by Jade Lee
"Oh, dear." Gillian bit her lip as the gentleman handed the distraught child to a large man in burgundy livery. The boy was a tiny scrap of a thing, dwarfed by the two men who held him. As if sensing her gaze on him, the boy lifted meltingly beautiful brown eyes up to her, silently imploring.
He was a pathetic sight. With the filth and the drizzle, the boy looked nothing short of a half-drowned puppy dog squirming in the coachman's hand. She shuddered to think what would happen to the child in a London prison. "No," she said softly. "No, I cannot think a constable will be necessary."
"Very well." The gentleman nodded to the coachman. "You may release him."
"No!"
Both men turned to her with identical expressions of shock. The gentleman went so far as to lift his quizzing glass. "I beg your pardon?" he drawled.
His tone finally stirred her outrage. She understood she appeared a countrified miss with more hair than wit. It was incredibly stupid to gawk at her surroundings without heed to her silly reticule. Still, he need not stare at her as though she were an escaped Bedlamite. She pulled herself up to her full height, which though impressive for a woman, could not approach that of the dark gentleman.
"I suggest we talk to the child," she said firmly. Ignoring the coachman's undignified snort, she crouched down to look eye-to-eye with the boy. "What is your name, young man?"
He would not answer at first, but after a shake and a growl from the coachman, the boy spoke with a tiny explosion of anger.
"Tom!"
"Well, Tom, we seem to be in a bit of a muddle. You stole something of mine, and though I am reluctant to hand you over to the authorities, I find I cannot simply let you go free." She waited, trying to gauge the child's measure, and was startled to see the same calculating look in his eyes. "What do you suggest we do with you?" she asked.
It began as a slight glimmer in his soft brown eyes, but it quickly grew to a watershed of pathos. He spoke haltingly, sniffing into his sleeve and biting his hp. "Aw, miss," he stammered between sobs. "It be me poor mum. She died last year of a 'orrible sickness." He coughed once for effect, peaking at her face between his fingers.
"I see," she said dryly. "And your father?"
"Oh, 'e's a cruel 'un, miss. Drinks mean and knocks me about just for me earnings."
"But he is alive, and we can find him?"
"Oh, no!" the child quickly retracted. "'E left us weeks ago. Years."
Despite the child's exaggerated display, Gillian felt her sympathies rise. Most of his story was probably true. "So you wander the streets cutting purses to survive?"
"Oh, no, miss. I am a good boy, I am. But I am terrible 'ungry." He clutched his stomach. "I just wanted a bite of black bread."
"Good boys do not cut purses, Tom." She tried to be stern, but it was hard when looking into such soulful eyes.
"I am a crossing sweep, miss." Then he dropped his chin and squeezed a fat tear from his left eye. "Leastways I was until someone stole me broom. It is 'orrible 'ard to sweep without a broom." Then he descended into loud wails of despair.
She was not fooled, of course. The child was simply playacting. And from his looks, the gentleman knew it, too. Still, it was excruciating to stand idle before an entire courtyard while a tiny child wailed at their feet. All three adults fidgeted as they encountered the icy stares of more than one casual observer.
The gentleman broke first. "This is outside of enough!"
"I quite agree," added Gillian, but Tom was so caught up in his performance he would not stop. "Very well, sir. I suppose we must call a constable."
She expected her comment to stop the child's wailing, but the sobs only intensified. He became positively hysterical. Glancing up, she saw the gentleman's face darken. The man was clearly at the end of his patience. He bent down, careful to keep his clothing out of the muck, and spoke fiercely and quietly to the child. She could not understand what he said, but she could hear the low throb of authority infusing his tone.
Tom stopped crying mid wail.
Gillian breathed a sigh of relief. Whoever the dark gentleman was, he certainly possessed a talent for cutting through juvenile hysterics. But then she noticed the gentleman's clenched jaw muscles and decided to get man and boy separated as soon as possible. Patience clearly was not one of his virtues.
