She hid it from the boys, but when they weren’t looking, she would gaze at them with the kind of glance that spoke of loved ones lost and the fear that it might happen again. Miss West had known grief, and in every swipe of the wet cloth to Seth’s fevered skin, in every spoonful of liquid she made him drink, she was clearly striving to keep the ill fates at bay.
As Steele approached the doorway, his steps slowed and he listened. Silence greeted him. Quietly he strode inside.
Steele’s heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t think of anything more beautiful than the sight before him, reminding him suddenly of a Madonna and child.
Miss West lay in the window seat, her body curled protectively around Seth, his small body nestled into hers. Her hand cupped the boy’s forehead; a book lay beside them as if negligently dropped. The golden glow of midday sun washed over them, coating them in honeyed warmth. Miss West’s unkempt hair glistened like strands of gold, her lashes splaying long shadows across her dewy pink cheeks. A contented smile played on her rosy lips. Her breast rose and fell evenly, her body perfectly relaxed in repose.
That woman is meant to be a mother, the thought whispered in his mind, surprising him. He suddenly wondered if she wanted children of her own. Did she long for marriage, motherhood? What did Miss West yearn for? Of what did she dream? He unexpectedly found that he wanted to know.
Was that why she was interested in Mr. Littlethom? Was a family of her own what she secretly hoped to gain?
He shifted, suddenly hating the idea of her leaving. His gut clenched just thinking about her not being here with her sunny hair and overly serious face and flashes of unpredictability. His house was happier since her arrival, and he didn’t want that effect to end. But it would once the boys left. He certainly didn’t need a governess if he didn’t have the children. He scowled, not liking the course of his musings.
I need to get back to work, he chided. I’m becoming maudlin in my old age, and productivity is the only answer. A draft of a contract was waiting for his review, a brief needed a reply, a letter of inquiry required a response. He had important responsibilities.
But still, he couldn’t get his feet to turn as he soaked in the purity and beauty of the slumbering pair.
Steele liked the way Miss West’s hair swooped around her face like a framework of gold.
Seth was snoring quietly and evenly, his color healthier; his cheeks no longer had a feverish flush.
Suddenly Seth let out a little snort and shifted slightly. With his eyes still closed and clearly still in slumber, he grasped Miss West’s free hand and clutched it tightly into his own. Seth sighed soundly, then burrowed deeper into the protective circle of Miss West’s arm.
With her eyes still closed, Miss West hugged him tenderly and exhaled.
Feeling like an interloper, Steele turned to go. The boards beneath his feet creaked in protest.
Miss West’s eyes flew open.
Her eyes were lighter, more blue than gray today, and it took but a second for the haziness to clear and for them to focus. On him. She did not move, obviously not wanting to disturb Seth.
Steele inquired, “How is he?”
“Better,” she whispered. “The fever broke.”
“Good.”
She swallowed, speaking quietly, “I was beginning to worry that we’d have to call for the doctor.”
“No.” Steele hated doctors, dreaded their solemn faces and empty cures. Calling for the doctor signaled defeat, the death knell for sure. His mother had lasted less than a day after the doctor had come with his fatal pronouncements. His father had made it less than three days after the doctor’s ineffective potions. The thought of Seth…
“No, what?” Miss West asked, her brow furrowing.
Steele blinked. “Ah, no doctors.”
“Dr. Winner, from Andersen Hall, is a friend. He’s really good, especially with children.”
“You said his fever broke; we don’t need him.”
She pursed her lips. “You don’t believe in the medical profession.”
“I think the medical profession is quite advantageous…if you’re a money-grubbing doctor.”
Her eyes filled with sympathy. “Whom did you lose?”
Looking down at his hands, he was surprised at the knot suddenly choking his throat. “My mother, then my…father.” He hadn’t spoken of them in years and was surprised by the grief lashing through him.
“I’m so sorry.”
