No Earls Allowed

by Shana Galen

  “What is wrong?” her father asked. “What is this about?”

  Neil looked from the letter to Julia and then to the earl. “My lord, I must go, and I expect your daughter will want to come with me. There is a problem at the orphanage. May we have use of your coach?”

  “Not this again.”

  “My lord, I promise that after tonight, there will be no more urgent summons from the orphanage.”

  Her father looked at Julia. “Will you make that same promise?”

  She nodded, not at all certain it was a promise she could keep.

  “If you don’t mind, my lord, take your seat and pretend nothing is amiss. I will escort Lady Juliana to the orphanage and send the coach back.”

  “Very well.” He pointed a finger at Neil. “I am relying on you to settle this, Wraxall.”

  Neil nodded. When her father turned away, he took Julia’s arm, squeezing it reassuringly. “Mostyn and Beaumont are here. I’ll bring them back with us. Make no mistake. I will bring Billy safely home.”

  Julia had not trusted a man in years, but in that moment, she had never believed in anyone more.

  * * *

  Neil found the orphanage to be surprisingly quiet when he, Julia, and Rafe walked in. He had sent Mostyn ahead to Slag’s flash ken, and he had to deliver Julia to Mrs. Dunwitty before he would follow. Julia had not ceased folding and unfolding Slag’s missive all the way back from Mayfair. She hadn’t spoken. There was nothing to say. Even Rafe had been uncharacteristically quiet.

  “This is…charming,” Rafe said, his tone of horror belying his words. “How very… Help me here, Wraxall.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Yes.”

  Jackson rushed in. “Sir, I am so relieved you have returned. We cannot find Master Billy.”

  “Slag has him,” Neil said without preamble. “How long has he been gone?”

  “According to Master Michael, at last reckoning it had been one hundred and eight minutes. Sir, your cravat—”

  Neil shoved his hand away. “The Ox and Bull is a flash ken, not a royal residence. No one will care what my neckcloth looks like.”

  “As you say, sir.” But Jackson’s mouth drew down into a grimace.

  Neil turned to Rafe. “Beaumont. I need you to stay here with Lady Juliana. If this is some sort of trick to leave the orphanage undefended, I will need you to protect the ladies and the children.”

  “What?” Rafe and Juliana said in unison.

  “I am not staying behind,” she said, stepping forward.

  “Neil, you cannot possibly expect me to wait here. There are children and…and those hideous wall hangings,” Rafe said.

  Neil ignored him. “Keep the doors and windows locked and the boys inside.” He cocked an ear, then looked at Jackson. “Where are the lads now?”

  “In their rooms,” the valet answered.

  “Why is it so quiet?”

  “Mrs. Dunwitty has given them one hour of independent study. The little boys have fallen asleep—they are exhausted from their lessons—and the older boys are pretending to comply.”

  Julia stepped between the men. “I am not staying behind. Slag has Billy. My Billy.”

  Jackson cleared his throat. “Perhaps I should take a tour of the dormitories and see if any of the children need help with his lesson.”

  “Good idea, Jackson.” Neil gave the valet leave, but he hadn’t waited for permission. Rafe didn’t move. “Beaumont, don’t you have something else to do?”

  “No. I want to go too.”

  “You are staying and that is—”

  Rafe raised a hand. “An order.” He sighed. “Lady Juliana, where are the children?”

  She pointed to the stairs. “On the second floor, sir. That way.”

  “Good.” Rafe walked in the opposite direction. When they were alone, Neil spoke low. “If Slag has Billy, I will bring him back.”

  “And you think Slag will simply let you take him?”

  Neil smiled. “Mostyn specializes in convincing men to do things they do not always want to do.”

  “I have no doubt, but I will go with you.” She started for the door, but he stepped in front of her.

  “No. You are staying here, where you will be safe.”

  “Billy is not safe. He needs me.”

  “The eleven boys here need you.”