She smiled as winningly as possible. "Thank you for your help, sir. I believe Tom and I can handle things now."
He straightened, looking for all the world like a large black panther slowly uncurling before his prey. "Truly?" he drawled. "I am absolutely breathless with curiosity. How do you intend to control the brat?"
Gillian winced at the cruel term and became more determined than ever to escape this domineering man. "I am sure Tom will control his own behavior. Am I correct, Tom?"
As expected, the boy nodded vigorously, probably intending to run the moment the coachman released him.
"Of course you will, Tom," she continued, "because you and I will find something to eat, and then we shall speak with my guardian. I am certain he can find a position for a good boy in his household."
"Indeed." There was a wealth of understatement in the man's one word, but Gillian was not one to be intimidated by his arrogance. "And just who is this paragon of virtue who will hire a cutpurse?"
Gillian grinned, anticipating her moment of triumph. "The Earl of Mavenford," she said loftily, "and a kinder, more understanding gentleman I have yet to find." Her expression indicated that the dark gentleman was nothing close.
But far from appearing stunned by the mention of her guardian, the man actually began to smile. It was a bitter smile, cold and mocking, and it sent a tremor of fear up her spine despite her confidence.
"I believe you are mistaken," he said softly.
"Nonsense. My guardian is Stephen Conley, fifth Earl of Mavenford."
"And you are Miss Amanda Faith Wyndham?"
She lifted her chin, determined to lie with a straight face. "Yes, I am."
"Well, Miss Wyndham, I am quite intimately acquainted with his lordship, and I can assure you, he is neither kind nor understanding."
"Piffle," she said, reaching for Tom. She was gratified to see the coachman release him, and the boy sidled quickly into her protective embrace. "In any event, this is no longer your affair."
She made to leave, taking Tom with her, but the gentleman reached out and grabbed her, his large hand clamping like iron about her arm.
"You are going nowhere, you impertinent chit!" His hand tightened around her arm.
"Sir, you are offensive."
"I intend to get a good deal more offensive before the day is much older. Where is your companion? And why were you on top of the coach?"
"Just who are you, sir, to demand such questions of me?" She had practiced that tone before, imitating her half sister at her most condescending.
"I, Miss Wyndham, am the fifth Earl of Mavenford." He smiled grimly. "Your guardian."
Gillian felt her jaw go slack in shock. It could not be true. Why would the Earl of Mavenford pick up his nearly impoverished cousin from a coaching inn on a drizzly, gray day? At most he should have sent a servant, and she had scrupulously checked the courtyard for someone who appeared to be a footman or driver for the earl. No one had caught her attention, so she'd assumed the man simply had not bothered. After all, that was exactly what Amanda would have done if some nobody cousin came to visit her. It was inconceivable that this person could be the earl himself.
"I assure you," he said, clearly guessing her thoughts, "I am the Earl of Mavenford."
Despite his words, desperation compelled Gillian to glance at the coachman. He gave her a single, grave nod, and for the first time in years, Gillian wished she had died at birth.
"My... my lord—"
"Do not bother cutting up sweet, my dear. I assure you, you have already used up my store of patience."
"But—"
"I suggest you let the boy go on his misguided way and apply yourself to findin
g an explanation for your outrageous behavior."
Gillian stared at the dark gentleman, narrowing her eyes as she came to grips with situation. The man was condescending, tyrannical, and arrogant to the bone. He had to be the earl. Still, she had spent the better part of her life nursing the shrewish Amanda Wyndham. She knew how to handle autocrats.
"I am sorry, my lord, but I am afraid I cannot comply. I have made a promise to this boy, and I intend to keep it."
"A promise! What promise?" A vein in his neck visibly pulsed, but the earl kept his voice level, his blue eyes narrow and intense. Somehow his very control made her fear him even more.
"I..." She faltered, but was still determined. "I promised to help him find employment."
He did not answer, but she could feel his anger mount exponentially with his every indrawn breath. It practically vibrated in the air between them, and she wondered why the passersby did not flee in terror.
