No Earls Allowed

by Shana Galen

  He had his work cut out for him, and this was but one room in what he estimated to be close to a dozen. One thing was for certain. Lady Juliana might not know it, but she needed military regimentation and a whole hell of a lot of it.

  * * *

  Julia fumed all the way to the kitchen, and then she fumed more when she saw the state in which the boys had left it. She’d have to spend half the morning putting everything to rights. If her father wanted to help her, why didn’t he send her a maid or a cook? She could sorely use one of each. Leave it to a man to send help in the form of one more inconvenience. On the other hand, if her father knew her lady’s maid had resigned and the cook had fled and she was living here three or four days a week essentially unchaperoned, he would have come himself and dragged her home.

  At least the boys would be busy for the next few hours. Mrs. Fleming should have arrived by now. The teacher would have had to begin her lessons late, but some education was better than the complete ignorance in which the boys had been living before she arrived.

  Julia found the broom and sighed over the crumbs and smashed bits of food on the floor. If only Harriett could see her now. Her sister would have laughed at dainty, little Julia sweeping up after orphans. But then, her sister had always been laughing.

  Harriett had been her best friend and closest confidante. The sisters, only nineteen months apart, had behaved like twins. They’d always been so happy together. And who wouldn’t have been happy when life was filled with nights at the theater, dancing under glittering ballroom chandeliers, and presentations at court? Their life had been exciting and beautiful and charmed. And when some small discomfort intruded, Harriett had made everything right again. She’d always been the strong, healthy one as well…until she wasn’t.

  Julia’s eyes burned, and she closed them briefly. She was here because she’d already mourned Harriett and now she needed to do something besides embroider pillow covers and sip tepid tea at garden parties. The magic that had been her life in the haute ton had faded without Harriett, and each event seemed more dreary and tiresome than the last. Her father balked at the thought of his last remaining child running an orphanage. At one time, Julia would have balked too. Charities and benevolence societies were always Harriett’s domain. She’d been a tireless supporter of this orphanage and several others. When she’d been confined to her bed, she’d asked Julia to go to the meetings in her stead.

  And when she’d died, Julia had continued to go because she did not know how not to go. It had been painful enough saying goodbye to her dear sister and her best friend. The charities were one way to keep Harriett alive.

  Davy had been another way.

  But he’d been taken from her as well.

  How could she sit in that too-silent town house and go on with her life as usual? Without Harriett or Davy, all that was left was a deep, dark hole. The day she’d walked into the St. Dismas Home for Wayward Youth, a ray of light had shone in the blackness threatening to engulf her life. She’d felt as though she belonged. She’d felt like this might be a place she could call home. She’d been delivering embroidered napkins, which anyone with half a brain could see was not what the orphans really needed, and she’d simply never left. First, she’d spent one day a week here, then two, then more. Now, she was all but splitting her time between her father’s town house and the orphanage.

  She felt close to Davy here. She felt closer to Harriett.

  She felt…that something was not quite right.

  She paused in her sweeping and cocked her head. It was too quiet, and she’d quickly learned when it was too quiet something was amiss. Laying the broom handle against the worktable, she left the kitchen and stuck her head in the hallway. The classroom was just up the stairs, in what had been a drawing room before the residence had been made into an orphanage. Shouldn’t she hear the drones of Mrs. Fleming as she recited numbers or read aloud?

  Instead, Julia heard…nothing.

  She crept down the hallway and would have started up the stairs except she spotted Mr. Wraxall in the vestibule. She’d wanted to forget about him. She knew who he was as soon as he introduced himself. She’d never met him, but as she’d said, her father and his father had been friends for a long time. She knew about Kensington’s bastard son. She’d only met the legitimate sons, of course, though the marquess claimed his bastard and had paid for him to be reared and educated.

  Wraxall didn’t look at all like his father and brothers, who were pale and slightly plump and who had inherited the crooked front teeth that were the hallmarks of the marquesses of Kensington from time immemorial. Wraxall must have taken after his mother, for he was not pale, not plump, and his teeth were white and straight.

  She’d looked just a little too long at his mouth to pretend she didn’t remember his teeth. Or his lips, which looked soft and yielding.

  Except for his lips, everything about him was straight and proper and sober. He’d undoubtedly made a good soldier, because when he turned his gaze on her now, she almost felt as though she should stand at attention. She resisted the silly urge and then, because he made her nervous, she latched on to the first item she saw—other than his quite kissable lips. It was a small notebook and pencil he held in his hands. “What is that?”

  He glanced down at the notebook as though just remembering he held it. “I’m taking notes, my lady.”

  “Notes, Mr. Wraxall? About the front door?”

  He turned back a page. “I’ve already finished my notes on the dormitories. I didn’t want to barge into unfamiliar rooms, and since I haven’t been given a tour of the premises yet, I thought the front door seemed a good place to continue.”

  “Continue making notes?”

  “As you see.”

  “Is there very much to note about the door, other than it is rectangular, wooden, and sorely in need of paint?” Come to think of it, hadn’t she asked Mr. Goring to paint it last week?