“The doctor was useless,” Steele choked out. “It was almost like…the doctor was a precursor to death.”
“They can be sometimes. I think it’s the nature of things.”
“I understand that there’s only so much a doctor can do…but every time I’ve called for one”—he looked up—“someone I love dies.”
Her eyes glanced at Seth. But the lad slept on, his breath even, his slumber deep.
She motioned to the chair. “Please sit beside me. The talking soothes Seth, and I want to hear what happened.”
To his own great shock, Steele lifted the chair and set it next to the sleeping boy and his governess. “I don’t know that there’s much to tell.”
“Then tell me about your parents. What were they like?”
Steele realized that he wanted to talk to Miss West, wanted to be near her. There was something about her mien that inspired trust, and the knowledge that she had a sympathetic ear.
For the next hour Steele recounted the tale he’d never spoken of to a soul. How his mother had come down with a terrible cough that made him wince with agony simply hearing it. How her labored breath whistled with torturous struggle. How her body had burned with fever and her mind had been lost to nonsensical ranting.
Miss West would ask a question now and again, but mostly she listened, her compassion clear, yet she did not pity him, just the situation.
His father’s passing had been a bit easier, mostly because the man had hardly complained. The master carpenter was finishing up a new mantel at the local vicar’s house when his apprentice accidentally cut him with a blade. The fever had set in the next night and burned him to a cinder. When Steele’s aunt was at a loss for what else she could do, they’d gathered their last money and called for the doctor.
“It was a waste of our money,” Steele explained, bitterness lacing his tongue. “I hate doctors, they’re useless.”
“Not all of them,” Miss West countered. Then she told him of Dr. Michael Winner, the man who treated all the children at Andersen Hall Orphanage and never took a penny for it. She told him about the times the man had sat all night with a sick child, mixed hundreds of liniments, set countless bones, and stitched innumerable gashes. All with good humor, a caring spirit, and for no fee.
She sighed. “Doctors are merely human, and they come in all shapes and sizes, good and bad. But mostly they aim to do well, to relieve suffering.”
“You believe that?” Steele asked.
“I do. It takes a certain kind of man to commit to helping others. And as far as the money, he deserves to be able to put bread on his table as much as the next person. Don’t condemn him for it.” Her brow furrowed. “How old were you when your father died?”
“Twelve.” He suddenly realized that she knew exactly what it mean to be an orphan. “You were thirteen when you went to Andersen Hall Orphanage?”
“Yes.”
He nodded, his heart aching for her. They were a pair in their loss.
“And I count myself lucky for having made it there,” she added.
“I was lucky, too. I was taken in by a group of brothers in my village.” The Cutler brothers had welcomed him into their fold. They had given him a place beside them, as one of them. They had given him a reason to be, instead of wallowing in grief and loneliness. “I’ll be forever grateful to them,” he murmured.
“Do you ever get to see them?”
He shook his head. For Deidre he’d cut all ties with his old life. Then after she’d died, grief had overwhelmed, and he h
adn’t had the energy to reconnect. Thereafter he’d been so busy building his career and becoming a man Deidre could be proud of.
One year had bled into the next, and soon he was too ashamed to contact the Cutlers.
“Do you miss them?” she asked.
His brow furrowed. “I do.” He realized that he missed the camaraderie, having a place.
“Then why don’t you contact them? Write them a letter, invite them to come see you?”
He shook his head. “I’m a different man now. I don’t know if they would welcome word from me after so long. I don’t know if they’d even like me.”
“Of course they’d like you. You’re eminently good-natured.”
“Ahhh.” He made a face. “You have not heard of my stellar reputation?”
She looked away.
“So you have.” He scratched his chin. “Which of the fine descriptions have you heard about me? Was it the ‘Filled with more ambition than the House of Commons when a vote is tight?’ Or, my personal favorite, ‘As sharp as a scythe and leaves you just as bloody.’”
“Ouch!” She made a face. “You don’t seem bothered by these statements. Instead…you seem proud.”
