by Amelia Grey
Hawk knew there was no way he was leaving him with Miss Quick for any longer than it took for him to get back there. It was easy to see she had a soft heart. She wasn’t looking at him as a beggar, a possible thief, or even just a lost boy. She only saw a youngster who was in need.
The lad wasn’t the only reason he was eager to return to Mammoth House. And it wasn’t Mr. Quick and the matter he had with the man about Adele that was on his mind.
It was Miss Quick.
There was something about her that had him thinking his business with her wasn’t yet finished. Since returning to London, Hawk had found it didn’t take much to remind him of her. Whenever he thought about her, which was more often than he thought he would, he remembered seeing her standing in front of the fire dressed in the buttery-yellow gown looking so angelic. He remembered her soft lips, her warm body, and the whispered satisfied sighs of enjoyment while he kissed her.
Perhaps he’d pick up a box of confections for her from that new bakery that had opened up down the street. He’d have them wrapped with a yellow ribbon. The thought of that made him smile.
And there was one other thing he wanted to do for Miss Quick, but it wasn’t anything he wanted to tell his friends, so he picked up his ale and took a drink.
“When is it you plan to return?” Griffin asked.
“Probably Thursday. I wanted to make sure I gave her brother plenty of time to get home before I returned.”
“Wait,” Griffin said, interrupting Hawk. “Don’t look now but I see the Lord Mayor walking in. No doubt he’ll want to stop and talk to us if we don’t make a hasty retreat to one of the gaming rooms.”
Hawk and Rath immediately ignored Griffin’s instructions and turned to look at the Lord Mayor, who’d stopped to speak to the gentlemen at another table.
“No doubt he will want to bend our ear concerning the number of streetlamps that don’t work or how many shop signs are in a state of disrepair.”
“Something we can’t do anything about, nor do we care about,” Griffin offered. “So before he makes his way over here, I say we make our way out the other door.”
“Let’s plan to meet back here next week so we can hear how Hawk’s second visit to Mammoth House turns out.”
Griffin and Rath looked at Hawk.
“I wouldn’t dream of denying you two the salacious details of my next visit there,” he said, not meaning a word of it, and feeling comfortable that his friends knew that. Hawk slid his chair back as he rose. “You two go ahead, and I’ll catch up with you later. I see Sir Welby walking in. I think I’ll have a word with him.”
“Is he walking with a cane now?” Rath asked, rising to stand between Griffin and Hawk.
“Looks like it,” Hawk answered. “But he doesn’t seem to be hobbling as if something is wrong with his foot or leg. See how he’s holding it out in front of him. I think he’s using it as a guide so he won’t stumble into anything.”
“I don’t suppose his sight is any better,” Griffin offered.
Rath ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “From the looks of the poor man, it’s worse.”
“It can’t be easy for him to get around even though his driver helps him out of the carriage and to the door. I have to admire the man for making the effort and not giving up.”
“I agree,” Hawk added. “And since he’s here, it won’t hurt to ask him if he’s heard any new rumors this year or if he has remembered any more from last year.”
“Good luck getting anything out of him,” Griffin murmured.
Hawk said good-bye to his friends, picked up his tankard, and headed over to the table by the entrance where Sir Welby was pulling out a chair. The old gentleman was the person who’d overheard some young bucks talking last spring about the possibility of ruining Griffin’s twin sisters’ debut Season. The old man never admitted to knowing who they were, and Hawk doubted he’d confess their names this year, but it was worth a try.
“Let me help you with that,” Hawk said and took hold of the old man’s arm.
“Hawksthorn, is that you?” the white-haired man asked.
“It is.”
“Thank you, thank you, most kind of you,” he said, easing into the wooden chair with a groan. “I know one of these days I’m going to have to give up coming to this club, but I decided it won’t be today. No, not today.”
“And looks to me as if it won’t be anytime soon, either. I think the cane is helping. You seem to be getting around quite well to me.”
“Ah, yes, the cane.” The old man huffed a tired laugh and hit the floor with the tip of his walking stick before settling it to rest between his legs. “It keeps me from running into doors and stumbling over chairs. People and guttering lampposts, too.”
“You don’t mind if I join you for a moment and ask you a couple of questions, do you?”
“I’d be happy for you to, Your Grace. Life can get lonely at times. Mighty lonely. You know I sit by the entrance so everyone will speak to me when they come in and when they leave, too. The club doesn’t mind.”
“I didn’t know,” Hawk said, though it wasn’t true. Everyone knew. “I thought it was your favorite table.”
“That, too, but now you know why it is my favorite. I hated having to give up going to the card room and playing a hand or two. Had to give up billiards and dice, too, but that’s what happens when you can’t see the cards or the balls and spectacles don’t seem to help.” His bushy gray eyebrows drew close together. “I heard your tankard hit the table. What are you drinking?”
“Ale,” Hawk said, motioning for the server to come over. “Want the same?”
“Are you buying?” the old man asked with a sudden twinkle in his narrow, unfocused eyes.
“Yes.”
“In that case I’ll have a nip of their best brandy.”
