Lady of Sin

by Madeline Hunter

Nathaniel placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “We will only walk through. My apartment is behind this building and much more modest-looking. Stand tall, boy. A man’s worth is seen in his demeanor and carriage, not his clothing.”

  That was not entirely true, of course. As they passed through the ground floor of Albany, a few eyebrows rose at the boy with them. They emerged out the other side, at the walk that separated the attached blocks of garden apartments.

  The less ostentatious buildings that had been constructed in the estate’s gardens reassured Harry. He examined the Chinese pitch of the roof that covered the walk providing access to flanking rows of three-storied buildings. He gawked at the Asian lanterns hanging above their heads.

  “Harry, have you heard of the poet Byron?” Charlotte asked. “He once lived at Albany. So have some famous leaders, like Palmerston and Canning.”

  “I heard of Byron,” he said. His brow furrowed as if he dug for memories of when and how. “Never heard of t’others, though.”

  “Have you read Byron?” Nathaniel asked. His attention focused on the boy’s face.

  “Nah. My mum read long poems to me when I was little, though. Byron sometimes, I think.”

  “Do you know how to read yourself, Harry?” Charlotte asked.

  “Course. Well . . . some.”

  Nathaniel stopped them all on the walk outside the door that led to his apartment. Charlotte tried to quell her discomfort at entering the sitting room where she had lost control in an extraordinary manner. One knowing glance from Nathaniel and she feared she would blush and stammer like a schoolgirl.

  Fortunately, Nathaniel’s attention remained on Harry.

  “Before we go in, I want to explain what is going to happen,” Nathaniel said. “My man’s name is Jacobs. He will see that you get washed and will find some clean clothes for you. You will stay here until Lady Mardenford arranges for you to go to a school in Durham. You will be treated well here, and later there. However, I will brook no trouble from you. I want your word of honor that you will behave properly.”

  Harry grinned as if Nathaniel was the town’s biggest fool.

  “M’word of honor, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  Harry chuckled. “It’s yours, then, for what it’s worth.”

  “You should treat it like it is worth your life, boy. It is the only thing of true value that you own.”

  “Of course, sir. I will prepare a bath at once.” Jacobs’s nose quivered just enough to punctuate his statement in a way his deferential tone avoided. Displeasure flexed the soft skin of his cherubic face.

  “Also, he needs clean garments,” Charlotte added. She had been the one to request the bath be prepared. “He cannot remain in these while he stays here.”

  “Stays here?”

  Charlotte recognized the signs of discontent. If she were not present, Jacobs would be ever-so-politely indicating to Nathaniel how these requests were an imposition.

  Like all experienced servants with long histories of good references, Jacobs probably had a clear sense of his own entitlements. Those rights, in proper English fashion, relied upon long tradition and precedents. Being asked to care for a youth who was not even a relative exceeded his understanding of his duties.

  “I have some old ones that will do, if they must,” he said very flatly. “We could put a cot in the kitchen, I suppose.”

  She gave Jacobs a thankful smile. “You are very good to accommodate me. Tomorrow Mrs. Peddigrew will send over garments bought for Harry, so your old ones will not be needed more than this evening. I know this is an extraordinary situation, and I am very grateful that you are willing to help me.”

  Jacobs softened. His lips folded into the smallest smile. He cast a skeptical but resigned glance at Harry, who was eyeing a silver snuffbox set near the table clock.

  “Go with Jacobs now,” Nathaniel said. “Harry has given his word that there will be no trouble, Jacobs. Haven’t you, Harry?”

  Harry shrugged agreement. Jacobs beckoned. Servant and boy left, giving each other looks that said neither thought the relationship promising.

  “Thank you,” Nathaniel said.

  “I am delighted that I could oblige you.” She lifted her parasol. “I will return home and write to Fleur at Laclere Park. I am sure she will send the reference, so you should anticipate taking Harry north two days hence.”

