by Carola Dunn
"You seem to me to know a great deal.” Touched by pity for the hand-to-mouth existence led by the Kilmore ladies in Northumberland, he recalled with anger the carefree life of Jason Kilmore and his late father in London.
They moved on. Several times Thea stopped with questions, but she avoided directly addressing the market people, even a motherly-looking woman with a basket of mulberries. Rod guessed that she was simply shy with strangers, but the regrettable example of his mother was too clear in his mind. The Marchioness of Hazlewood considered a large proportion of the Polite World beneath her notice. Was it possible Thea felt likewise about the stall-holder?
Thea pointed out to him a barrow laden with five or six different sorts of apples. The ferret-faced man behind it noticed. With a broken-toothed grin, he polished a russet-hued apple on his grimy sleeve and held it out to her.
"Want a taste, ducky?"
She hesitated. Rod was about to intervene when he saw a small hand creep up from beneath the barrow and seize one of the largest apples.
The man pounced. “Gotcha.” He hauled out a ragged, shoeless urchin and yelled for a beadle.
The child, a boy of about ten, whimpered in his grasp. A few onlookers gathered, but the sight was too commonplace to attract much attention.
A stout constable pushed through the unheeding crowd.
"Don’ give me to ‘im, guv,” the boy begged, tears streaking his dirty face. “I'll do anyfing. I'll work for nuffing. My sister'll die if I—"
"Shut yer gob, you dirty little thief,” the barrow man snarled, shaking him. “I got a living to make. Here, orficer, here's anuvver bloody Newgate bird for yer."
Rod stepped forward. “Just a minute. What was that you said about your sister, lad?"
The boy clutched at his sleeve. “She's sick, yer honour, and starving. Wivout me, she won't last the day. She's only little."
"You don't want to believe a word of it, sir,” said the constable pompously, licking his pencil. “Lie as easy as they breathe, they do. ‘Anging's too good for ‘em.” He turned to the apple-seller. “I'll take ‘im off your ‘ands now but you'll ‘ave to come round to the public office in Bow Street later to swear a warrant. Name?"
"Wait,” Rod interrupted. “I doubt he's an incorrigible villain and I've a mind to enquire further into this matter. I'll stand surety for the boy. I am the Marquis of Hazlewood and you may find me in Arlington Street, St. James's."
"Yes, my lord. Certainly, my lord.” The constable wrote laboriously in his notebook. “What's your name, boy?"
"Peter Barker. I don’ ‘ave to go to gaol?"
"Long as you stays out o’ trouble, young fella-me-lad. If you goes pinching stuff again, you'll be ‘anged and ‘is lordship ‘ere'll ‘ave to pay. You mind what ‘is lordship tells you."
"Oy, what abaht me apple?” demanded the barrow man, unimpressed.
"I'll pay you for the apple and I'll take a dozen more.” Rod dropped a shilling into the man's outstretched palm.
"'Elp yerself, m'lord, and if yer wants my advice, keep yer ‘and on that young bugger or ‘e'll scarper."
Rod put a couple of apples in each pocket of his topcoat and, at his gesture, the wide-eyed boy stuffed the rest into his pockets and torn shirt-front.
"Can I give one to my sister?"
"If she really exists, you may give them all to her. Where is she?"
Peter pointed south, towards the river, and started eagerly in that direction. About to follow, Rod suddenly remembered Thea. He glanced around. She was standing a few feet behind him, a look of helpless distress on her face. She had every right to take him to task for deserting her.
"My apologies. Miss Kilmore. I shall have to take you back to the carriage and send you home without my escort, I fear."
"Let me come with you,” she begged, to his surprise. “If the little girl is ill, you must not waste any time finding her."
"Peter's home is undoubtedly no fit place for a lady."
"I shall be safe with you. But I do think we should buy some bread and milk if she is truly starving. Apples are not very digestible."
He took her hand and pressed it. “A good thought. Come, then."
As they turned towards Southampton Street, Rod made no attempt to restrain Peter. If the boy were lying, he would make his escape, continue thieving, and eventually be caught and suffer the penalty. If he were telling the truth, he had no reason to run off.
