Page 20 of Rakes & Reticules
Sean would require a uniform for his promotion, of course.
An advancement was something to consider.
Fletcher had permitted Bernicia Dough, the head cook, to send leftovers home with the boy since he supported himself and his two younger siblings. Sean never mentioned parents, and Fletcher could only assume there weren’t any, whether due to death, abandonment, or perhaps incarceration.
Or perchance the children had fled an abusive home as Primrose McKessick—now his brother Leonidas’s wife—had done. Sadly, that often proved the case in London’s seedier neighborhoods, where poverty, unemployment, and alcohol often led to violence.
In any event, sending along food and other supplies wouldn’t put Fletcher out of business. The world was cruel to orphans without resources.
“Good morning, Mr. Westbrook. Sean.” Fred Brindlecombe, the concierge, poked his head around the corner before continuing to the front counter without waiting for a response.
Smiling, Fletcher patted the boy’s thin shoulder and couldn’t help but notice his fine bones. He was much frailer than he let on and undernourished too.
Fletcher made a mental note to tell Mrs. Dough to add extra bread, cheese, meat, and milk to the supplies she sent home.
“At the very least, I can have Mrs. Dough prepare her infamous tincture and a poultice.” When Sean opened his mouth to protest, Fletcher shook his head. “I shan’t take no for an answer, and if your sister does not improve, promise me you’ll allow me to look in on her.”
Though Fletcher no longer practiced medicine, he could diagnose perfectly well and obtain and pay for a physician if the child needed one.
“Yes, sir.” Though Sean nodded, his guarded expression revealed he had no intention of accepting the offer. Nonetheless, Fletcher would persist for the child’s sake and his staff’s lest the illness prove contagious.
Fletcher turned to leave but pivoted back toward the boy.
“Sean? What time did you leave last night?”
Most people never took notice of the boy, moving about the club like a silent shadow. He might’ve seen or heard something untoward.
Tilting his face upward, Sean scratched his head. “About ten, I think. Maybe a little earlier. It was just after the fancy gent in the red coat arrived. The one with a ruby the size of my thumb in his neckcloth.”
“Lord Huxley?” A self-important dandified coxcomb if ever there was one.
Artemus Fogwell, the Viscount Huxley, and his wife’s presence had been a bit of a surprise. Huxley, the pompous windbag, had shown a decided interest inDe la Chanceseveral months ago—well over a year ago, in truth—but last night was the first time he’d graced the club with his presence until closing.
Surely, it was a coincidence that an ominous letter appeared afterward.
Wasn’t it?
Fletcher made a mental note to apprise Torrian of that interesting detail.
“Notice anyone suspicious wandering around the private quarters?” Fletcher planted his hands on his hips.
“Sorry, sir.” Sean shrugged again, causing his coat to brush the tops of his knees, one of which bore a neatly stitched patch. “But I left through the kitchen like I always do.”
Of course Sean had. So he could collect the leftovers and the biscuits Mrs. Dough baked for the youth and his siblings.
“Very well.” Fletcher narrowed his eyes, skimming his focus over the boy.
Perspiration dotted Sean’s cheeks.
The lad didn’t look at all well.
“Are you feeling quite the thing, Sean? I shan’t dock your pay if you need to go home and rest.”
“Not a bit of it, sir.” Sean pasted a bright smile on his pallid face as he placed chairs around the tables. “You can count on me.”
Morry Chandler, Fletcher’s head of security and second in command, strolled into the main gaming salon, his expression inscrutable. Wiry and bearing a scar on his forehead that paralleled Chandler’s right eyebrow, Fletcher trusted him implicitly.
“A word, Mr. Westbrook?” He slid the boy a brief glance. “Privately.”