Hawk chuckled and told the server to get Sir Welby what he wanted. “I thought I’d ask if you’ve heard any more from or about the bucks who started the rumor about the Duke of Griffin’s twin sisters last year.”
“No, no, can’t say I have. Never heard the fellows’ voices again. Not once. Odd as it seems, it was just that one time when one of them said the Rakes of St. James never had to pay a price for their scandalous behavior for writing those letters years ago and that it was time they did. Then another said it would be fitting if something happened to ruin the Duke of Griffin’s sisters’ first season.”
The hair on the back of Hawk’s neck rose every time he heard that story. “Have you heard that, even though nothing happened to Griffin’s sisters last year, Miss Honora Truth’s Weekly Scandal Sheet has renewed the story and is now suggesting my sister, Lady Adele, might be marked for mischief, too?”
A strand of his long gray hair fell across the old man’s wrinkled face as he leaned over the table and said, “No, no, Your Grace. I hadn’t heard that, but I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“Neither was I. Not much respect from the younger fellows these days. No, not much. Guess that’s why they don’t come around White’s often. They know this is a respectable club. Did Griffin ever talk with the barkeep? He might remember who was here that night. He sees better than I do.”
“The barkeep sees drinks, not people.”
“That’s probably the best way for him to be. Members respect that.”
“You will keep your ears open and let me know if you hear anything else?”
“Yes, yes. Just like I told the Duke of Griffin. He’ll be the first to know. I’ll make sure you are the second.” The server placed the glass of brandy in front of Sir Welby and helped him take hold of the glass before turning it loose.
Sir Welby lowered his head and inhaled the scent of the strong liquor and then took a wee sip. He then looked in Hawk’s direction and smiled. “On second thought, I’ll let you know first.”
Hawk thanked the man and, steering clear of the Lord Mayor, started making his way to the card room to join his friends, but his mind easily drifted back to th
e business he’d left undone at Mammoth House—not with Quick but with his sister, Miss Quick.
Chapter 10
A gentleman must never be mysterious about his affection for a young lady.
A PROPER GENTLEMAN’S GUIDE TO WOOING THE PERFECT LADY
SIR VINCENT TYBALT VALENTINE
Loretta gasped with indignation. “Did you just call me an old hag?”
“That’s what ye are. Now leave me be. Go off and be a bother to someone else.”
She looked down at Farley. His long, dark-brown hair was matted in places and sticking out wildly in others. The nightcap she’d knitted for him and placed on his head while he slept had been slung to the foot of the bed. His borrowed, rumpled nightshirt hung loosely on his thin shoulders and chest. His deep-brown, angry eyes seemed too big for his pale face. Loretta was certain no one had ever called her anything remotely resembling an old hag.
It surprised her he was being so disrespectful and so ungrateful, too. Obviously he had no memory of her soothing his brow and whispering words of comfort when he was so sick he could only twitch and mumble. He didn’t seem to remember how he’d clung to her arms when he’d called out for his mama and she’d gone to his bedside and held him. Maybe he didn’t know that it was because of her constant care and attention for the past week and a half that his life had been spared?
But Loretta remembered. As much as she might like to, Loretta couldn’t blame the discourteous talk on his fever. It had left him yesterday and hadn’t returned overnight. There was still no color to his thin lips or gaunt cheeks. His voice wasn’t much more than a hoarse, cracked whisper. And the cough that had plagued him almost from the beginning of his sickness seemed to be worse.
Yet one thing was abundantly clear. Farley was a fighter. That she appreciated, admired, and understood. But he had to learn right now she would fight back, and in her house she would win. Illness or no, destitute or not, she wouldn’t allow his insolence to continue without taking him to task about it.
“Young man,” she said, resting the backs of her hands on her hips. “You are a guest in this house, and I am mistress of it. I am not old, and I am most certainly not a hag. While you are in my home, you will address me properly or I will have you put in the barn until you are well enough to leave. And take my word for it, you will not find a soft bed with warm covers on it in the barn, nor will anyone come in to keep a fire going for you and bring food to your bedside. Now, I am Miss Quick, and don’t address me in any other fashion.”
His eyebrows twitched. “I don’t care if ye the Queen of England. I’m not drinking that gutter water ye trying to feed me.”
“It is medicine, and it will help your cough get better.”
His expression remained angry as he struck his thumb in the center of his chest and blurted, “I’d rather die, harpy.”
Stunned, Loretta blinked rapidly. His language was abhorrent and his temperament spiteful. Was there no gracious bone in this youngster’s body? Where was the softness in the child who had whimpered and called her his mama?
Loretta would have known how to deal with fear, the kind she’d seen on his face the night he’d appeared at her door, but not this raw anger. The only thing she knew to do was continue to be strong without being harsh.
“You will die one day,” she agreed in a calm voice. “But it won’t be today and it won’t be in this house. And there are other things we don’t do in this house, and you’re going to learn them right now.” She frowned tightly and bent over him. “Listen to me. We don’t call each other unkind names, and we don’t usually throw people out just because they are angry, but we will if they remain disrespectful.”
