Two hours and five dollars later, Jasper was sitting in a familiar interrogation room in the Tombs across from an exceedingly cross and filthy young man.
“W-Well?” Jasper said. They’d been staring at each other for at least three minutes; Jasper had been the first one to cave.
John Sparrow inhaled deeply and forced out a sigh, as if he were preparing for the challenge of a lifetime.
Jasper knew how he felt, exactly how he felt.
He’d met the young thief when he’d caught John picking his pocket on a street in Five Points, the pickpocket’s territory. John Sparrow had a stammer of the magnitude Jasper had possessed when he’d been younger—back before he’d stopped caring what people thought. Or at least what most people thought. Oddly, the day he’d made that decision—born of frustration—was the day his stammer had become exponentially less debilitating.
“They say I st-st-st-st-st-stole a man’s w-w-w—” He made a feral growling sound. “Fuck.”
Jasper could have told him that giving in to feelings of frustration only made things worse. Now, however, wasn’t the time to engage in any lessons.
“Since I m-met you whilst you were pinching my wallet, I’m t-tempted to believe the charge isn’t f-false.”
John shrugged.
“You sent for me, John. What d-d-do you want?”
The boy glared at him, his expression plainly saying Jasper had to be an idiot if he didn’t know why he’d been summoned.
“L-Let me guess. You think some sort of st-st-stammerer’s brotherhood exists between us?” John’s eyes widened at Jasper’s intentional, mocking stutter. “Or—and I daresay this is more l-likely—you see me as an easy m-mark. I get you out of here—using my word and m-more money—in exchange for your p-promise to become a law-abiding citizen. Before that happens, you d-do a runner and I end up looking like a f-f-fool.”
John’s mouth twisted, and then he shoved his chair back, making an ear-splitting screech against the flagstone. “Piss. Off.” He turned to the door.
“Sit.” Jasper didn’t raise his voice, but John’s hand froze six inches away from the splintered wooden frame. He was breathing hard, his narrow shoulders shaking—likely with anger, which was why he’d been able to enunciate so clearly.
John took a deep breath, pivoted on his heel, and dropped into his chair, his eyes burning holes through Jasper’s head.
“Here is the deal: I’ll get you out, g-give you a job, clothing, f-food, and a place to stay. The f-first time you break the law, I’ll drag you to the w-w-workhouse myself.”
For all that John couldn’t have been more than thirteen, the boy had mastered the art of masking his thoughts. “What job?” His lips twitched, and Jasper knew that would be because he’d forced out a sentence without stammering or yelling.
“Whatever j-job I say,” Jasper said testily—already furious with himself for making this inconceivably foolish offer. He grimaced at a new thought: Paisley.
Hiring servants had always been his valet’s purview. This would put his nose out of joint.
He examined the boy. Good. God. Paisley would skin him alive when he saw this urchin.
John snorted contemptuously at Jasper’s words. And then he sat there, as if contemplating the offer. His only offer, unless you counted going to a workhouse to freeze in the winter, broil in the summer, and gradually starve to death.
Jasper forced himself not to become irritated. Instead, he decided to let John take his time; it cost Jasper nothing and allowed the boy a modicum of pride—a commodity that had likely been rare enough in his pitiful, short life.
Finally, just when Jasper was beginning to second-guess his generosity, the boy gave an abrupt nod. “Awright.”
Oh, Jasper, what the hell have you done?
That, he thought, was an excellent bloody question.