  “You cannot leave yet.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “If you leave, you will be standing in Piccadilly Street for half an hour,” he explained. “Remember? Your coach left and will call for you.”

  Standing on the street would be more comfortable than staying here. Being alone in this room with Nathaniel unnerved her.

  “Giving that order was presumptuous of you.”

  “One word from you and the coach would have stayed.” He gestured to the fireplace. “Please, sit. I would like to speak with you of Harry’s future.”

  She refused his offer to take her mantle. Bundled and on guard, her parasol at the ready, she perched on the cane-backed settee near the fire.

  He took his place in the green chair. They faced each other just as they had the last time she was there. Only a lot had changed since that afternoon. He did not examine her with annoyance this time. His dark gaze carried other thoughts. He projected a power designed to create a frightening excitement in her.

  She reacted, to her dismay. Her heartbeat quickened and her instincts waited.

  She moved her gaze from spot to spot in the room. She avoided looking at him. She also averted her eyes from the sofa at the other end of the chamber.

  Her discomfort grew. The clock gently ticked, very slowly.

  “You do not have to be worried,” he said. “I promised to be a gentleman.”

  She finally looked at him. “I am not worried in the least. I am contemplating the duties awaiting my attention, and regretting the inconvenience of this delay.”

  “What you are truly contemplating is written on your face. Let us stop dissembling with each other. We want each other, unexpected though the desire may be. A wall has crumbled. It is hopeless to pretend our passion in this room did not happen, or that we do not both want it to happen again.”

  His bluntness surprised her. His expression—so knowing, so confident in the rights she had surrendered to him—left her dumb.

  Worried did not describe her reaction. Her senses were too aware of the sensual pull Nathaniel exerted to describe her inner agitation as mere worry.

  She dropped her gaze to the carpet to break the spell, but she only achieved enough control to make her reaction more confusing. The unanticipated part of this desire had left her at a disadvantage from the start.

  “I do not even like you, Nathaniel,” she blurted.

  He laughed. “That is the hell of it, isn’t it? However, today it is for the best. If you did like me, I would be breaking my promise right now, and following my inclinations to lure you to my bed.”

  Dear heavens, she wanted him to lure her. That was the true hell of it.

  She groped for a path to safety. Her heart knew where to find it. “You wanted to speak of Harry’s future.”

  His smile accepted her retreat. The wall may have tumbled, but they would not frolic amidst its ruins today.

  “There really is nothing more to discuss,” she said. “He has found a benefactor in you. He will go to Durham and be educated. If he shows the ability, he will have a profession eventually. He will not die in the gutter, thanks to your interest and generosity. I daresay if all men of style and substance sponsored the future of one Harry, the disgrace of these poor, abandoned children would go away.”

  He let her finish her little speech, but wore an irritating, vaguely amused expression that said he knew her game too well. “That is not the future I meant. To be more accurate, I want to speak of what I should do in the future regarding Harry.”

  “Take him to the school, then do whatever you choose. It would be kind if you inquir
ed about his progress so he knows he is not forgotten. You might visit if you are so inclined. Of course, you have no true oblig—”

  “You saw the similarity. You recognized the resemblance.”

  “That is not true.”

  “I watched your face when you first saw him. I observed your astonishment.”

  “It was dark. Whatever you saw, you misunderstood.” She turned her attention to the fire, to emphasize that this conversation was over.

  “Look at me,” he commanded.

  She refused.

  “Damn it, look at me. Will you lie to yourself as well as me? Look me right in the eyes and say that you saw absolutely no resemblance. I do not think you can, because I know that you did see it.”

  She did not care what he thought he knew. She knew Harry was no relation to Mardenford.

  His demand, his challenge, angered her so much that she trembled. This man thought he could see into her soul if he looked into her eyes? This puffed-up, conceited tower of overweening pride believed she was so mesmerized by his light that she would not speak her mind while under his probing scrutiny?