Gillian swallowed and tried a different tack. "My lord, surely you can see this child must be helped."
"He is a common cutpurse!"
"No, my lord. He is a child who needs a little guidance."
"You are a naive fool," he retorted.
"No doubt. But at least I shall have tried."
The earl fell silent, surprising her by appearing to consider her comment. Determined to take advantage of any tempering within him, Gillian smiled as winningly as she knew how. "Please, my lord. True, the child's a liar and a thief, but he is also alone and hungry. We cannot just abandon him."
She expected some softening in his expression, but to her horror, his face grew harder, colder, more filled with disdain. "You will do better not to try your wiles on me, Miss Wyndham. You will find me particularly immune."
"Oh!" Gillian actually stomped her foot in frustration, something she had not done in fifteen years. She knew the child was not evil; why could he not see that as well? "You cannot abandon him, my lord. It would be..." She groped desperately for the appropriate word. "It would be unpatriotic!"
That, at least, gave him pause. "Unpatriotic?"
"Why, yes," she stammered as she tried to explain. "Suppose you were in some foreign country, and you saw a destitute English boy. You would help him then."
"I would?" His disbelief was obvious.
"Of course you would. Have I not said you are the kindest and most understanding man?"
He folded his arms across his chest. "You did indeed say that."
"Then it stands to reason you would help a poor English boy lost in a foreign land." She pushed Tom forward. "Only think, my lord, Tom is English and destitute. You cannot penalize the child merely because he is orphaned in England rather than in some foreign part?"
"To do so would be unpatriotic?"
"Exactly!" She beamed at him, pleased he understood her twisted logic.
He shook his head. "This is why women will never be allowed into Oxford."
"And that is why men will never be allowed in women's drawing rooms!" she shot back.
He blinked at her. "I beg your pardon?"
"Oh, never mind. I needed to say something, and that tumbled out." She saw the gleam of humor spark in his eyes and judged it the best time to press her case. "Please, my lord, could we not keep him?"
"Keep him?" The earl's eyebrows climbed straight up beneath his hair. "Like a pet?"
"No." She tried to smile, but she felt off balance before the earl, unsure of exactly how to act. "I mean care for him like a child who has nowhere to go and no one else to turn to."
Then Gillian saw something she never expected: the man's face shifted, not easing in the way of a man giving in to a pretty woman, but twisting as a man remembering something cruel that was finally over. He sighed heavily. "You cannot go about saving every lost soul in London."
"No, my lord. Just this one today. I promise to leave the others for tomorrow."
He released a sudden bark of laughter, apparently surprising himself as much as her. "Very well, though damned if I know what I shall tell my mother."
Gillian grinned. "Just remind her it is her patriotic duty. I am sure she will understand."
The earl glanced down at the dirty boy still clutched in her arms, then closed his eyes with a pained expression. "Clearly you know as little about my mother as you did about me." Then he gestured her toward a waiting landau. It was a grand four-wheeled vehicle with the earl's golden crest emblazoned on both sides. Only a fool could have missed it, she realized with horror, but truly, she had not thought he would send anyone, much less come himself.
She was still ruminating on her stupidity when the earl shut the carriage door. Though the landau was quite spacious, Gillian suddenly felt short of breath. The earl seemed to dominate the interior of his carriage, looming large as he peered at her from the opposite seat. Unconsciously she pulled Tom closer, as though the boy could protect her. But the child was more interested in the novelty of riding in a richly appointed carriage than in comforting her. Currently he occupied himself by rubbing his hands across the burgundy velvet squabs, a look of ecstasy on his young face.
"Do not imagine for one moment I have forgotten." The earl's low voice filled the interior, sending a small shiver of awareness up her spine.
"Forgotten what, my lord?" She strove for an innocent expression and knew he was not fooled.
"I will demand an explanation for your outrageous behavior before this day is over." He spoke congenially, but Gillian knew he was as good as his word. She would receive a severe drubbing very soon. She sighed unhappily, knowing better than to rail at fate. After all, what was the worst that could happen? He could refuse to frank her Season, send her back to York, and thereby condemn her to a life of hardship and brutality, if not worse.