  “It is all of those things, my lady, but I am also noting that the lock does not work.”

  “What?” She moved closer. “I lock it every night.”

  “I have no doubt of that, but the mechanism has been rigged so the bolt does not slide into place fully.” He pushed the bolt into place, and then he tugged on the door and it came open easily.

  “But how—”

  “Here.” He showed her the way the wood had been smoothed down in the casement so that it took only a little pressure to free the bolt from its mooring.

  “Oh dear. I shall have to have that repaired.” Once again she glanced about for the elusive Mr. Goring. She hadn’t seen him since he’d shown Wraxall in.

  “Did I imagine you had a servant earlier?”

  Ah, then she wasn’t the only one who hadn’t seen him.

  “I do.”

  “Just the one servant?”

  “Could you show me the door again?” she said, hoping to distract him.

  “What about a companion or a lady’s maid?”

  Curses. If word reached her father that she was here without a chaperone, all her plans would go to waste. “So the lock on the door is not working?” She bent to peer at it.

  He pushed it closed. “Forget the door. Is there a female servant in residence?”

  She had never been a good liar, but she did know how to dance and how to sidestep. “By ‘in residence,’ do you mean on the premises?”

  His eyes seemed to turn a darker shade of blue. “That is the usual meaning.”

  “Mrs. Fleming is here.”

  “The lady lives here?”

  “She is in the classroom.” She ought to play chess. That was a narrow escape.

  “Mrs. Fleming is an instructor?”

  “Yes.” Distraction was the key, and Julia was already starting up the stairs, making her way around the boards that were weak and rotting.

  “And where is
this classroom?” He followed her, seeming not to have realized she hadn’t answered his question. He trailed her closely, stepping where she did as though he too had seen the rotted wood.

  She gestured to the top of the stairs. “In what was formerly the drawing room.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Of course I’m certain. See for yourself.” She opened the drawing room doors and stared at the empty room. She looked right and then left.

  No pupils. No teacher.

  Wraxall leaned on the door beside her. “Impressive,” he drawled.

  She would have told him to shut up, but she was too angry to speak. She knew it had been too quiet. She had no idea where either the boys or their teacher had gone. That was if Mrs. Fleming had even come to work. The boys were not exactly well behaved, and Julia would hardly blame the woman if she sought employment elsewhere.

  Then she heard it.

  She hoped she imagined it, but when she looked at Mr. Wraxall, he too was looking at the front windows. With a sigh, Julia crossed to the windows looking out onto the street and parted the curtains. As the shouts and hoots of laughter she’d heard had indicated, there were the boys. It would have been bad enough to see them loitering in front of the orphanage and harassing passersby, but it was even worse to see them playing keep-away with Mrs. Fleming’s reticule and books. The items were tossed from one boy to the next, just in front of Mrs. Fleming, but continually out of her reach. For her part, Mrs. Fleming stood with her hands on her bony hips, her square chin jutted out, and her eyes narrowed under her ugly hat.

  First, her cook; now, her teacher. Julia was aware she should run downstairs, stomp outside, and end the nonsense below with all possible haste. But it wasn’t even noon, and she had no more energy. Perhaps if she rested her forehead on the cool glass for a moment and gathered her strength…

  She hadn’t realized Mr. Wraxall had come to stand behind her until she felt the warmth of his body. She almost turned, but then his arm brushed against hers as he further parted the curtains she held. Her skin tingled beneath the silk of her gown, and she had the wanton impulse to rub against him again. She refrained, but she was not so angelic as to move to put some distance between them. She wanted him to touch her again. More than that, it was lovely to imagine, just for a moment, that she was not alone in all of this. His form felt solid and steady, and he smelled lightly of baked bread and coffee—smells, she imagined, that lingered from his earlier quest to find the boys food. She wanted to turn her head into his waistcoat and breathe him in.

  Julia couldn’t imagine where the idea had come from. Then her belly rumbled and she remembered she had not eaten at all today. That was it. She must have been half-mad from hunger.

  She lifted her head, and her hand inadvertently slid down to where his rested on the edge of the curtain. At the feel of his bare skin against hers, she pulled away quickly, but not as quickly as he did.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” she sputtered.

  “It was my fault.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, presumably to keep them from ever touching her again. Clearly, she was the only one imagining his arms around her. And how could she blame him? She looked a fright and had acted like a shrew. Their gazes met, and his jerked quickly to the window. He couldn’t even look at her.

  “The woman is your teacher?”

  “Yes. I had better go and save her.” She was eager to be away. She didn’t need to see him flinch away from her a second time. “And accept her resignation.”

  “You can’t allow her to resign.”

  She raised her brows. “I don’t see how I can prevent her.”

  “But the cook already resigned today.”

  “Yes, thank you for reminding me. I’d quite forgotten what a wretched day this has been.”

  He seemed to ignore the barb. “And we can’t find your manservant anywhere.”

  Her brows lowered to a glower. “Yes, and my lock does not work, and the kitchen is a catastrophe, and I haven’t eaten anything since supper at the ball last night. Make note of all of it in your little book and be sure to tell my father, will you?” It seemed the logical end to this horrendous day.

