In Bed with the Earl (Lost Lords of London #1) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,2

Lord has no wish to be found!

V. Lovelace

The Seven Dials, London, England

Shite.

Having dwelled in the sewers longer than he’d moved amongst men on the equally fetid streets of St. Giles, Malcom North held slogging through that muck as the most familiar memory of his existence. It was also the oldest.

Malcom picked his way through the dank grime that eventually tunneled out and emptied into the Thames.

He timed each rise and fall of his foot to the flow of water. He used the sounds of London’s true underbelly to mask his steps. Using the seven-foot pole that he’d carried for almost fifteen years now, he navigated the underground system.

He stilled, the water sloshing around his ankles, as the distant whine of an approaching herd echoed around the tunnel. Shoving the pole into the clever loop in his shirt, Malcom caught a metal chain in both hands. He climbed his feet up the walls, and hefted himself higher. Then, grabbing for the metal hooks left by the scaffolding that had built this underground world, he held himself aloft as the army of rats splashed ahead, racing through the filth and waste. The creatures squealed and chirped as they ran, climbing over one another in search of a poor blighter to feast upon.

Malcom’s arms strained from the exertion, but he channeled the stinging discomfort. Over the years, he’d learned one discomfort transmuted into another. A man wasn’t capable of feeling two hurts at once, and as long as he mastered one, he could defeat anything. His biceps and shoulders strained; sweat dripped from his brow.

He grimaced through the pain and remained hanging there until the last of the rodent pack, a lone white creature, went scurrying past.

Malcom lowered himself. Waiting. Waiting. The rapid splash of water breaking grew more distant, and he let himself fall. His previously strained muscles exalted from that release, the prickling that shot through his limbs a peculiar blend of pleasure and pain.

As his feet hit the stone floor, the water splashed noisily, splattering his trousers with the residual waste. He’d long ago ceased to smell the stench of this place, the tepid air more rotted than the coal-infused scents which those who dwelled in East London were forced to breathe daily.

As a boy, this had represented a choice . . . a luxury Malcom and all those born of his rank were without. Which sewer would he search? How would he find the means to survive? He’d not relied on the support of any gang leader. Every decision had been made by Malcom without any influence from the derelicts above. The life of a tosher represented all he knew.

And all he wished to know.

Gathering up his pole, Malcom resumed his march through the tunnel, scanning the brick walls as he cut a path through the water. Walls which had been a home, a place to hide from bastards bent on buggering a terrified street lad alone in the world. A haven from the constables who’d rid Polite Society of the guttersnipes sullying the air with their mere presence. And a place to hide from the gang leaders who’d built their empires on the backs of boys and girls.

Malcom stopped; his gaze zeroed in on a brick that jutted out, the difference between it and the others so slight it might have been an optical illusion. And yet there were no illusions in these parts. Just harsh realities.

Unsheathing the crude dagger he’d found in another tunnel when he’d first begun as a tosher, he did a sweep of the darkened space and then started forward, lifting his legs and lengthening his strides to minimize the echo left by his splash.

Sticking the weapon between his teeth, Malcom pressed his back against the wall so he could search for the foes who lurked everywhere.

Because for all the uncertainty that met a man in East London daily, there was only one fact which held true: there was always someone waiting in the hopes of usurping from a person his power.

Malcom always remained one step ahead of those trying to take his territory. It was why he was here even now.

Reaching behind him, his fingers immediately found the brick jutting out no more than a quarter of an inch. When he was a boy, digging in these spots had proven a simple, effortless task.

The brick immediately slipped into his hand. Setting it aside, Malcom probed the surrounding stones. He immediately loosed four bricks until a two-foot-wide opening gaped in the sewer wall. Angling