My Fair Lord

by Wilma Counts

  Although she had continued to work with Mr. Bolton on a daily basis, she also welcomed his company. He was riding Blaze, so she looked forward to a short race. The three of them chatted as amiably as traffic allowed, marveling at their luck in the weather and commenting on newspaper accounts of both official negotiations and social events of the Congress of Vienna. The social news was full of balls and soirees hosted by this or that renowned hostess and dropping such names of aristocrats and nobles as to make the stay-at-homes in London envious. Retta was sure her stepmother was in her element. The official reports were full of a change in leadership: Lord Castlereagh was being recalled to London, and Wellington would replace him in Vienna. Because of winter weather and because the wheels of government, like of those of the gods, “grind exceeding slow,” it would be some weeks before the change was accomplished.

  “I do not understand this change at all,” Retta said to her uncle as she skirted a woman selling roasted chestnuts on the street; because of the traffic, Mr. Bolton had dropped behind. “I thought Lord Castlereagh was deemed a huge success with his ‘balance of power’ proposals.”

  “He was—he is,” her uncle said. “The truth is we must get Wellington out of Paris. Too many plots to assassinate him. The French don’t like having him in Paris as our ambassador—he is a constant reminder of their defeat.”

  “Could he not lead the troops in America then?” she asked.

  “He could,” he replied as he, too, maneuvered around the chestnut seller, “but he refused that position early on. Said that war was a mistake to start with. He is probably right, too.”

  “Does this mean Papa and the countess are on their way home?” Her father, who communicated regularly enough with his heir and with his brother, rarely wrote Retta personally, and her stepmother never did; with Rebecca and Melinda in the country, such information came to Retta strictly second- or even third- hand.

  “Oh, no,” Uncle Alfred said. “Your father is to remain with the delegation.” He emitted a rueful chuckle. “Besides, your stepmama is having the time of her life.”

  “That is not surprising in the least.” When she thought about it—which was not often—she was still miffed that the countess had scotched Retta’s own plan to go to Vienna. She glanced behind to see that Mr. Bolton had paused to buy some hot chestnuts. He now urged his mount forwarded and handed some of the treat to his companions.

  “Never pass up warm chestnuts,” he said amiably.

  “Thank you,” they both answered as the three of them entered the park.

  Retta saw immediately that many others were taking advantage of the break in the weather to avail themselves of fresh air and exercise. And, of course, there was the usual “see and be seen” lot. Ladies in fashionable winter cloaks and bonnets trimmed in fur carried fur muffs and strolled beside gentlemen in many-caped great coats and tall beaver hats. Others rode in open carriages that stopped now and then—and held up traffic—as the occupants exchanged greetings. She also observed several nursery maids, their charges looking like colorful little bears, bundled as they were in layers of thick garments.

  “Perhaps this traffic will thin out as we get farther along Rotten Row,” Mr. Bolton said.

  “Right.” Uncle Alfred urged his horse onward.

  They were on the verge of entering the central thoroughfare, when there was a great commotion just in front of them. Retta heard a loud scream, a shout of warning, and the thundering hooves of an out-of-control team attached to a flashy yellow and green curricle. Then, to her horror, she saw one of those overstuffed little bears toddle right into the path of the curricle. The driver was desperately trying to control his team as his fashionable female companion screamed. Retta wanted to call out a warning, but she felt the scene was transpiring in suspended time and that she herself was frozen in place, helpless. My God! That child! That poor babe!

  Paralyzed with horror, she was scarcely aware of the blur of motion streaking past her until she saw Jake Bolton lean precariously from his saddle, snatch up the child, and carry it to safety off to the side.

  The curricle rushed on, then slowed; the driver turned the team and brought the vehicle back. He called out, “Is the child all right?”

  Bolton grasped the child firmly in front of him with one hand and managed to rein in his prancing horse with the other. “I think so. But good lord, man, what were you thinking to be driving at such a pace in the park?”

