No Earls Allowed
Page 6
But he moved inside, his head nodding. “Good job, men.”
“Is it good enough for a sweet?” asked little James.
“It’s good, but not that good.”
“Aw!” Chester and Jimmy groaned and sagged.
“Do you want me to show you what to do to earn a sweet tomorrow?”
“Yesth! Yesth!” Charlie jumped up and down, his thumb back in his mouth.
“We’ll start with how you make a bed. Watch very carefully, lads. You want the corners tucked under like so.”
Julia stood in the doorway for a good five minutes, watching as Wraxall showed the boys how to make beds, dust, and fold clothing. And then she had to walk away, because if she didn’t, she feared she would forget she did not like him.
On the way back to the parlor, she had two questions.
Just who was this man?
And how much had her father paid him to put on this act?
Five
When he stepped out of the orphanage, Neil felt as though he could breathe again. The tightness in his chest finally lessened, and by the time he’d hailed the hackney and was away from Spitalfields, his shoulders had relaxed and his head ceased throbbing.
He didn’t need to go to King Street in St. James to post the letters for Lady Juliana. He could have done it in Spitalfields, but he wanted to go to his club. He needed one hour there, just to remind him who he was. The orphans were not as bad as he’d first thought. It was fortunate none were older than eleven, or Lady Juliana would never have been able to manage them. As it was, she would need to watch Walter and Billy closely. Living in the midst of a rookery meant there were always gangs looking for cubs to train as thieves. Small hands were nimble hands, and the young were given lenient prison sentences and could be back to work within months.
Neil had told himself his work at St. Dismas Home for Wayward Youth was temporary. He had his orders—persuade Lady Juliana to return home. It hadn’t taken a quarter hour for him to ascertain she would not be easy to persuade and that the situation was worse than he’d anticipated. She wasn’t safe in the least, and as far as her well-being… Well, the rats with biblical names spoke for themselves. So he’d done what he always did when he assumed command: he handled the crises as they came. He’d fed the children and then handed them off so he could do the real work of identifying the threats to safety. But every time he thought he had the boys taken care of, they landed back in his hands.
And so he’d gritted his teeth and did what was required. He’d told himself he’d been assigned worse tasks than supervising a dozen orphans. He’d had to set up camp in Russia in the middle of winter, he’d had to order men to complete missions he knew were suicide, and he’d had to inform mothers and fathers that the sons they’d lovingly rocked in their arms as infants were dead.
Making tea and toast with orphans was—pardon the pun—child’s play. Except it wasn’t. Because every single time he looked into those boys’ faces he saw himself. No, he hadn’t been raised in an orphanage, but he was Robbie and Jimmy and Chester all the same. His mother had died in childbirth. His father had claimed him, but even that acceptance couldn’t wipe away the shame of his birth. He was a bastard, and every look, every word exchanged, every moment spent with the orphans was a harsh reminder of his bastardy.
When the hackney stopped in front of the Draven Club, Neil almost sagged with relief. Here no one cared he was a bastard. Here he could forget that he was an outcast and that his own father didn’t quite know what to do with him, and that father’s wife would gladly have traded Neil’s life for that of her beloved son Christopher.
There were days Neil would have traded himself for Chris too.
The Draven Club was a haven from the circumstances of his birth, and it was the one place he could go to remember the men he’d lost. Ewan and Rafe and he could reminisce about their fallen comrades and, in that small way, keep the men’s spirits alive. It was the least Neil could do, considering he’d killed them. All eighteen of those lives were on his conscience.
He paid the hackney driver and walked briskly to the door of the club. Porter opened it as though he’d been expecting Neil at precisely this moment. “Hello, Porter.”
“Mr. Wraxall, a pleasure to see you, sir.”
Neil handed the Master of the House the two letters from Lady Juliana. “Would you post these for me, Porter?”
“Certainly, sir.” He tucked the letters into a pocket and took Neil’s greatcoat and hat. “Do you want dinner?”
It was still a bit early for dinner, and Neil wasn’t hungry. The churning of his stomach from the reminders of his bastardy that had been thrown in his face all day had dampened his appetite. But he had promised Lady Juliana to deal with dinner for the children.
“I wonder if you could help me on that point, Porter,” Neil said.
“Of course, Mr. Wraxall.”
Neil explained his needs, and Porter assured him it would be nothing for the cook to make another pot of stew and bake several more loaves of bread. The bounty would be ready in an hour, and Neil must take the club’s carriage in order to convey the meal to the orphans and their mistress.
Neil made a note to mention increasing both Porter and the cook’s salary when Draven’s men next met to discuss club business. He’d also ask about the aforementioned conveyance. Why hadn’t he known the club had a carriage and a coachman?
“Is anyone here at this hour, Porter?” Neil asked.
“Mr. Beaumont is in the Billiards Room, sir.”
Neil nodded. No doubt Rafe was hiding from some woman who hoped to sink her claws in him for a night or two. Most men would have been happy to have Rafe’s problems with women. Even Rafe had been happy to find himself a magnet to the female sex, until he’d realized that his love affairs often created more trouble than they were worth.
