Realm 06 - A Touch of Love

by Regina Jeffers

  Lawrence Lowery, Blakehell’s heir, had been schooled in all facets of the barony. His brother’s every waking moment had known the responsibility of his future title. “Never wanted to be Lawrence,” Carter declared honestly as he pushed his exhausted frame from the mattress. “Just wanted to be something more than the spare.” Carter reached for the bell cord. “Just wished for my share of the recognition,” he admitted to the shadows.

  “You rang, Sir?” Merriweather breezed into the room. Carter sometimes thought Darek Merriweather slept less than he.

  Despite his earlier maudlin, Carter smiled. “Time to face the day.”

  Merriweather nodded his understanding before reaching for a towel. “I brought up hot water for your morning ablutions, Sir.”

  When Carter had withdrawn from his official military service to join the Realm, he had left behind his trusted batman, Francis Sanders, and for some time, he had done without the services of a gentleman’s gentleman. With the Realm, he was often in dire straits, and Carter had refused to place another in jeopardy; however, at Waterloo, Merriweather had earned his position, along with Carter’s gratitude. From that day forward, Merriweather had served him faithfully. Ironically, it was his friend Gabriel Crowden, the Marquis of Godown, who had claimed Sanders as his man of service, and Carter had been glad of the marquis’s kindness.

  Lazily, he straddled a chair while Merriweather dutifully applied soap to Carter’s cheeks to soften his beard. “I will require a second shave before supper,” Carter said distractedly. “His Grace has invited my parents to dine at Thorn Hall.”

  The lack of a smile upon Merriweather’s lips was not apparent in his tone. “As you say, Sir.”

  Carter rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “As if I had a need to instruct you in your duties.”

  “As you say, Sir.” This time the corner of the valet’s mouth tugged upward.

  Carter ignored Merriweather’s jib. He rarely termed the valet as insolent. They had spent the previous two years together. “I wish to confirm the accommodations for the baron and baroness have been prepared to my specifications. How go the preparations below stairs?” Carter had permitted Merriweather a say in the new hires for the estate.

  “Cook has seen to hearty meals, which should please the baron and baroness, and the new maids have spent an inordinate amount of time with cleaning and polishing. You will be pleased.”

  When his man finished, Carter used the small towel to wipe away the remaining soap. “I am easier to please than is the baron,” Carter warned.

  His man retrieved the mirror. “It will be enough, Sir,” Merriweather assured.

  Carter said dejectedly, “It is never enough.”

  “It is most generous, Your Grace, to see to our pleasure this evening,” his mother said honestly.

  Brantley Fowler set his wine glass to the side. “We are gladdened to serve as your hosts, Baroness. Sir Carter and his family hold a standing invitation at Thorn Hall. It is the least I could do to recognize my venerable allegiance with Sir Carter, as well as the service your eldest, Lord Hellsman, provided me in the pursuit of my duchess.” Carter had always admired the way Fowler could easily talk his way through any situation; perhaps, if he could do likewise, he could persuade the committee overseeing replacing Aristotle Pennington as the Realm’s leader to choose him. He and Fowler were the two youngest of their “merry band,” although they held little in common except their like shortcoming: the desire to please an impossible father.

  “Lawrence has spoken to us of the difficulty you encountered with Viscount Averette,” the baron confessed. “It was providential Hellsman was in Derbyshire to provide his assistance.”

  The duke quickly added, “It was also providential Sir Carter reacted to the urgency of recovering my daughter Sonali so I might concentrate on the duchess’s rescue. Knowing Sonali would be in your younger son’s most capable hands released me to save my wife.”

  Carter appreciated his friend’s efforts, but he knew his father’s nature: Much to the detriment of the other four, the baron thought only of Lawrence Lowery’s accomplishments. Niall Lowery was not an abusive father; the baron had never raised a hand to any of his children; yet, each of the siblings had instinctively known his or her role in the family unit.

  Ignoring the duke’s protests, the baron stated, “Carter is built for impossible quests; his accolades are commonplace. It is when a man, who does not know danger every day, takes on the heroic role that a person’s character is truly defined.”