  She started away, and he matched her stride. “I have no intention of telling your father.”

  She thought she heard a silent yet at the end of that sentence, and she didn’t allow herself to feel relief.

  “Then what do you intend?”

  He seemed to falter, as though not quite certain himself, but then he was by her side again as she descended the stairway in the same careful way she had ascended it. “We divide and conquer,” he said.

  She saluted him. “Yes, sir.”

  “Mock me if you want, but rule and order would not go amiss with those boys right now. I’ll take them and clean up your kitchen while you—”

  She halted. “The boys will clean the kitchen?” she said, her tone disbelieving.

  “Under my supervision, yes.”

  She barked out a laugh. “I have tried to make them sweep and mop before, and they made more of a mess than we started with.”

  He muttered something under his breath. They stood at the bottom of the steps, his face in shadow in the dark vestibule. Just beyond the front door, she could hear the boys’ voices and knew their game continued.

  “What was that you said?”

  “Planned incompetence,” he answered, articulating every syllable.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means the boys made a mess of the chores you assigned them so you wouldn’t ask them to do them again.”

  She inhaled sharply. “They wouldn’t.” But she knew they would. Of course they would. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? “And what does one do about planned incompetence?” she asked.

  “Oh, a night in the stocks usually takes care of it,” he replied.

  She stepped back. “Mr. Wraxall! These are children we’re speaking of and—”

  He held up a hand. “Save your ranting. I won’t put anyone in stocks.”

  Was it her imagination or did he mutter this time after those words?

  “Having me act as supervisor will be sufficient.”

  “And you know how to use a mop and broom?” she asked dubiously.

  “I was a soldier. I know how to launder my own clothing and sew on a button too, Lady Juliana. You take the teacher and speak with her in the parlor. I’ll take the boys and clean up the kitchen. While we’re at it, they might as well straighten the dormitories.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “I wish you the same in your endeavor to convince the school teacher to remain. Now that we both know our assignments…” He reached for the door. “Ready and”—he opened it—“charge!”

  He strode out first and began bellowing orders. Julia held back for just an instant. Her life had become a whirlwind, but she couldn’t allow herself to trust Mr. Wraxall to do any more than pull her free momentarily. He might help her now, but he’d soon lose interest. She wouldn’t make the mistake Harriett had and put her faith in him or any man.

  Four

  The orphans were not so different from newly enlisted soldiers. They were brash and bold on the outside, but inside they wanted direction and the comfort of having someone to tell them what to do.

  Neil still thought a few hours in the stocks would have done several of them a world of good.

  Neil dealt with the paltry resistance the boys put up when he told them to clean the kitchen. The younger ones followed the older boys, so when the first older boy, the tall one with shaggy, brown hair in his eyes who had been fighting, folded his arms and refused to pick up the broom, calling it woman’s work, Neil got an apron and told the boy to put it on.

  The lad folded his arms. “I won’t!”

  “Then you don’t eat.” Neil looked at all of the boys, meeting each one�
�s gaze in turn. “Let me explain to you how life works. You either earn your keep or you have none. If you don’t work, you don’t eat.”

  “You can’t keep us from eating,” another of the boys, this one with straight, brown hair and freckles, said.

  He would have had any soldier who challenged him thus whipped. Instead, he gave the boy a dark look. “Can’t I?” Neil asked, leaning close. “Would you like to test me?”

  The boy’s eyes grew wide and he stepped back.

  “Since Lady Juliana has not yet hired a cook,” Neil continued, “I will be providing dinner. Baked pies like you had earlier.”

  Some of the younger boys cheered. Neil ignored them.

  “If you want a pie, you work. If you don’t work, you make your own dinner.” That was more than generous. He would have let grown men go hungry.

  Neil leaned back against the wall and waited. If there was one thing he knew, it was men’s—and boys’—stomachs. In about three heartbeats, every boy was sweeping, mopping, or washing dishes. Even the fighter with the hair in his eyes. Neil pointed to him. “You over there.”

  The one who liked to count—Lady Juliana had called him Michael—cleared his throat. “That’s Walter, sir.”

  Walter scowled at Michael and did his best to ignore Neil.

  “Master Walter,” Neil said. “You said this is woman’s work. So put on the apron.”

  “But—”

  Neil raised a brow.

  With a scowl, the boy yanked it over his head and went back to sweeping.

  Neil heard a few sniggers. “First boy I catch laughing at him has to wear an apron too.”

  The laughter ceased immediately. Then one of the little boys, a lad who couldn’t have been more than four and who was attempting to sweep with his thumb in his mouth, toddled over. He tugged on Neil’s coat. Neil almost bent down, but he resisted the urge. “What?”

  The boy pulled his thumb from his mouth. “What if we want to wear an apron?” He blinked large, brown eyes up at Neil. Neil steeled his heart. He would not allow these children to worm their way into his affections. He was here to do a duty, nothing more. Once Lady Juliana was safe, he would be gone.