Neil ascended the stairs and leaned against the door, watching Rafe study the billiards table and position his cue, then, taking aim, knock two balls into the pocket.
“Nice shot,” Neil commented.
Rafe turned smoothly. Neil had no idea if his presence had surprised Rafe. The man had a way of appearing smooth and unruffled no matter the situation. “I wondered when you would show your face.”
“Tired of looking at your own?” Neil entered the room and stood at the other end of the table. He wasn’t interested in billiards, but he liked to watch a man with skill, like Rafe, sink the balls.
“Who could tire of looking at my face?” Rafe asked, lining up another shot.
“I could name any number of husbands.”
“I don’t dally with married women,” Rafe said. He hit the white ball, but his aim was off and it went wild, bouncing off the sides of the table.
Neil laughed. “Since when?”
“It has always been my policy.” Rafe chalked the end of the leather cue tip. “I cannot be held responsible if some of those wives are extremely persuasive.”
“No, I’m sure you can’t.”
“We could talk about me all day.” Rafe lined up another shot.
“We usually do,” Neil muttered.
“Where have you been? I thought your father had business for you and imagined you’d be riding to Hampshire or Dorset to oversee some agricultural fiasco.”
“The business was actually closer to home.”
“Oh?” Rafe took his shot.
“Spitalfields.”
Rafe looked up sharply, ignoring the thunk of the white ball into the pocket. “What was that?”
“You heard me.”
“There’s no agriculture in Spitalfields.”
“Not unless you count the growing of thieves and the multiplying of stolen wipes in shop windows.”
Rafe studied the table again.
“I’ve been at the St. Dismas Home for Wayward Youth.”
The table was forgotten, and Rafe stared at Neil with something like horror on his face. “Why? Did your father discover another offspring?”
“No. I think he learned his lesson after me. Not to mention Lady Kensington would probably castrate him if he showed up at her door with another bastard.”
“Then… But you couldn’t possibly have one there.” The sentence was a statement. Still, Rafe gave Neil a questioning look.
Neil shook his head. “My feelings on that score haven’t changed. None of the boys are mine.”
“Then you are still…” Rafe gestured vaguely.
“A virgin? Yes, though with my experience I think one could hardly call me that.”
“And yet I do enjoy it. Our Virgin Warrior.”
Neil ignored the jibe. He was not so easy to bait. The men of Draven’s troop had always called him the Warrior. It was only Rafe and a few other brave ones who dared add Virgin before it.
“And if you weren’t searching for lost offspring, what were you doing at an orphanage?”
“Lord St. Maur’s daughter has made the place her pet project.”
Rafe blew out a breath. “Women and their charities.” He rounded the table and began to collect the balls from the pockets. “I suppose your father asked you to make her see the error of her ways.”
“Exactly. The situation is worse than I thought. She has no cook, no teacher, and her manservant is not to be found. Not to mention the place is about as invincible as the ladies in a Parisian brothel. If she will not return home, I may be forced to spend the night.”
Rafe dropped the red ball with a heavy thud. “Then St. Maur’s daughter is as beautiful as I’ve been told.”
“What has that to do with it? Whether or not she’s pretty, she must be protected.”
A slow smile crossed turned Rafe’s mouth upward. “So she is pretty.”
“Who is pretty?” asked another voice. Neil glanced at the door and saw Jasper standing in it. He was removing the length of black silk that covered his hair and the half mask he wore when outside to conceal the scarred skin on his cheek. He dropped it in his coat pocket and rubbed his face, which was rather pink from the heat of the silk against his skin.
“No one,” Neil said at the same time Rafe said, “St. Maur’s daughter.”
“Why do we care about St. Maur’s daughter?”
“Neil cares,” Rafe said, repositioning the balls for the opening shot.
“No, I don’t. I am only following orders.”
Both Jasper and Rafe groaned. Neil couldn’t blame them. He’d said that phrase so often during their time on the Continent that even he’d wanted to groan when he said it.
“If I have to hear about orders,” Jasper said, “I need a drink.”
“No drinks.” Neil spotted Porter entering with a decanter of amber liquid and waved him away. “I need you to do something for me.”
“Of course,” Jasper answered automatically. It never failed to amaze Neil that these men who had barely survived the war would risk their lives if Neil asked. He hadn’t even had to give them orders. He’d done that initially, but after surviving a mission or two, the men formed a bond that went far beyond that of superior and subordinate. These men were his brothers. They’d saved his life and he theirs. They’d suffered victory and defeat together. They’d lost eighteen of their brothers, and they were the only men alive who knew what the last moments of those who’d been lost were like.
They were the only men alive who had gone to hell and come back again because the missions Draven had been taxed to give the troop dubbed the Survivors were not missions the men were expected to return from. Only men who had special skills, who were younger sons, and who had no dependents were chosen. Only men who answered no to Draven’s infamous question were accepted.
Are you afraid to die?
Neil had answered no when he’d been asked shortly after Christopher’s death. He’d wanted to die at the time, would have welcomed death to shut out the pain he’d felt. Maybe that was why Draven had chosen him as the group’s leader. He was a warrior, a man who lived for nothing but combat.