  She moved around him and lifted a dark-green cloak off the rack, lying the thin shawl she had worn to the musicale in its place. “Jackson, Mrs. Dunwitty, and your pretty friend are here. The boys are in good hands.” She fastened the cloak at her throat, and the green accented her dark-brown eyes. “I am ready.”

  “No, you are not. If you come with me, you only endanger yourself and me. I’ll have to watch you instead of focusing on Slag, and that makes you a liability.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Who said you need to take care of me? I can take care of myself.”

  “You stay.”

  She jerked her chin up. “I go.” Then she stepped closer and lowered her voice. “I thought we were on the same side. Did this afternoon mean nothing to you?”

  He could see what it cost her to mention their liaison. Her cheeks flamed red, making a lovely contrast to her copper hair. Neil reached out and touched one of those rosy cheeks. “It meant everything to me. That is why I want to keep you safe.”

  She moved out of his reach. “And if I wanted to be safe and locked up tightly, I would have stayed home in Mayfair. I will have my way in this. Either I go with you or I follow behind. I think it safer if we go together.”

  Neil saw the truth of her words in the hard set of her mouth and the lift of her brows in a slight challenge. He had been fighting for days to control his temper, but she’d finally cut the last tether. “Bloody hell, woman! Do you want to die?” he yelled.

  “Watch your language, sir.”

  “I bloody hell won’t.” He grabbed her shoulders, not roughly, but firmly enough that she couldn’t shake him off. “I am trying to keep you safe.”

  “And who do you think kept me safe before you came?” She pointed at her chest. “Me. I can take care of myself, and I won’t have you coming in here and taking over.”

  This wasn’t worth a raging tirade. Neil released her and clenched his fists. “If you want to die, fine. Let’s go.”

  “Fine, let’s go.” She unlocked the door and pulled it open.

  “After you,” he said, and she marched out the door. Neil had never wanted to throttle a woman so badly.

  Sixteen

  Julia shuddered at the dark street, which seemed menacing tonight and such a contrast to the warm, comforting hand on her shoulder. Neil took her arm then and led her away from Sunnybrooke and into the heart of Spitalfields.

  “I know you are angry,” she said, as they stepped into the street, keeping to the side and out of the way of any carts and horses. She glanced at Neil, but his face was stoic and unreadable. He had a look of menace, a look of danger that was probably intended to keep criminals at bay.

  “That is not the word I would use,” he answered.

  “Furious? Enraged? I know you are worried, but you cannot expect me to stay home.”

  He slanted her a look. “This won’t be a garden party, sweetheart.”

  “I am well aware, sir, but neither must it be the battle you have made it out to be. Perhaps my presence might have a positive effect on the negotiations. At the least, we can all behave civilly.”

  Neil laughed, and she huffed and looked away from him. She would reason with Slag, to buy them all more time. Perhaps if she gave him part of the money, he would be mollified.

  Fall was upon them, and the days had begun to grow shorter. Men and women made their way through the streets, ostensibly to homes where they would see family and eat a meager evening meal. The beggars sat on
every corner and every stoop, hands out, eyes pleading.

  Julia looked down. The children were the ones who tore at her heart. When she had first come here, she had tried to take some of them in. For her efforts, she’d been chased away and accused of kidnapping. She’d quickly learned the children’s parents—at least that’s what the adults had claimed to be—benefitted from the pitiful, little beggars and were not eager to part with them.

  The sad-eyed dogs and skinny cats were as omnipresent as the dirt and the smell of burnt onion. She would have liked to rescue them if she could ever gather the funds for some sort of kennel.

  Prostitutes were another staple of the streets. Julia had learned stay away from them. She’d always thought them poor women forced into selling their bodies for blunt. Perhaps that was true, but they were not kind—at least not to her. She had the sense most of them would slit her throat and rob her blind before they’d ever consider any charity from her.

  Not that she could blame them. A hard heart kept them alive in the rookeries of London. They could not afford to trust anyone.