  The tension of the moment was released when the child giggled in delight and said, “Horsey. Horsey ride!”

  Bolton tightened his grip. “Yes, young fellow, you have indeed had a ‘horsey ride.’” Retta heard sheer relief in his voice.

  Two females were screaming hysterically.

  One was the young woman in the curricle, berating her companion. “Oh, my goodness! Oh, my heavens! I might have been killed! How could you allow this to happen to me?”

  The other was a distraught nursemaid. “Oh, Master Tommie! Master Tommie! Is he all right, sir?”

  “I believe he is,” Jake said, handing over the child to a sturdy woman of some forty years or so.

  “It happened so fast!” the woman said to Retta who was only now regaining control of her emotions. “He snatched his hand out of mine and was gone before I could grab ‘im. Master Tommie! You gave me such a fright.”

  She hugged the child to her, but the little mite just giggled again and said, “Down!”

  “No!” the nurse said. “Absolutely not. Not ‘til we get home.” She shifted the child onto a hip and turned to look up at Jake. “I don’t know how to thank you sir. I’m sure the boy’s parents, Lord and Lady Davenport, will be ever so grateful. Now, Master Tommie, we must find your sister and go home.”

  Meanwhile the screams of the woman in the curricle had reduced themselves to hysterical sobbing and the driver, a young man of perhaps twenty, dressed as one of the dandy set, was trying ineffectually to comfort her. Finally, he said, “Miss Farnsworth, please. Please just be quiet. You assured me you knew how to handle a team, and just look what happened!”

  “Oh! Oh! You are such a brute to make this all my fault.”

  “No,” he replied. “It was truly my fault for taking you at your word.”

  “Take me home at once! I fear I may faint.”

  “Don’t you dare do so!” The driver turned to Jake and said, “My sincerest gratitude to you, sir. That was a magnificent feat of riding. You saved that child and saved me untold regret.”

  “Take me home!” The girl’s shrill demands elicited more annoyance than sympathy from bystanders.

  By now the group had attracted quite a degree of attention from strollers and occupants of other vehicles. The story had to be told and retold several times. The girl in the curricle began to preen, obviously seeing herself as the heroine of the moment. Her demands to return home were forgotten, but to his credit, her companion kept asserting that the real hero of the day was the rider who had rescued the little boy. Retta thought Jake Bolton seemed uncomfortable with the attention, and she managed to get him and her uncle on their way once again. They finished their outing at a more sedate pace than she had anticipated—and with less conversation as Retta kept replaying the incident in her mind—and recalling a dockworker’s telling her that yes, he had once ridden farm animals in Yorkshire. She also observed Uncle Alfred kept casting inquisitive glances at Jake.

  * * * *

  Jake knew immediately that he had made a mistake. He could almost sense the questions swirling in the minds of his companions. He had acted on instinct, but how could he have behaved otherwise? One could not just ignore a child in deadly peril—or anyone else, for that matter. The ride back to the stable was slower and uneventful. At this slightly later hour, street traffic had increased appreciably, but when they arrived at the mews, they found that by that mysterious system of communication among servants, the news of Jake’s
rescue of the child had beat them home. The stable hands wanted a first-hand account and to a limited extent Lady Henrietta and Lord Alfred were willing to accommodate them. Both were lavish in their praise of Jake as the hero of the day. But Jake could not shake the feeling that there was more to come.

  And there was.

  As the three of them walked from the stable to the house, Lord Alfred said, “Mr. Bolton, might I have a word with you in the library in, say, half an hour?”

  Lady Henrietta gave Jake an enigmatic look, but shrugged her shoulders to suggest that she did not know what her uncle was about.

  When Jake had changed from his riding clothes and showed himself in the library, Lord Alfred was alone, behind his desk. Either Henry Morrow had not shown up for work yet or his lordship had sent his secretary off on some made-up errand.