Gillian dropped her chin into her hand, her spirits lowering with every clip-clop of the horse's hooves. At the moment, York almost seemed preferable to a severe dressing-down by her formidable guardian.
Chapter 2
Rule #3:
A lady is always demure.
"But Stephen, I will not have it!"
Stephen Conley, the fifth Earl of Mavenford, took a long, sustaining gulp of his brandy and wished he could be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Even Spain would be better than this civilized torture known as polite society. But he was not in Spain. He stood in the elegant blue salon of his London home, staring into the gray ashes of a dead fire. Dinner was long since over, and rather than his comfortable brandy and Aristophanes in the library, he prepared to confront his willful new ward while his mother, the Countess of Mavenford, droned on behind him like a loud mosquito.
"Stephen, are you listening? We cannot have that... that... filthy child in our home."
"He is only a small child, Mother. True, he eats enough for three, but even you must admit he is a small boy."
"For goodness' sake, Stephen, you are an earl."
Stephen sighed and turned to face his small but imposing mother. "I am well aware of my rank."
She responded with an imperious sniff. Sitting on the couch in a voluminous gown of dark burgundy, his mother appeared no more than a puffed-up bird. At least until she opened her mouth and one heard her deep, aristocratic accents. She would have done excellently on the stage, he thought idly. Her voice and carriage befitted the most formidable of women, and it never failed to surprise him how dainty she could appear while ringing a peal over his head.
"Earls do not employ cutpurses," she said with haughty disdain.
"Neither do they have willful, disobedient wards, but I seem to have inherited one anyway."
His mother blinked. "Well, what is that to the point?"
"Amanda..." He paused to stare pensively into the amber depths of his brandy. "Miss Wyndham took a liking to the boy."
The countess waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. "Ridiculous. I have a liking for small monkeys, but that does not mean I keep them in the house."
Stephen looked up from his brandy in surprise. "Why, Mother, I never kne
w. Perhaps I shall buy you one for your birthday."
"Stephen!"
"Enough, Mother. The boy stays. At least for now. Later I will see what can be done. But at this moment my first duty is to Miss Wyndham."
"Well, as to that, she appears thin, old, and hopelessly countrified." His mother raised her chin, her pale blue eyes sparkling at the onset of a challenge. "Still, I believe there is a glimmer of beauty beneath the grime. It shall require monumental effort to unearth, I cannot doubt, but I expect I shall make a credible chit out of her eventually."
"Then you hope more than I do," he said grimly. "The girl is willful, cheeky, and has absolutely no understanding of how to go about. Do you know she rode from York on the top of the mail coach?"
"The top!" Lady Mavenford forgot herself so much as to let her teacup clatter into its saucer. "Good gracious, did anyone see her?"
"Half of London, I shouldn't wonder. Though I doubt any would recognize her once she is rigged out for the Season."
"But with that hair of hers, who would fail to remark it? Oh, we are undone before we even begin! Whatever shall we do?"
Stephen shrugged and looked away, his mind on the flashing mahogany tresses that first brought his disobedient ward to his attention. He had been contemplating the dismal London weather when he chanced to look up. It seemed at first an angel of the autumn had flown in to roll back time to a glorious fall.
Though her hair no doubt began the day in a tight chignon, at least half of it had escaped to curl and dance in the setting sun. Even from across the courtyard, he could see the healthy glow on her cheeks and full mouth, both grown red from the wind. Her gown was drab, the color of an old tree trunk, but nothing could dim the life pulsing just beneath her dull covering.
Then he drew near and saw the warmth of her green eyes. In that moment he knew he had misjudged her. She was not an angel of the fall, but of the spring, of new life throwing off its heavy winter covering. Her eyes were lush and dark like a primordial forest. And when she became angry, they darkened like a spring storm flashing lightning bolts of fury at him.