  Julia kept her head down and avoided the malevolent stares of the prostitutes, the pleas of the children, and the whines of the dogs. Neil must have known where the alehouse was located because he walked confidently past wipe shop after wipe shop—all selling stolen handkerchiefs. Julia clutched her own handkerchief—in her hand and ready should she need to cover her nose—tightly.

  Finally, Neil stopped, and she squinted up at a low, dark building that looked to have been built at least two hundred years before. The small windows were grimy and the building’s paint had chipped off. The sign out front must have portrayed proud illustrations of an ox and a bull once, but they had faded to almost unrecognizability.

  It was the sort of establishment Julia would have crossed to the other side of the street to avoid. Too late now. She swallowed. “Are we going inside?”

  “Not yet.”

  To her relief, Neil waited for a passing cart, then led her across the street. As she was about to inquire where he was taking her, a tall, fair-haired man with pale-blue eyes stepped into view. Mostyn. Julia could not have said where he had been a moment before, but his height and Nordic appearance made him stand out in the crowd of stoop-shouldered, dirty passersby. She had the sense that she would not have seen him until he wished to be seen. Clearly that was now, as Neil was leading her directly for him.

  When they reached Mostyn, Julia looked up to meet his eyes. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Mostyn.”

  He nodded at her, not speaking. In fact, he barely glanced at her before he returned his attention to Neil.

  “Report,” Neil said, sounding very much like she imagined a general on the battlefield might sound.

  “No one new in or out since I’ve been here,” Mostyn answered.

  “The boy is still inside.”

  Mostyn lifted a shoulder. “I can’t see the rear exit.”

  Neil looked at her. “Then I suppose there is only one way to be certain. You have my back.”

  It wasn’t a question, and Mostyn didn’t dignify the remark with an answer. But when Neil turned to lead Julia back toward the alehouse, Mostyn stepped in front of them. They had no choice but to pause. To do otherwise would be to attempt to walk through a stone wall.

  “The lady,” Mostyn said.

  Neil sighed, sounding weary. “I cannot leave her alone outside, and she refused to stay at the orphanage.”

  Mostyn’s gaze flicked to her, then back to Neil. Whatever he saw when he looked at her must have convinced him persuading her to return to the orphanage was not an option. “I can go in alone,” he said.

  Neil shook his head. “I considered that on the way here, but I want to attempt negotiation first. You are not known for your skills in that arena, my friend.”

  “Why bother?” Mostyn asked. “Give Slag all the words you want. It will end the same way.”

  “Are you implying violence is inevitable, Mr. Mostyn?” Julia asked.

  He looked at her. “I never imply.”

  “True enough,” Neil said. “But you have your orders.” He looked at Julia. “Revised somewhat, but basically the same. Are you ready?”

  “I have my dancing shoes on,” Mostyn replied.

  Julia wondered what that was supposed to mean. But she had no time to ask as, a moment later, she was ushered inside the Ox and Bull. It was even darker inside than she had anticipated, and it was rank with the smell of urine, smoke, and the odor of unwashed humans. She put her handkerchief to her nose, but even the rose fragrance she dabbed on the cloth could not disguise this stench. She coughed and attempted not to wretch. The sound seemed unbearably loud because as soon as they entered, all conversation ceased.

  Julia looked at the low-ceilinged room packed with small tables and chairs. At each table sat men who looked more dangerous than the last. She suddenly regretted her decision to come along. That regret intensified when the barkeep called from the back of the room, where he stood behind a scarred and battered wooden partition, “We don’t serve your kind. Get out.”

  “Want me to kill him?” Mostyn asked so low only she and Neil could hear.

  “Not yet,” Neil said. Then louder, “I wish to speak with Mr. Slag.”

  Julia was relieved Neil could speak. She could not move, much less form a coherent sentence.

  “What do ye want with ’im?” a lad of no more than fifteen asked from the table closest to them. A weak lantern sat on top of that table beside several empty mugs, but the light did little more than illuminate the boy’s small features and dirt-streaked face.