“I’m not ashamed of my ambition; it’s gotten me where I am today. I made a goal for myself, and then did everything in my power to attain it. Some may call it ruthless, striving, grasping.” He shrugged. “I needed to become the man my wife deserved.” He looked away, as if shocked that he’d shared that information.
Shifting on the seat, he added quickly, “The other sentiment, about being like a scythe…well, I suppose I am proud of that since it’s been said as it applies to me in court.” He nodded. “And I do take it as a compliment. When I can cross-examine a hostile witness and distill the facts from the rubbish he tries to pawn off as truth.”
Abigail couldn’t quite forget his comment about being the man his wife had deserved, but clearly he did not wish to discuss it. “It must be gratifying to do a job so well.”
“It is. And to feel like I am serving my country.”
She shook her head. “I can’t help but venture that your friends would be glad to hear from you. And not just because of your position. There’s great integrity to all you do.”
His brow furrowed as if this were a new concept to him.
Abigail continued, “I know it would be gratifying to me if one of my charges grew up to be a man like you.”
He crossed his legs, seemingly uncomfortable.
“Did I embarrass you?” she asked.
“No…well…I’m sincerely flattered that you think so well of me. But you haven’t known me for long—”
“If you have any doubts about your character, children are the best judges, and both Seth and Felix adore you.”
“Well, I don’t feel as if I’ve done a very good job getting to know them,” he confessed.
“Felix has been crowing about the stories you read together. He’s quite taken with you, and I have to tell you that boys don’t lie about such things. They either like you or they don’t. Very simple. Write to your friends. They’d be delighted to hear from you.”
Scratching his chin, he realized that he was tempted by the notion of writing to the Cutler brothers. The oldest, Johnny, must be forty by now. Gabriel, thirty-five. The twins, Kincaid and Peter, would be about his age. “It’s been so long since I left them. I wonder if they’re angry.”
“When was the last time you met a man angry that another man didn’t keep in touch?”
The way she presented it, it did sound silly. “Never.”
“I think men don’t care or fuss about such things as much as women do.”
He nodded, a feeling of lightness in his chest. “I’ll do it.”
“Good. Please let me know how they respond.”
Seth snorted, stirred, and sat up. Blinking, he rubbed his eyes. “Lord Steele?”
“How are you, Seth?” Steele asked, leaning forward and catching a whiff of Miss West’s heather scent.
“Better. Hungry. When’s breakfast?”
Steele smiled, exchanging a glance with Miss West. She was beaming. “I think buttered biscuits are in order.”
Seth’s eyes brightened. “With raspberry jam?”
Lord Steele stood. “With whatever you want!”
“Yippee!” Seth jumped up and raced out the door.
“Not so fast!” Miss West chided, but the boy was gone.
“I think he’s feeling better,” Steele commented.
“Most definitely.” Slowly Miss West rose from the seat.
Steele grasped her arm. “Here, let me help you.”
“Ah, thank you. I got a bit stiff sitting for so long.”
Awkward silence encased them as he released her arm.
Miss West looked up. “I’d better be off to the kitchen, before Seth turns everyone on his head.”
“Yes.”
She smiled shyly. “Thanks for keeping me company.”
He looked away, chagrined. “Ah, you’re welcome.”
Her skirts swooshed as she walked out the door.
The parlor felt empty, and quiet, and Steele suddenly did not mind. He felt better, as if a burden that had been weighing on his heart had lightened. The internal acrimony that had plagued him for so many years had been replaced with a feeling of…acceptance. It wasn’t quite forgiveness, but more akin to understanding.
Exhaling, Steele tried to recall what he’d intended to do with the rest of his day.
Work.
He checked his watch. Where had the day gone?
He had papers that needed reviewing and a letter to draft.
But he couldn’t seem to garner the desire to go to his study. Instead, he found his footsteps leading him down toward the kitchens.