Peter stuck close to his side, now and then touching his sleeve as if to be sure he was really there. “Rosie's all I got,” he confided. “Me mam died when she was born, then not too long ago Pa got bit by a prancer and ‘is ‘and swelled up somefing awful and ‘e died. ‘E were an ostler. I could've joined a flash ‘ouse gang and been took care of, but they wouldn't ‘ave Rosie acos she's too little to prig stuff or—” he glanced at Thea “—or anyfing."
"So you tried thievery on your own account.” Rod kept the judgement from his voice. For abandoned children, the choices were all too few.
"Not till I ‘ad to! I've swep’ crossings and ‘eld ‘orses, but sometimes you ‘old a gentleman's ‘orses and then ‘e don't give you nuffing. I could've got by if it was just me, but I got Rosie to look after."
His fierce loyalty to his little sister reminded Rod of Thea's protectiveness towards Megan and Penny. He had sisters of his own, both older and younger, but they had never needed more than his occasional escort. His philanthropy had turned outwards.
Now, however, his thoughts turned to the inner man as the smell of new bread wafted to his nostrils. He had left home without breakfasting.
"There is a baker's shop,” said Thea.
"Will you go in, Miss Kilmore?” He didn't want to leave either her or the boy alone outside. “Buy what you think appropriate for the children, and add a little something for me."
She flushed. “I did not bring any money, sir."
"My dear girl, you must never go out without at least a shilling for a hackney,” he reproved her, digging in his pocket for change. The apples were in the way. He gave one to Peter, saying, “Eat,” and sank his teeth into another as Thea disappeared into the shop.
Nothing was left but two cores by the time she came out with a large loaf, three meat pasties, and a small tin can with a cover and a wire handle. “Milk,” she explained. “I had to buy the can, too, but I thought you would not mind."
"I'll carry it, miss,” Peter volunteered.
She passed it to him, along with one of the pasties, and gave another to Rod. “Would it be very unladylike in me to eat in the street?” she asked uncertainly.
Rod suppressed a sudden, unaccountable urge to hug her. “I would not encourage you to walk down Bond Street nibbling on a hot meat pie. Here, I simply advise you to take off your gloves first."
Laughing, she complied.
As they swallowed the last bites of piecrust, Peter led them off the Strand into a warren of tenements separated by tiny, dingy courts. He turned into a crooked alley so narrow they had to walk in single file.
On either side blank brick walls rose to a few small windows on the first-floor level. Overhanging eaves high above admitted a mere streak of grey daylight to the airless, dankly cold ravine. Following Thea, Rod cursed himself for letting her come. It was the perfect place for a trap, with no room for him to use his advantages of strength and reach. At least he ought to have had the sense to wear old clothes, as she had, so as not to attract greedy eyes.
He was about to call a halt to the enterprise when they turned a corner and came to the blind, rubbish-filled end of the alley.
"Rosie?"
Half hidden by a broken crate, a bundle of rags stirred. Thea darted forward and took the filthy, shivering child in her arms. Too late to warn of the danger of typhus fever, Rod could only think how wrong he had been to compare her to his mother.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"So Peter will be Hazlewood's new tiger, and Rosie is to live with a family at his country seat in Buckinghamshire.
He spends at least half the year there, so they will see each other often. I told him he must not separate them more than he can help.” Reaching the end of her story, Thea realized that her mother was more worried than approving. Her excitement ebbed and she sank wearily onto one of the new Chippendale chairs.
"Oh dear, it was scarcely proper in you to instruct the marquis, my love."
"He did not take it amiss, Mama. We are friends."
"Friendship seldom leads to warmer feelings,” Meg informed her knowledgeably. “To make him fall in love, you must dress in your best and flirt with him, not wear your old cloak and rush around rescuing ragamuffins."
"I have not the knack of flirting, and even if I had, Lord Hazlewood is not in the least likely to fall in love with me."
