Page 63 of Saving Miss Pratt

All appeared to be going well until they approached the Serpentine. Vincent tugged at her hand in an effort to hurry their pace. “I want to go swimming!” In his exuberance, he pulled so hard her reticule slipped from her wrist and fell to the ground when he released her hand. Before she could stoop to retrieve it, someone shot past, scooping it up and dashing off.

“Stop!” she yelled at the figure of a child, moving so fast he was almost a blur.

Ignoring her, the child continued along his escape route. The children, no doubt thinking it a merry game, gave chase. The thief looked over his shoulder to gauge the distance of his pursuers at the same moment he approached a large oak.

Luck was on her side when the boy tripped and fell at the foot of the tree. He attempted to rise, but wobbled on his feet and, howling in pain, tumbled back to the ground just as the Ugbrooke children arrived, followed closely by Mr. Ugbrooke, Priscilla, and Nancy.

Pain seared Priscilla’s side from running with too tight stays, and she fought to pull air into her deprived lungs.

Vincent reached for the reticule, still clutched in the thief’s hands, resulting in a tug-of-war.

“Give it back!” Vincent bellowed, sounding very much like his father.

Mr. Ugbrooke raised his walking stick as if to use it as a weapon on the child. Before he could swing, Priscilla stepped in front of the injured thief, blocking the attack.

“Step aside, Miss Pratt.”

“I forbid you to strike this child. Can’t you see he’s injured and unable to run away?”

The little thief released the reticule to Vincent’s grubby, snotty hands, who waved it in the air in victory. “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” He jumped up and down as if his feet had springs.

“Thank you, Vincent.”

“I’m going to locate a constable,” Mr. Ugbrooke said.

The thieving boy’s eyes widened, and his chin trembled.

It was true, Priscilla had no great love for children, at least not like most women. But something about the child before her dredged up a memory that caused shame to slither in her stomach.

She took in the child’s appearance. His breeches, much too short for his growing body, were torn and frayed. Mud and bits of grass matted the cap covering his overly long hair. Blue eyes shimmering brightly stared at her and contrasted sharply with the mask of dirt on his face. She recalled another excursion in the park where the duke had attended to Manny, who had become his ward.

She’d been disgusted at Manny’s appearance. Encouraged by her mother, she had tried to turn the situation to her advantage—and failed miserably. Shame burned her cheeks, remembering her selfishness when a child was in need. No doubt the duke and duchess had reacted to Priscilla’s manipulations with the same disgust she now felt for Mr. Ugbrooke’s threats.

“There is no need for that, sir. My reticule has been safely returned. No harm done, except to the child himself.”

Mr. Ugbrooke turned an unsettling shade of red. “No harm? You cannot allow a thief to go free. He must be punished.”

The boy groaned, and he wiped his nose, muffling the sound of a sniffle, clearly doing his best to mask an onslaught of tears.

Priscilla cast a quick glance at the boy. She was not one to wager, but she would put up the eight shillings in her reticule to bet the child had once belonged to the same gang as Manny and the child with the strange name the Somersbys were rearing.

Could she really allow Mr. Ugbrooke to ask the constable to throw the child into gaol? She shuddered at what would await him there.

“He’s injured,” she insisted, the pitch of her voice raising as it was wont to do when she became frustrated. “He needs medical attention.”

“You”—Mr. Ugbrooke pointed a finger at her—“are too soft. It’s precisely such a lack of moral fiber that has led this child astray. He needs a firm hand and punishment for his crimes.”

Priscilla scrambled for a solution—one that wouldn’t involve the incarceration of a child. “Very well, then. Go fetch a constable, but take the children with you. My abigail and I shall stay with the boy.”

He huffed off, his children twisting their necks to stare back as they followed behind him.

“You ain’t really goin’ to turn me in, are you?” The boy sniffled again.

She stooped toward him. “Of course not. I only wished to remove Mr. Ugbrooke from the vicinity until I could decide what to do.”

“’E’s a right mean bloke.”

She couldn’t argue with that. “He has strict beliefs in morality. I don’t think he understands that there are often extenuating circumstances for one’s behavior.”

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