“He’s a soldier,” Griz said with sudden inspiration as to how to win the boy’s confidence. And she was right.
Nick’s eyes sparkled. He drew an imaginary sword from his beltless, torn trousers and waved it aggressively. “I’m going to be a soldier when I grow up. One that fights on horseback. Did you do that?”
“I did,” Dragan replied.
Nick grinned and held out his hand. “Reckon that’s worth a shilling, then.”
Dragan sipped his ale. “You’ll get that from the queen when you join up.”
“Don’t need her money, anyway,” Nick said perversely. “Or yours. I earn plenty.”
“Lucky you. What do you do with all that money?” Dragan asked casually.
“I give it to my old mum,” Nick said piously. “She’s sick, prob’ly dying.”
“I can help there,” Dragan said at once. “I’m a doctor.”
Nick’s eyes narrowed with dislike. Clearly, he knew Dragan didn’t believe in the sick mother. “Thought you were a soldier.”
“I was both. Where is your mother?”
“How should I know? Where’s yours?”
“In her grave a long way from here.”
Something that might have been shame crossed the boy’s eyes before they slid from Dragan’s. “So’s mine. Prob’ly.”
“Then who looks after you?” Griz asked.
“No one,” the boy said grandly. “I look after myself.”
“How old are you?”
Nick’s eyes flickered. “Seven.”
Griz wondered. By his height, he could have been seven, but his manner, his quick responses, made her think of her nephew, who was ten. Of course, if he was really alone in these streets, he would have had to develop a maturity beyond his years to survive.
“What d’you want, coming to a place this anyway?” Nick asked, looking from one to the other.
“Just passing,” Dragan said, “and wanted a drink.”
“You don’t seem to like it much,” Nick observed, eyeing their still almost-full mugs. “You should have the gin instead.”
“Probably,” Griz agreed peaceably. “So, where do you sleep, Nick? Is it warm?”
“Warm enough. I got people. Family,” he added, in case she didn’t understand.
But glancing at Dragan, she rather thought she did. Whoever was looking after him wasn’t true family. No doubt someone who kept him away from school and sent him out to beg or work or steal, and took his earnings, too. But gave him a warm place to stay.
In a rookery, perhaps?
“I hope that wasn’t stolen goods in the bag you brought here,” Dragan said.
“Of course not,” the boy said with overdone shock. And yet the pleased innocence of someone who was actually telling the truth. He grinned at Dragan. “Just paper.”
Dragan glanced at Griz. “What kind of paper? Blank? Printed?”
“How should I know? Or care.”
“Because a bright boy like you would have kept a sheet or two,” Griz said conspiratorially.
Nick grinned at her. “Might have.”
“Let me see?” she suggested.
The boy considered her, then took a crumpled paper from his pocket. “Have it,” he said generously. “I’ve got another.”
“What does the tavernkeeper want with a load of paper?” Dragan wondered.
Nick shrugged. “I dunno. Art don’t want it.”
“Who’s Art?”
“I never said Art,” the boy said angrily. “I said Dad. My dad don’t want it. What would he want a load of old paper for? My dad’s rich.”
“Nick!” a man growled. A surprisingly well-dressed man in a top hat stood by a back door. He had clearly been in conversation with the potman, who still stood beside him.
The boy bolted over to them without a backward glance.
“He doesn’t have a father, does he?” Griz said bleakly.
“Not alive or functioning as a parent,” Dragan agreed. “But someone’s feeding him and giving him jobs.”
“Art.” She scowled. “Who is Art? I do hope he isn’t Nancy’s gentleman.”
Dragan’s gaze was on the men by the backdoor.
“Well, that can’t be him, at least,” Griz said of the better-dressed individual. “Nancy would never call such a man a gentleman.”
Nick seemed to be giving him cheek, too, for the man aimed an ungentle slap at the back of the boy’s head. Nick ducked in what looked a very practiced way, and grinned as he dived out through the back door. The two men turned their attention to Griz and Dragan.
“Do you think we asked too many questions?” Griz asked.
“Yes. And I think we have outstayed our welcome.” He pushed back his stool and stood, his gaze darting around the smoke-filled room. Although he didn’t take her arm as she rose, he walked very close to her as they made toward the front door. Again, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She tensed, expecting some kind of attack from behind.