. I was fetching a book, and we were going to…” Her mind raced. She couldn’t very well reveal the truth of her connection with Tynan. “Discuss… poetry!”
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the way Tynan slapped a palm against his forehead.
“It is very good to meet you, Mr. John. You may call me Faye.”
“Poetry?” The boy looked at her outstretched fingers and, making no move to take them, turned another look up at Tynan. “Thought ye don’t ’ave friends,” he said with entirely too much world-weary suspicion for any child to know.
“I don’t,” Tynan said tightly. “We are not friends.” He slashed his hands down toward the floor. “At all.”
Faye folded her arms. He’d made his point.
“Not even close.”
Oh, now that was really enough. He needn’t be so rude about it.
“We have business dealings together.” He glared at Faye. “Ones that have nothing to do with poetry. The lady is a poor liar.”
Understanding lit the boys’ eyes. “Ahh,” both boys said in unison.
“Poetry?” the other child scoffed. “Yea, she is bad at lying.”
She bristled, taking less offense at being called out as a poor liar. “Why should you find it so surprising to believe Mr. Wylie in fact reads—”