  “It’s a private matter,” Neil said.

  “Oh, a private matter,” an older man said in a tone meant to mock Neil’s upper-class accent. “Well, la-di-da. I ’ave a private matter I’d like to discuss with your wench.” He grabbed his crotch, and Julia’s face flamed.

  “Want me to kill that one?” Mostyn asked, this time his voice a bit louder.

  “Yes, and slowly.” He raised a hand when Mostyn began to move forward. “But not yet.” Neil looked around the room. “If Mr. Slag won’t come out, I can only assume he is afraid to face me.”

  Julia’s heart froze at those words. She knew men liked to taunt each other, but a remark like that seemed purely suicidal. Perhaps she would fare better outside with the rabid dogs and the greedy prostitutes. But as her gaze swept the room, taking in the angry looks of the patrons, one face looked back at her with fear.

  “Mr. Goring?” she said. Her voice was loud enough to carry and, as it was a female voice and quite proper in tone, the rumbling rolling through the room died and every man to a one followed her gaze to the back table where her servant sat, head down, shoulders hunched over his ale.

  “Is that you?” she asked. She forgot her fear for a moment. “I did not want to believe Mr. Wraxall when he said you were a patron here, but I see I have been deceived and betrayed.”

  Goring looked up then back down. “I apologize, my lady.”

  “You have a lot more to apologize for than this. It was you, was it not, stealing from the larder?”

  Goring didn’t answer.

  “Shame on you,” she said, directing the comment to the room at large. “Stealing from poor orphans.”

  “Cry me a river,” one man called.

  “I was an orphan, I was, and no one gave me so much as a crumb. Bollocks on orphans.”

  Too late, Julia realized her mistake. She’d let her emotions get the better of her and forgotten her audience. These men didn’t care a whit for orphans. She took careful step back and her back collided with Neil’s chest. He caught her and held her in place. “Is this the bit where you inspire civility?”

  “Shut up,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Perhaps we might engender more goodwill if you keep quiet and let me speak.”


  She doubted it.

  “Not another word.”

  Now was not the time to point out that she didn’t take orders from him.

  “Protector,” Neil said, as the group of men began to rise and move toward them. “It might be time to start dancing.” He backed up, taking her with him, and then stopped just as abruptly. She felt Neil stiffen, then heard Mostyn growl.

  “So nice of you to call on us, Mr. Wraxall and Lady Juliana and…friend. Won’t you join me for a drink?”

  Julia closed her eyes as Neil turned, moving her in the process. She knew what she would see—the harsh, cold stare of Mr. Slag.

  * * *

  Neil had known this was a mistake. It was a mistake to go after Billy, a mistake to give Slag the advantage of choosing the battlefield, and a mistake to refrain from tying Juliana up and locking her in her room. The situation—two dozen angry men behind them and one homicidal monster in front of them—looked bad. In fact, the situation looked very bad. But he’d been in bad situations before, and he and Ewan had always gotten out alive.

  I have my dancing shoes on.

  But this was one devil even Neil did not want to dance with.

  “Finally someone who understands the meaning of hospitality,” Neil said. Ewan growled his disapproval of Neil’s flippant tone, but Neil felt levity was the key now. “I find I am quite thirsty. You, Mr. Mostyn?”

  “Parched.”

  “And you, my lady?”

  “Not really,” she squeaked. He squeezed her arm reassuringly. It was too late to give in to fear. The feeling was useless and dangerous. She would have to show some of that backbone he’d seen in her time and again.

  She cleared her throat. “Tea would be lovely. Thank you, Mr. Slag.”

  Slag gave her an amused look, then inclined his head toward the rear of the alehouse. “Join me in my private chambers then, won’t you?”

  The men in the room parted, like the Red Sea before Moses’s staff.

  Slag moved first and Neil followed. He worried he might have to drag Julia with them, but she walked on her own, head held high and looking every inch the earl’s daughter. Ewan followed, of course. Neil could always count on Ewan at his back.