To her surprise Farley started laughing, which caused him to start coughing, which caused him to start choking for breath. Loretta grabbed a handkerchief to cover his mouth and rubbed his back, hoping to calm the spasms racking his whole body. When at last he quieted and lay back against the pillow gasping for breath, she plopped down on the side of the bed, almost as spent as Farley.
He wasn’t going to be easily won over. She wasn’t going to give up. Farley may not care whether he lived or died right now, but Loretta did.
It would have been consoling if she could have called on Paxton to help her from time to time. Even though he’d said he’d take charge of the lad, her brother had been almost useless concerning Farley. There was always a reason Paxton couldn’t sit with him or check on him for her.
She knew it wasn’t that Paxton didn’t care. He encouraged Loretta and the staff to do all they could for Farley, but her brother wasn’t good at offering comfort himself. The two or three times he’d been in Farley’s room all Paxton had done was look at him, and say he hoped the lad recovered soon. Paxton later admitted he had no idea how to cope with sickness and suggested that Loretta should leave the care of the boy to the servants.
That would have been the proper thing to do, and Mrs. Huddleston tried to insist upon it, but Loretta had so few things to fill her time as it was. Helping with Farley, as worrisome as it had been to tend a sick child, had been a bright spot in her life. She didn’t want to stop the attention she was giving him.
After Farley’s breathing had calmed, she reached over to the table, picked up the cup, and extended it to him. “Now will you trust me that this will make you feel better and drink it?”
He stared at her. The anger was gone from his watery eyes, and in its place was a pitiful blank stare. He took the medicine and downed it all without stopping to frown, wince, or complain about the foul taste, and then handed the cup back to her without so much as a hint of thanks.
Farley wasn’t making it easy for her to like him, but she did. In a way, he reminded her of the Duke of Hawksthorn. When she’d first met the duke, he certainly hadn’t made it easy for her to like him, either, but she had.
Very much.
Too much.
Shaking those troubling thoughts from her mind, Loretta turned her attention back to Farley and said, “Now, I’d like for you to answer some questions for me.”
Her guest made no comment, and she took that as a good sign. At least he didn’t say anything vulgar to her. “You told me your name is Farley. Is that your surname or your first name?”
He shrugged but said nothing.
She tried again with a different angle. “What is your first name?”
“Farley.”
“What is your last name?”
“Farley.”
Well, this line of questioning wasn’t getting her anywhere. Did he really not know who he was or was he simply being uncooperative in order to frustrate her?
He started laughing again, which led to another spell of deep, choking coughing, but thankfully this time it wasn’t as bad or as long as the last.
“Where is your family?” she asked when his breathing settled down again. “Someone must be worried about you and wondering what happened to you.”
“I’m all the family I got,” he answered in a hoarse whisper, averting his gaze from hers. “I take care of myself.”
As she and the duke had suspected but hoped wasn’t the case. “That’s commendable. Where are you from?”
He shrugged again and looked down at his bony hands. There was dirt under his fingernails that Mrs. Huddleston hadn’t been able to wash away.
“Are you from somewhere near this area? Grimsfield? Or London, perhaps?”
His eyes shifted a little when she said “London.” Maybe the duke was right and he was a street urchin who had somehow managed to wander from London to Mammoth House. But how did he get all the way out here in the dead of winter with holey boots and threadbare clothing?
“All right, I suppose it doesn’t matter where you came from, but I do need to know where you want to go. Like it or not, I will have to know. When you are well enough, I can help you get there.”
He remained silent.
“I can’t assist you if you aren’t willing to talk to me,” she said in a determined tone and rose fro
m the side of the bed. “Will you at least tell me how old you are so I don’t have to guess if you are about the age of ten, or twelve, or thirteen?”
“I don’t know no age. Don’t need one. What good would it do me or ye to know that?” All of a sudden, a cocky grin lifted his thin lips. “Since ye want me to have a name and ye name is Miss Quick, ye can call me Mr. Slow.”
Loretta smiled, too. “That was very clever.” And obnoxious.
She saw by the light that flashed in his eyes that he appreciated her praise. Perhaps she’d try to get more information from him later. The tonic he swallowed would soon put him to sleep.
Facing him again she said, “Very well, if you want to continue to be obstinate, I shall return to what I was doing, and you can return to your world that only you know about.”
After making herself comfortable in the chair, Loretta looked at the table beside her. Over the days Farley had been in the room, she’d brought in yarn and knitting needles, embroidery samples to stitch, and two different books of poetry. She looked at them all and decided on the knitting again.
No more than a few minutes later she heard a mumble and looked over at Farley. He looked asleep but restless, his head moving from side to side and his body twitching. He was dreaming. Again.
“Mama.”
Loretta’s stomach clenched and her hands stilled in her lap.
“Mama, don’t go,” he whimpered.
A chill shook Loretta. Her throat instantly clogged and her eyes watered with tears. Memories of her own mother flooded her. She’d cried those very words: Mama, don’t go. But the sickness claimed her mother and she left anyway.
Loretta dropped her knitting and went to sit on the edge of the bed.
“Come back,” Farley whimpered again. His head rolled from side to side. His chest heaved and his slight body stirred beneath the covers.
“Shh,” she whispered, soothing his brow with one hand and pulling him close to her chest with the other, as she had several times before.
