Free Wild Boy and the Black Terror by Rob Lloyd Jones Page B

precariously on her head.
    Marcus took Lady Bentick’s hand and dipped his head to kiss her rings. Clarissa noticed him hesitate, briefly, as if to study her knuckles. She sensed that Wild Boy might have made something of that moment, but she couldn’t think what.
    Again she felt that she should have stayed with him at the palace. She couldn’t imagine this posh old lady having anything interesting to say. But Lady Bentick was obviously stinking rich, so at least the grub would be good. Clarissa decided she’d steal some for Wild Boy and then scoff it in front of his face. That would
really
annoy him.
    The turbaned servant gestured along the corridor with the sweep of a hand. “Dinner is served.”
    “Ah! Wonderful,” Lady Bentick declared, as if the idea of dinner was a complete surprise. Marcus accepted her arm and escorted her towards the dining room.
    “So are we on a case or not?” Clarissa whispered.
    Her guardian glanced back at her. His golden eye gleamed and a slight smile curled the corner of his lips. The case was definitely on.

10
    “ M ove a muscle and I’ll blow your brains out!”
    Wild Boy’s cry rang around the palace courtyard, frightening crows from the gatehouse turrets. He aimed a pistol at Dr Carew’s head, praying the Gentleman didn’t notice the weapon tremble in his hands. The antique flintlock was heavier than he’d expected when he snatched it from the Guard Chamber wall, and certainly not loaded. But Dr Carew was one of the Gentlemen’s Grey Hats, a scientist, not a soldier. Hopefully he wouldn’t realize he was being threatened with an ornament.
    Dr Carew looked down from the seat of his cart. His face flashed from panic to confusion, then back to panic as the carthorse whinnied and stamped.
    “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
    Wild Boy didn’t have time to explain about Lucien’s warning, and his fear that Marcus and Clarissa were in danger. He just had to get to them, and fast. The gatehouse doors were open and he could see out to the street. It was past midnight and below freezing, but the city was still busy. Hackney cabs sprayed up slushy brown snow, night soil men shoveled steaming dung into their carts, and ladies of the night picked their way though the ice to clients who stumbled from supper clubs, cigar shops and gambling dens. If Wild Boy tried to get to Lady Bentick’s house on foot, he – the Wild Boy of London – would be mobbed before he made ten steps.
    “This is a hold-up, doc,” he said. “I need that cart, which means you need to get off. Geddit?”
    Dr Carew didn’t get it at all. His face was deathly pale. A bead of sweat slid over his spectacle lens. “You wish to steal this cart?” he said. “There is nothing of value in it, just Prendergast’s corpse.”
    Inside the palace, the Gentlemen’s shouts grew louder.
    “I ain’t asking again,” Wild Boy said. “You’re new around here, doc, so maybe you ain’t heard about me. I’m the Wild Boy of London, a cold-blooded killer. You gonna get down or am I gonna shoot you down?”
    As he spoke, his eyes scoured the doctor for clues he could use against him, some form of blackmail to force him to help. But he saw nothing. Dr Carew did not drink or smoke, never gambled, and certainly did not take opium. All Wild Boy saw was the doctor’s same curious reaction, that glance over his shoulder, as if searching for a place to flee.
    When Dr Carew turned back, the fear was gone from his eyes. It was replaced by an intense, almost wolf-like stare.
    “I know you are not a killer,” he said. “Marcus said he trusts you, and I trust him. So tell me this: whatever you are doing, is it for a good reason?”
    Wild Boy wanted to punch himself. He’d been so desperate to save Marcus, he’d not thought of appealing to the Gentlemen’s loyalty to him.
    “Marcus is in trouble,” he said. “And Clarissa an’ all. I gotta get to Lady Bentick’s house in Berkeley Square.”
    “Then get in the