Chapter 18
Three nights later, Abigail slowly crept along in the dark alleyway, her senses honed to pick up any hint of her masked savior. But there was nothing. No well-balanced footfalls, no deliciously masculine scent, no tingling awareness racing across her skin. Nothing.
She swallowed her disappointment, telling herself that he’d probably forgotten her. It had been a week since they’d met. A week since he’d woken her slumbering desires.
She pushed aside the disenchantment; she needed to focus her energies on finding Reggie. Guilt pricked at her gut for allowing herself to be diverted from her task, but it was a tiny pinch overshadowed by desperate longing. She yearned for that fantastic heat, the intoxicating pleasure, the astonishing sensations in her most private places. Just remembering the passion she’d experienced made her skin warm all over.
“Stop it!” she whispered to herself, clenching her hands so that her nails bit her palms. She welcomed the pain, needing to regain control over herself and not get distracted from the important mission of finding her brother. He was in deep trouble and in need of her help. And if she didn’t start paying attention to her surroundings, she might find herself in deep trouble, too.
A rat scurried along the nearby wall. A cry rang out in the distance. The odor of refuse and the Thames hung over the streets, pungent and cloying, like a whore’s perfume. She’d certainly been exposed to enough of such scents, having interviewed more streetwalkers than she could count in hopes that someone had seen her brother.
Images of some of the women seemed to stay with her long after the interviews were over and they’d parted ways. There was Betty, with the haunted, hollow eyes. Jane, with consumption, who had clothing that hung on her willowy frame in rags. Mallory, who had a cough that rattled and a baby just eleven months old that her sister kept while she worked to pay for food.
Swallowing, Abigail squeezed her eyes closed and pushed away the images from her mind. She knew that when she encountered these women she was a bit too free with her money, even when the information was negligible. But she had to do something…Clenching the small pouch in her pocket, she weighed the little coin she had left. Still, she was so much better off than these women, so
much better off…
She tried not to dwell on the fact that if not for Andersen Hall Orphanage, she might have been just a few steps behind these women. She thanked her good fortune for landing at the orphanage. She thanked God for introducing her to Headmaster Dunn. She was grateful for the chance she’d had to succeed.
But what of Reggie? He hadn’t really used that opportunity to best advantage. He’d dashed all her hopes for him, and she hated to admit it, but she was disappointed. He was smart, literate, and had the kindest heart a man could have. But that kind heart accompanied a temper that lit in a flash. When he was angry, rational thought flew out the window, and Reggie usually wound up in boiling water.
A harsh cough echoed in the alleyway, and Abigail’s footsteps froze. About ten paces away on the ground, a man rolled over, his open mouth emitting a small snore. Examining the sky, Abigail was glad to see that few clouds blocked the moon, so rain shouldn’t be imminent. She knew what it was like to sleep in the open, and rain was no one’s favored bedfellow.
Abigail recalled the nights she and Reggie had slept in haylofts and leaf piles until they’d found their way to London and only by happenstance to Andersen Hall Orphanage. Shivering, she rubbed her hand up her arm, wondering where Reggie slept now.
Reggie was a nomad, making do with one odd job and another, and avoiding the law at every turn. Now he was in trouble again, and was scared enough to contact his sister. It was a frightening thought, and a responsibility that Abigail didn’t take lightly.
Abigail quickened her pace, ready to finally meet the infamous Jumper and find out what he knew.
She turned the corner and spied a slim figure leaning on a doorframe. A lantern rested on a hook to his right, spilling a hazy greenish-golden glow around the man’s legs.
He was a lanky fellow with matted blond hair, a hooked nose, and an Adam’s apple that was as big as a child’s fist. He had gangly arms that hung loosely at his sides and stuck out of the sleeves of his worn brown coat. His legs seemed a mile long, an effect enhanced by the fact that his black breeches were a hand’s-width shorter than his brown, calf-length scuffed boots.
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