  Carter’s ire rose quickly. It was true; Lawrence had thoroughly distracted Viscount Averette, but his brother’s actions could never be compared to what Carter, James Kerrington, and Thomas Whittington had faced in their rescue of Sonali Fowler. They had eliminated a dozen hired assailants to save the child. What irritated him more was the baron gave Carter no credit for the good he performed daily in England’s name. The whole situation was incogitant. He opened his mouth to express his discontent, but as she had always done, his mother intervened. She effectively squashed the argument before it began. “All my children possess amiable talents,” she declared.

  The duchess readily agreed, before adding, “You are fortunate, Baroness, to have your daughters so well placed and for both of your sons to hold a title.” Carter grumbled under his breath of how Prince George had termed Carter’s efforts worth the notice. His mother squeezed his hand in sympathy. Velvet Fowler continued to direct the conversation. “Tell me of your expected journey. I have often wished to travel, but the duke claims he has seen enough of the Continent for one lifetime.”

  And so the evening had taken on the mundane topics of politics, fashion, and, of course, every Englishman’s least favorite subject: the weather. All three played into the Lowerys’ travel itinerary. Carter swallowed his growing need to confront the baron. He had held hopes of finally knowing his father’s approval when Carter had orchestrated an elaborate plan to save Law’s future thoroughbred line, but any goodwill the baron had shared had quickly dissipated when Carter had moved Heaven and Earth to bring Lawrence to Arabella Tilney’s door. His brother and Lady Hellsman had retreated to the family’s Scottish estate to celebrate their joining. Their withdrawal had occurred nearly a month prior.

  As part of his mother’s “punishment” for the baron’s interference in Lawrence’s life, the baroness had declared she and Niall Lowery would make an extended tour of the European continent. Therefore, their current residence under Carter’s roof. He knew his father held no desire to travel, but the baron would not thwart his wife’s desires; and, likewise, Fernalia Lowery would never relent. The baroness meant for each of her children to know the solace of their father’s absence, and for that simple gesture, Carter thanked her.

  A cold January wind barreled between the closely packed buildings to send the rotted twigs and leaves skipping along the street. Hundreds of feet smashed everything upon which they trod, as the people rushed to work and errands. Lucinda Warren stepped from the boarding house’s front door. Despite the chill, she kept her head high. Her father’s voice reminded Lucinda how people never accosted a person who appeared in charge. Glancing about the street, she certainly hoped the colonel had known of what he spoke. Her new quarters had been a major step down from what she had left behind, but she had possessed no choice. She must know economy if she were to survive.

  She caught the child’s hand and started forward. In the week the boy had remained with her, she could count on one hand the number of conversations they had exchanged. It was not as if the child was disrespectful or even withdrawn. Simon said “thank you,” “please,” “you are welcome,” and “pardon me” on a regular basis; yet, Lucinda knew very little of the boy’s early years or of his home. It was as if the person who had deposited the child upon Lucinda’s doorstep had instructed the boy not to disclose any information.

  “Are you warm enough?” Lucinda glanced toward the child beside her. He half hid in her skirt tails as he scrambled to keep up with h
er pace. Regretting her haste, Lucinda slowed her step.

  Dutifully, the boy said, “Yes, Ma’am.” The child had carried a small satchel when she had discovered him outside her door. It contained only two shirts, but Lucinda had taken one of her older gowns and made the boy several serviceable shirts of a dark green color. With each, she had created a lining of a sleeveless shirt for Simon to wear beneath his new ones for an extra layer of warmth. London could be quite brutally cold during the winter months, especially for someone unaccustomed to its dampness, and from the way Simon sat close to the hearth for its warmth, she suspected the boy had known kinder weather in his former home.

  She tightened her grip on the boy’s hand as they reached the cross street. “Today shall be a short jaunt into our new environs,” Lucinda said as she leaned down to assure the child. Flat wagons and horses rushed past in a whirlwind of drab colors. With the boy by her side, Lucinda would require a larger opening to cross through the workday traffic. The child’s shorter gait would cause her to adjust her step. “Stay close,” she said softly to the child’s ear, “and be aware of all the moving carts.” The boy nodded his understanding as his eyes grew in size. “After the next wagon,” Lucinda announced.

