He was the only one qualified to contain them. Obviously.
Without asking permission, he stepped over the threshold and entered the house, the door closing behind him with a great thud even as he helped the maid to her feet. Once he had confirmed that all her extremities were in working order, he turned to the more unsettling matter at hand . . . the writhing pile of boys at the center of the foyer.
And then he did what he did best.
He entered the fight.
He pulled boys one by one out of the pile and set them on their feet, removing wooden swords and bags of rocks and other makeshift weapons from hands and pockets before setting them free, placing each of them on the ground with a firm “That’s enough,” before going back to extract the next.
He had taken the last two boys in hand—the one with the table leg and another who was quite small—and lifted them clear off the floor when he saw it, small and pink and unmoving.
He leaned in, still holding the two boys.
“Aww . . .” said the boy with the table leg, seeming not to mind that his feet were dangling two feet above the floor. “She’ll get away.”
Was that a—
The piglet sprang to life with an earsplitting squeal, running for the nearest room and startling Temple, who leapt back. “Jesus Christ!”
And, for the first time since he’d knocked on the door, there was silence inside No. 9 Cursitor Street.
He turned to face the boys, each of whom was staring up at him wide-eyed.
“What is it?”
None of them replied, instead all looking to their leader, who still held his weapon, but luckily seemed disinclined to use it. “You took the Lord’s name in vain,” he said, accusation and something close to admiration in his tone.
“Your pig startled me.”
The boy shook his head. “Mrs. MacIntyre doesn’t like cursing.”
From what Temple had seen, Mrs. MacIntyre might do well to worry less about the boys’ language and more about their lives, but he refrained from saying as much.
“Well then,” he said, “let’s not tell her it happened.”
“Too late,” said the little one in his other hand, and Temple turned to look at the boy, who was pointing to something behind him.
“I am afraid I already heard it.”
He turned to the voice, soft and feminine. And familiar.
He set the boys down.
She hadn’t run. “Mrs. MacIntyre, I presume?”
Mara did not reply, instead turning to the boys. “What have I said about chasing Lavender?”
“We weren’t chasing her!” several boys cried at the same time.
“She was our booty!” another said.
“Stolen from our treasure!” said the leader of the pack. He looked to Mara. “We were rescuing her.”
Temple’s brow furrowed. “The pig’s name is Lavender?”
She did not look at him, instead letting her attention move from one boy to the next with an expression he found distinctly familiar—an expression he’d seen a million times on the face of his childhood governess. Disappointment.
“Daniel? What did I say?” she asked, staring down the leader of the once-merry band. “What is the rule?”
The boy looked away. “Lavender is not treasure.”
She snapped her attention to the boy on the other side of Temple. “And what else? Matthew?”
“Don’t chase Lavender.”
“Precisely. Even if—? George?”
George shuffled his feet. “Even if she starts it.”
Mara nodded. “Good. Now that we’ve all remembered the rules regarding Lavender, please tidy yourselves and put away your weaponry. It’s time for breakfast.”
A ripple of hesitation passed over the boys, each one of the dozen or so faces peering up at Temple in frank assessment.
“Young men,” Mara said, gaining their attention. “I believe I spoke in proper English, did I not?”
Daniel stepped forward, a small, sharp chin jutting in Temple’s direction. “Who’s he?”
“No one for you to worry about,” Mara assured him.
The boys seemed skeptical. Smart boys.
Matthew tilted his head, considering Temple. “He’s very big.”
“Strong, too,” another pointed out.
Daniel nodded, and Temple noticed that the boy’s gaze tracked the scar high on his cheek. “Is he ’ere to take us? For work?”
Years of practice kept Temple from revealing his surprise at the question, a split second before understanding rocketed through him. The building was an orphanage. He supposed he should have seen that earlier, but orphanages tended to conjure visions of miserable boys in long lines for bowls of steaming grey mush. Not battalions of screaming warriors chasing after pigs.
“Of course not. No one is taking you.”
Daniel turned his attention to her. “Who is he, then?”
Temple raised a brow, wondering just how she’d reply to that. It wasn’t as though she could tell the truth.
She met Temple’s gaze, firm and fierce. “He’s here to exact his revenge.”
A dozen little mouths gaped. Temple resisted the urge to join them. Daniel spoke again. “Revenge for what?”
“A lie I told.”