  “Close the door please, and have a seat there.” Lord Alfred pointed to a straight-backed chair in front of the desk. So. This was to be an interrogation, was it?

  Jake sat, his arms folded across his chest and waited for the other man to begin. Lord Alfred got right to the point.

  “Who are you, sir, and just why are you here?”

  “I am not sure what you mean, my lord.”

  “What are you doing here? In Blakemoor House.”

  Jake decided to be as straight-forward as he could be, mindful of his last conversation with Peter Fenton. “But, sir, I thought Lord Heaton and Lady Henrietta had explained—”

  Lord Alfred cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Oh, yes, they told me of the bet and that Bow Street Runner nonsense. But, frankly, I knew that was humbug before their attack of honesty struck them—Hendrickson, head of Bow Street, had never heard of you.”

  “Well, sir—”

  “No. No more dissembling. Gerald and Retta think they picked up a dockworker off a pier on the river, but you, sir, are no ordinary dockworker. You may actually have come from Yorkshire at some point, but you are no ordinary farmer’s son, either.”

  Jake stalled. “I am not sure how you arrived at that conclusion, my lord.”

  “I’ll admit you had me fooled for a bit. That accent, for instance. But no dockworker of my acquaintance reads Homer. I watched you put that book away that day. Did you enjoy Chapman’s translation, by the way? It’s a bit dated, but—”

  “Well, actually—”

  Again his lordship cut him off. “And then we come to that display this morning. Your rescue of that child. That was a cavalryman’s maneuver—not the clumsy action of one familiar only with farm animals. I would wager my entire fortune that you are or have been an army officer.”

  Jake sat silent for a minute, trying to sort out how to respond to this challenge. He decided truth—so far as he was safe with it—would be the best route.

  Lord Alfred held Jake’s gaze in the glare of an army officer dressing down a subaltern. “Look, Bolton. Do not seek to play games with me. Bolton. Is that even your name?”

  “No, sir, it is not, but I am not at liberty to—”

  “And why did you invade this home?”

  “My—uh—work required that I be in this neighborhood, this part of London.”

  Lord Alfred gave a derisive snort. “And my brother’s children just happened to give you the opportunity?”

  “Well, yes, sir. They did not know that, of course. It truly is somewhat incredulous, but it was one of those coincidences that do happen sometimes.”

  Lord Alfred merely stared at him for a moment, then he sighed. “Your ‘work’—and what would that be?” He paused, holding Jake’s gaze. When Jake did not answer immediately, Lord Alfred’s eyes lit up. “Hah. Government, I’ll bet. Who? Home Office? Foreign Office? Parliament? I know it is not the army. York would have told me that much. But perhaps Prinny has decided to meddle in intelligence work now.”

  “I am truly sorry, sir, but I am not at liberty to—”

  Again Lord Alfred held Jake’s gaze for a long moment; he seemed to be trying to come to a conclusion. Finally, he muttered, “Government.” He shook his head. “Sometimes the right hand does not know what the left is doing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lord Alfred was silent for several weighty moments, then he shook his head as though he were arguing with himself. “Well, look, Mr. Bolton, if you can give me your word that you mean no harm of any sort to my niece or her brother, I shall let the matter continue as it is for the time being. But rest assured that I intend to keep fully aware of whatever goes on in this house.”

  Jake stood and offered the older man his hand. “I can do that, sir. I give you my solemn promise that I intend no harm to them at all.”

  Lord Alfred, too, stood and held Jake’s gaze as he gripped the offered hand in a firm clasp.

  Jake started to leave, then turned back. “Oh. And, sir? I did enjoy Chapman’s work.”

  “Cheeky bastard,” but it was said with a chuckle.

  * * * *

  For Jake, the next few days brought some minor changes to the routine of his life at Blakemoor House. Lord and Lady Davenport made a formal call and asked to be presented to the man who had rescued their son. Heretofore, Jake had not been included when callers were entertained in the drawing room. He was glad that his “lessons” had progressed to the point that he could drop the countrified accent entirely now and that Lady Henrietta had professed confidence in his social behavior. However, he thought she reflected his own apprehension—albeit for different reasons—as he joined the group in the drawing room that included Lord Alfred and Viscount Heaton as well as Lady Georgiana and Madame Laurent.