  As she stepped from the curb–in anticipation of the their sprint, Lucinda tugged gently to nudge the boy into action. When the wagon cleared their position, she set a quick pace. Thankfully, the boy followed her example. Within seconds, they reached the opposing side, and Lucinda released the breath she held. Pausing briefly, she straightened her shoulders before entering the side street sporting several makeshift stalls, which displayed less than fresh vegetables. She sighed with resignation as she inspected the offerings. The life she had known as a child, one of the country gentry, often felt as if she had been another person completely. When Matthew Warren had announced his intention to buy a commission in the British military, Lucinda had not blinked a lash. Instead, she had accepted her duty, first to finish her years in the schoolroom, and then to follow her husband’s unit; after all, she was the daughter of Colonel and Mrs. Roderick Rightnour. Her mother, the fourth daughter of Viscount Ross, had taught Lucinda well.

  “Four years of playing the fool,” she grumbled. Lucinda pinched her upper thigh through the folds of her cloak and skirt to push away the tears, which pricked her lashes. She leaned down to speak to the boy. “We shall purchase a few potatoes and maybe some cabbage. If you see anything else you may desire, tell me.” Again, the child nodded obediently.

  Lucinda perused each stall before making her choices. When Simon paused to admire a basket of apples, she purchased one as a treat for after their evening meal. No one who ever observed her and Simon together would think the boy hers. The child’s hair, dark, nearly black, while hers a golden blonde, with light brown strands. His eyes were dark and his skin the color of those who spent time in the sun. Her pale skin held gold tones: the contrast often shocked her when she touched the child.

  Over the previous week, she had often searched for a bit of her late husband in the Simon, but Lucinda was sore to recognize any of Matthew in the boy. In those weak moments, she would convince herself the rolled and beribboned letter delivered within the child’s grasp had been some sort of hoax, but immediately, Lucinda would recognize the truth of the letter’s assertions. She knew exactly when Matthew practiced his betrayal. When young Simon had likely been conceived. When her husband had lain with another. The knowledge Captain Warren had preferred a woman, so unlike her, ate away at Lucinda’s usual genial composure. It was as if one of the French volleys had landed squarely in her chest, burning its way to her heart.

  She had added a bit of flour and sugar and salt to her purchases, as well as bacon and a few eggs. Placing everything carefully in the cloth bag she had brought with her, Lucinda caught Simon’s hand again. The boy’s fingers were cold. She made a mental note to knit the child a pair of mittens; he would require them if they were to remain together during the winter days, and it was her intention to see to the boy’s physical growth. There was a small park nearly a mile’s walk, but she would find a ball and permit the child to run freely several times per week. Her father had believed in physical activity, as part of a child’s education, for both boys and girls. “No child of mine will be cosseted away behind closed doors,” the colonel had often asserted.

  “Let us find a bit of warmth,” she said encouragingly.

  The boy fell in step beside her as Lucinda adjusted her reticule and her packages. “Could we borrow another book?” Simon asked as he tugged gently on her cloak.

  Lucinda looked left and right before exiting the side street between two families. “We must wait until tomorrow.” She looked harriedly about. The street traffic had increased dramatically since they had entered the small market. “We shall set our rooms to right, but tomorrow, we shall walk to the park and stop at the lending library on our return.” Distractedly, she tightened her grip on his hand. “Did you finish the book I brought with us?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” The child read beyond his young years. Evidently, the child had had a tutor, something she would never be in a place to provide for him. Just as she had promised to see to the child’s physical well being, Lucinda was determined to aid in Simon’s studies.

  “We must cross again.” Lucinda rose on her toes for a better view. “After the coal cart,” she announced. Keeping her eyes on the cart, she stepped from the curb, and, as before, she tugged on the child’s hand.

  “I wish for a book on the war,” the child declared boldly. “I wish to know more of my father.”