"No, I suppose not. Jason says he is very rich and grand—the crème de la crème—and much sought after, but he has never paid his addresses even to the most beautiful and eligible young ladies. Not that he is either a rake or a recluse. He goes to all the best balls and parties, and Almack's, and is generally regarded as a paragon of propriety."
"Then I cannot think what he was about, Thea,” the dowager fretted, “to involve you in such an unpleasant business. Does he suppose you so lost to all sense of decorum that anything is acceptable? I fear you started on the wrong foot with him, at that inn, and then to go out this morning without your maid!"
"I'm sorry, Mama,” Thea murmured impenitently. She would not have missed this morning for the world, and Farden's daunting presence would have spoiled it.
"I ought not to have allowed you to go to Covent Garden at all. You must behave with particular care in future and hope that time will erase the unfortunate impression."
"Yes, Mama.” In theory she agreed. She suspected, though, that if she showed herself to be a conventional, demure young lady, she would forfeit the warm regard he had expressed after their adventure. She'd fade into insignificance among a crowd of sophisticated beauties; for, as they parted, he had promised once again to smooth the Kilmores’ path into Society.
In Society, alas, she knew she would be as tongue-tied as ever. She reserved the right to enjoy without qualms the indulgent friendship Lord Hazlewood offered.
Lady Hazlewood opened her eyes as her son entered her sitting-room. Reclining on a chaise longue, heavy-eyed, she presented a picture of fragility, her natural pallor accentuated by the plum-coloured watered silk she favoured. With a languid gesture, she raised one thin hand for Rod to kiss.
"Roderick, dearest,” she said and sighed. “I fear my nerves are so debilitated at present I find myself unable to concentrate on even Bishop Porteus's estimable sermons."
Retrieving the book that lay on the floor by her couch, open and face down, one page crumpled. Rod glanced at the title. Château du Mysore, ou Adolphe et Eugénie. “Porteus was an admirable preacher,” he said gravely, restoring it to her. If his mother wished to pretend that the latest French novel was a book of sermons, who was he to contradict her?
He looked around for a seat and as usual decided to stand. His mother's fashionably spindly furniture always made him very much aware of his bulk. He crossed to the exquisite Adam fireplace and warmed his hands.
"I daresay the hurly-burly of London is responsible for your irritated nerves,” he went on. “Perhaps your health would profit from a return to the country."
She sat bolt upright. “The country? At this season? Nothing could be worse, I assure you. As for hurly-burly, on the contrary, London is somewhat thin of company at present. Though it is shocking how many mushrooms have the impertinence to suppose that one might honour their assemblies with one's presence. Naturally one does not respond to such effrontery. Had you something particular to say to me, Roderick?"
"Yes, Mother. Since London is thin of company, you will be glad to hear that I wish to bring a family of ladies to call when you are next at home."
"Ladies with whom I am unacquainted?” she asked sceptically.
"You may, perhaps, have some past acquaintance with the Dowager Lady Kilmore, though she has not frequented Society these many years."
"The late Baron Kilmore's relict? No, I never met her, and I have no desire to rectify the omission. Kilmore was a ne'er-do-well, and his son is a thorough-going scoundrel. Did he not run off with Trevelyan's wife?"
"Yes,” Rod admitted, “if the tattlemongers are to be believed. Though of course she was not yet his wife at the time."
"It is all very well for you to disapprove of gossip, but there is no smoke without a flame. You cannot expect me to countenance such immorality by receiving Kilmore's family. Dowager, you said? I suppose he has ensnared some vulgar heiress in his toils."
"The new Lady Kilmore is a lawyer's daughter, but she is perfectly presentable."
"And she has cozened you into insinuating her into the ton."
"I have seen very little of Lady Kilmore,” said Rod coolly. “It is Kilmore's sisters who hope to make their bow to Society. Their birth is impeccable and they are not to blame for their father's and brother's indiscretions."
"I might have guessed this was no more than your latest quixotic start,” Lady Hazlewood said with contempt. “You will have to apply to someone else to rescue the Kilmores from the effects of their disgraced name."