  Teeth gritting, she locked her gaze on his.

  I saw absolutely no resemblance.

  The words choked in her throat.

  She saw in his eyes that he had indeed seen her initial reaction to Harry. He had noticed that fleeting moment of recognition.

  It had been a mistake to ever meet him on that wall, let alone to tear it down. Their intimacies had exposed her soul to him in ways that would endanger people she loved.

  “It was very brief, and it was an illusion,” she said firmly. “You described this boy as having Mediterranean blood. I saw the dark hair and eyes and knew he was the one. In that light, the shape of his face—for a moment only, for the briefest instant, there seemed to be some resemblance. It passed at once.”

  “It did not pass. It became obscured by details, but I still see it.”

  “Oh, tosh! I demand that you describe this similarity that you still claim to see.”

  “It is not in the features so much as the essence. It is in the light in his eyes and the countenance of his face when he is afraid, and when he is happy. I have seen them in Mardenford too, those expressions.”

  A flare of heat burst in her head. She wanted to break something. She rapped the tip of her parasol on the carpet to relieve her agitation.

  “You are insufferably conceited. The great Nathaniel Knightridge can never err, to your mind. It is ignoble for you to jeopardize the reputations of that family on such vague evidence.”

  She was halfway to the door before he was on his feet. “Do not see me out. I will write after I hear from Fleur about the school. Take the boy to Durham, give him hope and a future, but cease this meddling or I will do everything I can to make you regret it.”

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  You think we are here now?”

  Nathaniel looked over from the book he was reading. Harry was pointing to a spot on the map.

  “Yes, we are about that far on the road, and should cross into County Durham very soon.”

  Harry wanted to treat the carriage journey as an adventure, but the long hours on the road between inns quickly bored him. To help the boy pass the time, Nathaniel had given him his pocket map and showed how the pages were organized and how to interpret the legend.

  Harry flipped to the next page and its rectangular section. “That is the sea, close by, running along there.” Using his finger, he measured from the mail road east, then moved his finger to the scale on the legend. “Not so close, after all.”

  Nathaniel watched the dark head bent over the map. “The school will have atlases. Those are big books filled with maps.”

  Harry seemed happy enough with the pocket map for now.

  The boy had not talked much, and Nathaniel did not mind. He had no idea how to talk to children. As the youngest among his brothers, he had never learned.

  The best he had been able to do with Harry was attempt some inquiries about the boy’s past the first night after dinner. Other than descriptions of his time with Old John, several years at least from what Nathaniel could glean, the conversation had been circular, resented, and not very informative.

  Thus far all he knew was that the mother may have been named Bella and that she had dark hair. When Nathaniel had probed for more, Harry had turned sullen and rude.

  “Do you think this school ever visits the sea? It ain’t too far,” Harry said.

  “Possibly. I will ask Mr. Avlon.” Mr. Avlon was the headmaster of Fleur Duclairc’s new school for the sons of miners. This large charitable endeavor was under way on some property she owned in Durham. According to Charlotte, Mr. Avlon currently lived in the estate house with a few boys who were beginning their studies while the school building was constructed.

  A letter of reference from Fleur was tucked in Nathaniel’s valise. It had come the afternoon after Harry entered his home, sent from Charlotte by messenger. No note from Lady M. had accompanied the document.

  Harry still ran his finger down the engraved coast on the map.

  “Have you seen the sea before, Harry?”

  Harry nodded. “Lived there.”

  Nathaniel closed his book. “Was this when you were a little child?”

  “Not so little.”

  “Was it a village?”

  “There were boats and all, and houses.” He spoke in a distracted tone. “I went out on a boat once. Was scared at first, but then not. I could see all the houses from out there, all at once. Not such a big village. The boat was for catching fish. They all were, but you could see the big ships goin’ out to sea.”

  He was describing a fishing village near a trading route. “Is that where your mother lived? In this village?”