  The boy’s words caught Lucinda by surprise, and her steps faltered just long enough for the horse traffic to change. A mule brayed loudly as a local vendor used a banded stick to slap its hindquarters. Meanwhile, a small pony bucked at its harness and added to the clatter. Lucinda glanced down at the boy and accelerated her pace, but it was too late. She looked up again as several barrels of beer bumped along the uneven stones before and behind her. She caught the boy into her arms and tossed him into the back of a vegetable cart, just as one of the small barrels slammed hard against her legs. Lucinda fought for her balance: finally, one of those rushing to her aid caught her arm.

  “Ye be well?” the snaggled-tooth man implored.

  Lucinda flushed with embarrassment as a crowd gathered. The street grew eerily quiet. Righting her stance, she nodded her gratitude to the man, but her eyes searched for the child. “Simon! Simon!” she called out, attempting to see beyond the onlookers. “Simon?”

  “Here, Ma’am.” The boy elbowed his way through the crowd to bury his tearful face in her skirts.

  Lucinda instinctively knelt before the child and wrapped the boy in her embrace. “Are you injured?” she whispered.

  A loud snort announced young Simon meant to be strong. “My fault,” he hiccupped.

  Lucinda caressed the boy’s cheek. “It is no one’s fault.” Her ankle throbbed, and she suspected it would be a bright shade of purple tomorrow. “May we go home?” she whispered, and the child nodded.

  Straightening, she acknowledged the crowd. “I am gladdened by your concern for the boy and me. I shall likely experience a tender ankle tomorrow, but the child and I shall recover.” She wished desperately to remove her boot to examine her injury. With that, Lucinda took a tentative step forward. She kept a brave face and did not wince.

  A plump woman handed Simon his lost hat, and Lucinda made a point of extending her gratitude. Mrs. Peterman, her landlady, met them at their door. “I thought I might require a new letter,” the woman announced as she hustled them into the dark hallway. “I sees it all from the window,” which likely meant the landlady had spied on her comings and goings.

  “We are only a bit roughed,” Lucinda assured. “Simon and I shall be right as nails in a few days. Shall we not, Simon?”

  The boy kept his eyes downcast, but he answered, “Yes, Ma’am.”

  Lucinda had permitted Mrs. Peterman to believe the boy was hers. The
landlady had asked few questions, and Lucinda had gladly kept her own counsel. “If’n ye require anything ye send the boy down to me,” Mrs. Peterman called as Lucinda gingerly climbed the stairs.

  “I shall, Ma’am.” Lucinda leaned heavily against the rail. “Come along, Simon. I shall require your assistance.”

  Three days. Carter smiled through the personal pain. For three days his father had turned every conversation to Lawrence Lowery’s endeavors. It is a good thing I love and admire my brother, he thought ironically. Or else I might wish to strangle Law.

  “I shall attempt to keep your father occupied,” the baroness said softly as they strolled along the wharf. Carter enjoyed the comforting feel of her fingers on his arm, an acknowledgement of her love. When he had served in the East, he had actually missed his mother’s good sense and her company. Of course, he had never mentioned such longings to the others. They would have teased him as being a “babe in the womb” and it had been difficult enough to prove him worthy of the honor of being chosen to such an elite group. As his unit’s youngest, Carter required not another reason for his mates to label him. “Although I spoke of being away for a year, I suspect six months may be more to the baron’s limits.”

  Carter patted the back of her hand. “I understand, Mother. You are placing your happiness on hold to permit Lawrence to redefine his role as Blakehell’s heir.”

  His mother cackled, “Oh, my darling, Carter.” She patted his cheek. “You think we all as altruistic as are you.” Her gloved hand caressed his chin. “I would love to claim your goodness, but I must confess I have long wished to see part of the world beyond Derbyshire and London, but Niall has always claimed Blake’s Run would suffer in our absence. I unapologetically used Lawrence’s situation with Arabella to leverage my own desires. Your father experienced regret at your brother’s learning of his manipulations. When I spoke on Law’s behalf, the baron agreed to withdraw, and I seized the opportunity to advance my wishes. If I could, I would visit all the lands you have known. You have no idea how envious I have been of your youth and your freedom.”