"You mistake me, madam.” He let a hint of steel enter his voice. “I said I wish to bring the ladies to call upon you, but in fact that is my unalterable intention. Unless you prefer to retire to the dower house at the castle, they will attend your at home next Friday."
"Yorkshire! I told you my nerves will not stand a sojourn in the country at this season.” She sank back against her cushions, her eyes closed, her hands clasped to her heart. “Oh, I can feel a spasm coming on. Call Wilkins at once! My vinaigrette!"
Rod rang for her abigail, but he was unimpressed by her theatrical collapse. He had discovered many years ago that Lady Hazlewood's vinaigrette contained sugar crystals, as sal volatile made her sneeze. Her nervous spasms only attacked when she was thwarted, and were soonest cured by calm and firmness.
"I shall convey your invitation to the Kilmores,” he said as Wilkins rushed in.
"On no account!” She would have sat up again, had not the abigail been waving the small cut-glass bottle under her nose. “I hope I know my duty,” she went on faintly. “I shall send an invitation."
He thanked her as courteously as if it had been her own notion to entertain his friends. As he took his leave, he cast a silent blessing upon the ancestor who had built a mansion in Bucks and converted the old Yorkshire manor house near the medieval castle ruins into a comfortable—and distant—dower house.
Nonetheless, as always, a confrontation with his mother left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. He decided to drive out to the neat little villa in Hampstead where Sue's undemanding company would soon restore his peace of mind. For years now her quiet common sense had been as important to him as the services she rendered as his mistress. She, if anyone, would understand that he could not leave an unworldly innocent like Thea Kilmore to struggle unaided for her family's welfare.
On his way out to his curricle, Rod met Will in the vestibule. As his heir presumptive, his cousin had apartments in the Hazlewood town house, though he was well able to afford lodgings, or even a modest house, of his own. He came and went as he pleased, his carefree light-heartedness relieving the formal atmosphere of the place. Yet his manners were punctilious enough to satisfy his exacting aunt.
"I hear you have a new tiger,” Will said in greeting. “You've been rushing to the rescue again, eh? Miss Kilmore cannot say enough of your good deeds."
"You have been back to Russell Square? Take care or you will lose your reputation as a high stickler."
"On the contrary, coz, I daresay, if I chose, I could make even Bloomsbury fashionable. Care to wager?"
"Lord, no. You might succeed, but it would take a lifetime. It will be quicker to bring the Kilmores to the ton than the ton to Bloomsbury. They are to come
here on Friday."
"To her ladyship's at home? Playing St. George again, are you?"
"Who is to take the dragon's rôle, Society or my mother?"
"Oh, Aunt Hazlewood, beyond a doubt, in her own inimitable way. I know you can deal with her, but I'll be damned if I dare cross her. They'll need all the support they can get. I'll be there, and you can return the favour by coming with us to Kew. It's all arranged for tomorrow, weather permitting. I've invited Uncle Reggie along to do the pretty to the dowager."
"Good gad, that old court-card?"
"You are speaking of my relative, I'd remind you.” Will drew himself up, attempting to look offended, then relaxed and grinned. “Yes, that old court-card. I couldn't think of anyone else who would not object to Russell Square. For all he's Prinny's bosom beau, he's been in Queer Street often enough to find anything short of the Fleet a respectable address."
"Consorting with the Prince Regent has left many a man with pockets to let. So he goes with us to entertain the dowager, and what of Lady Kilmore?"
"I couldn't very well cut her out of the invitation, but with luck she will be indisposed."
Rod frowned. “Apart from that unfortunate elopement, her conduct seems unexceptionable. Certainly the other ladies regard her as one of them, and whatever her antecedents, she is now a baroness. I believe it will not do to exclude her."
"All the same, one can hope that her delicate condition will prevail,” Will pointed out. “Your horses are waiting, coz. Where are you off to?"
"Hampstead."
"My compliments to Mistress Susan. Don't forget, Kew tomorrow."
Only the weather cooperated with Will's hopes for the expedition. First, Penelope Kilmore was well enough to go. Then, the Honourable Reginald Glubb-ffoulkes, instead of doing his duty by the dowager, took a fancy to Miss Megan.