He’d certainly had his share of war, and he’d managed to beat the odds and come home. He didn’t want to fight anymore. And that was part of the problem. If he wasn’t the Warrior any longer, who was he?
“I suppose you need me to play Runner,” Jasper said when Neil didn’t elaborate immediately. Jasper was the best tracker and scout among Draven’s men. In fact, he was the best Neil had ever known. Now that he was in London again, Jasper often took work as a bounty hunter or assisted the Bow Street Runners. Despite what would have seemed a very conspicuous mask, Lord Jasper could slide in and out of places without ever being seen, and that was how Jasper liked it. The wicked scar of burned flesh on his face made him self-conscious everywhere but in the Draven Club.
Before the ambush where he’d been burned, Jasper, one of the higher-ranking men in the troop, had often attended social functions and was quite popular with the ladies. Now, he was never seen in public, and Neil suspected Jasper kept his distance from women too. He would have liked to tell his friend the scar was not as monstrous as Jasper seemed to think, but when he’d tried, Jasper argued that was because Neil was used to it.
“There’s a man named Goring,” Neil said. “He’s employed as the manservant for St. Dismas Home for Wayward Youth, but he’s a frequent deserter. Assuming he returns for dinner, I want you to watch him tomorrow and tell me where he goes and what he does. If he doesn’t return, find him and report back.”
Jasper shrugged. “Call Porter back with the brandy. I can finish this racket in my sleep. In fact, I don’t even have to look for him to tell you where he is.”
Rafe placed the cue balls on the baulk line for the lag. “Are you playing?” he asked Neil.
“No.”
“Jasper?”
“Sure.”
Rafe handed Jasper a cue.
“Where is he?” Neil asked Jasper.
“One of two places: drinking in a gin shop”—he watched as Rafe took aim—“or in bed with a woman. Probably a brunette with tits like…” Rafe looked over and his cue scratched the table. Jasper smiled and held his hand out. “Like billiard balls.”
“Arse,” Rafe muttered.
Jasper blinked innocently. “What? Do you like buxom brunettes?”
Neil rolled his eyes. Rafe liked every shape, size, and flavor of woman, but he had a weakness for dark-haired ladies with ample charms.
“Those are the logical choices,” Neil said, watching Jasper circle the table.
“Then why do you need me?”
“Because despite that fact that St. Maur’s daughter seems to have gone temporarily daft, risking her reputation and her safety to run an orphanage, she doesn’t strike me as a lackwit. If Goring disappeared like this every day, she would have discharged him by now.”
“So what changed?” Rafe asked, scowling as Jasper considered his next move.
“I don’t know, but I’ll know more when Jasper tells me where Goring has been all day and where he goes tomorrow.”
Jasper lowered the cue. “Oh, now I have to find out not only where he goes, but where he’s been?”
“Too difficult?”
“Nice try.” Jasper was the least likely of his men to fall prey to goading, but Neil knew the man was proud of his skills and probably wouldn’t hesitate at the chance to show them off.
“Mr. Wraxall,” Porter said, leaning into the room. “The cook has your dinner ready. Would you like it loaded into the conveyance now, or would you prefer to keep it warm a little longer?”
Neil checked his pocket watch. It was growing late, and he had a dozen hungry boys waiting for him. “Now, Porter. Tell John Coachman I’ll be there in a moment.”
“Very good, sir.” Porter nodded and was gone.
Jasper ignored him.
“It’s the club’s carriage,” Neil answered.
“The club has a carriage?” Rafe looked as surprised as Neil had been earlier. “Why didn’t I know that? I could have been using it for nefarious purposes all this time.”
“That’s probably why you didn’t know,” Jasper answered.
“I didn’t know either.” Neil turned to Jasper. “But you did?”
“Of course.” He leaned down and took a shot, striking Rafe’s cue ball, then the red ball for a cannon.
Rafe groaned.
“I’m paid to know these sorts of things.”
That was what Neil counted on.
* * *
Julia finally tucked the last of the younger boys into bed, said prayers with them, and blew out the lamps. Carrying her lamp, she checked once more on the older boys. They were all in bed, but Robbie lay with his hands folded under his head, staring at the ceiling. He glanced at her when she peered in. “Is everyone in bed?” she whispered.
“Yes, my lady.”
“And where are Matthew, Mark, and Luke?”
“In their cage, my lady. Charlie tried to convince us to let him sleep with them, but we told him you’d object.”
“He does love those rats.” Charlie could spend hours petting the creatures and giving them morsels of food. “Thank you. Good night, Robbie.”
“Night.”
She closed the door and paused at the top of the steps. She would have to go down to the parlor to speak to Mr. Wraxall, and she wanted to put that off as long as possible. The old Julia would have looked forward to spending time with such a handsome man. The old Julia would have flirted with him. The old Julia would have suffered apoplexy at the thought of sleeping with rats. Now, she only forbid it because she feared Charlie might roll over in his sleep and crush the little animals. Rats were actually cleaner and more companionable than she had known.