  Harry’s gaze never left the map. His finger continued to trace, but his body went very still, as if nothing but that finger moved, not even his lungs to breathe.

  “I would like you to tell me what you remember. If there are relatives, we can find them. There might be a family looking for you.”

  The finger stopped. Nathaniel could not see his eyes, but the face had gotten tight.

  “No family,” Harry muttered. “Just Old John and t’others, and he’s gone and t’others are back there and I’m here.”

  He sounded close to crying. Nathaniel had no idea how to deal with that.

  Of course the boy would get homesick. That basement had been a thief’s den and the children had picked pockets for Old John, but it had been all the home and family they knew.

  He hoped the younger ones had found more sympathetic guardians in Mrs. Dudley and Mr. Longhorn than Harry had found in Mr. Knightridge.

  “Perhaps in the village someone knows of your other family. Your mother’s people.”

  The silence lasted longer this time. Finally, Harry dropped the map to the floor and swung his legs so he could lie curled on his side with his back to Nathaniel.

  Nathaniel opened his book again. He did not read, however. A few sniffs suggested the boy was weeping. He looked over at the huddled body and hiding face. What was it like to be so young and have no place in the world, no home?

  A muffled sob tore out of the child. Nathaniel leaned over and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He doubted it would give much comfort but it would not be right to ignore this sorrow.

  “The old woman might know,” Harry said, his voice rough with tears. “Jenny might.”

  “We still might be able to save him, sir. Yes, we might.”

  Mr. Avlon issued his optimistic appraisal while he and Nathaniel drank coffee in the estate house’s drawing room.

  A Quaker, the youthful Mr. Avlon dressed plainly and wore his hair in an old-fashioned blond queue. His enthusiasm for his new position, and his belief in Fleur Duclairc’s grand vision, had been apparent earlier when he showed Nathaniel and Harry the grounds and schoolroom. Now Mrs. Avlon was settling Harry into his bedroom and Mr. Avlon spoke frankly. />
  “He has been in Satan’s clutches, but we have him now. We will see what education he has had and start from there. It is astonishing how fast they learn if they have been deprived. It is like pouring water into sand, they absorb so quickly.”

  “Do you have outings of any distance? Say, to the sea?”

  Mr. Avlon blinked. “The sea?”

  “I promised to ask.”

  Mr. Avlon chuckled. “Not so close, but who knows, perhaps so. The study of nature at the sea might be a good outing.”

  Nathaniel drank more coffee. He should probably be asking other questions, but he had no idea what they might be.

  “We do not use the rod overmuch,” Mr. Avlon said. “With a boy like this, others would want to beat the sin out of him. But, no, I do not hold with that. He would likely run away, and be lost to God forever. I cannot promise that he will not disappear anyway, of course.”

  “Ask for his word that he will not run away or misbehave. If he gives his word, he will keep it.”

  Mr. Avlon raised his eyebrows. “Indeed? Thou have brought me an unusual child, Mr. Knightridge. A boy raised by a criminal, a boy whom I think we can assume is a criminal himself, but who keeps his word.”

  It had been most unusual. Harry had given no trouble. No snuffboxes or coin had gone missing at Albany.

  Now this unusual boy would be cared for by Mr. and Mrs. Avlon. He would be educated and, from the looks of things, even loved. He would have another family of sorts, and not be lost to the streets.

  Nathaniel realized that his responsibility for Harry had ended. Charlotte had been right. He could inquire or visit, but he had no obligations to this boy.

  He should get in his carriage and ride away from the mystery Harry presented. If he did, Charlotte might look kindly on him again. If he did not, she would never have another civil word for him. A new wall would stand between them, never to be breached.

  He did not want that. It startled him to admit how much it mattered.

  He really did not know anything for certain about Harry. He had nothing more than a criminal’s words and his own instincts urging him to learn more. His mind said it was not enough, that Charlotte was right and he might jeopardize a family’s reputation on an investigation built on lies.