  Immediately as Jake entered the room and was introduced, Lord Davenport rose and extended his hand. “Words are simply inadequate to express the gratitude Lady Davenport and I feel for your saving our son.”

  Somewhat embarrassed at the fuss over what had been an instinctual act, Jake took the man’s hand and said, “I am glad to have been of service, my lord.”

  Lady Davenport rose from where she had been sitting next to Lady Georgiana and came to stand next to her husband. She, too, offered her hand. “You simply cannot know how very, very much we are in your debt, Mr. Bolton.”

  Jake bowed over her hand, then looked directly into her eyes and just barely prevented himself from revealing startled recognition. She was some fifteen years older than when Jake had last seen her, but as a young girl Lady Davenport had been one of half a dozen school friends his sister had brought home one school holiday. Hastily digging in the recesses of memory, he recalled having very little interaction with the gaggle of female guests of his sister. Still, there was no doubt. Lady Davenport was the former Miss Lucy Dennison!

  Her brow wrinkled in consternation. “Do I know you, sir?”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t think so, my lady, unless ye be from a village in south Yorkshire.” Jake deliberately slipped partly into his countrified dialect as he released her hand.

  “No. I am from Kent,” she replied. “Canterbury, actually. But I once had a friend in north Yorkshire. You look so familiar to me.” She continue to stare at him.

  Feeling panicky, Jake nevertheless controlled himself enough to shrug and turn slightly away, back toward her husband. “I suppose it is true that God has only so many patterns and outlines for his creations.”

  Everyone chuckled softly at this near joke and the conversation veered to safe topics of the weather and the coming Christmas season. The Davenports again expressed their profound thankfulness to Jake as they took their leave.

  Lord Davenport bowed to Jake and said, “Mr. Bolton, should you ever have need of anything—anything at all—you must allow me to be of service to you.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Jake breathed an inward sigh of relief as the couple left the room.

  However, the incident had impressed upon him again that people tended to see what one told them
they were seeing, and that the ton—those two hundred or so families of England’s social elite—was truly a very small circle. He was simply not going to be able to carry on this charade forever. This fact was brought home to him again soon after the Davenports’ visit.

  Lady Henrietta and her aunt were busily planning their party set for the week before Christmas. Since there would be fewer than thirty guests, they would not open the huge ballroom, but they would decorate with festive greenery other public areas of the house—the dining room, drawing room, music room, and the library, as well as the entrance hall. This, of course, necessitated shopping trips to the flower market for the greenery and to various shops for ribbons and banners to put finishing touches to everything. Lady Henrietta insisted that Jake accompany her and her aunt to keep up his guardian guise—and to serve as an errand boy of sorts: that is, to carry their purchases. On these outings, the ladies chatted enthusiastically about their plans and about the invited guests.

  Two names, especially, stood out for Jake: that of Colonel Lord Peter Fenton and that of Angus Middleton, Lord Ralston. Also, the ladies had invited Lord and Lady Davenport after their visit. He knew Peter would never give him away, and Jake thought he could finesse the situation with Lady Davenport, but Ralston was another matter.

  “Oh, my. The plot thickens, eh?” Peter joked quietly when Jake met with him in the back stacks at Hatchard’s Book Shop to tell him of his encounter with Lord Alfred after the incident in the park and his meeting the Davenport couple. “Did I not tell you years and years ago that your interest in Greek literature was not quite the thing? Has Lady Henrietta challenged you too?”

  “Not yet. But at times I think she suspects things are not exactly as she thought them to be. Her interest in winning that bet is of foremost importance to her, though. She is now bent on teaching me how to address properly the likes of you in social situations.”