No Earls Allowed

by Shana Galen

  Shock and pain stabbed through him as he stared at the face of Christopher Wraxall.

  But in the dream, Chris’s eyes were closed. They’d always been open before. They’d been open, seeing nothing, that day on the battlefield. Neil stared at the face of his dead brother and noticed it was not as defined as it had once been. He was forgetting the small details, not only of that day, but of his dead brother. Before he could decide whether this was good or bad, the corpse opened its green eyes.

  Neil woke, a scream lodged in his throat. But that was all it was—lodged in his throat. He hadn’t made an actual sound. His throat was not raw. No one came running to see what was the matter. His hands still trembled, but he clenched them, and the shaking ceased.

  Slowly he became aware of the clink of pots and pans, the shuffling sounds of people moving about, and the pinpoints of light that filtered through the dark curtains.

  It was morning. He’d slept the entire night. Without drink. Without waking in a cold sweat from nightmares. He wanted to hope and yet he didn’t. He’d had good nights before. One good night didn’t mean anything. But his brother’s eyes had been closed. What did it mean?

  And what did it matter? Today he would leave. He would go home, and if he saw Juliana again, it would be for a moment when he checked on the roof repairs or stopped by to ensure the orphanage’s board of directors passed on the funds donated.

  He’d never kiss her again, touch her silky skin, make love to her—and perhaps that was for the best. She’d never be his, and he’d be the worst sort of rogue to take her innocence without the promise of marriage.

  Neil dressed, and when he stepped out of his room, he met the disapproving look of Jackson. The valet’s gaze slid over the haphazard way Neil had yanked the nearest available clothing on, and the man shook his head.

  Neil raised a hand. “Before you decide I’m not up to snuff, let me remind you we are in an orphanage.”

  “That is no excuse for poor—”

  “And we are leaving this morning.”

  That announcement silenced Jackson.

  “Pack my things and your own. I want to be off first thing.”

  “Leaving, sir?” Jackson asked.

  “As soon as I speak with Billy, yes.”

  Jackson’s expression was still one of shock. “Does Lady Juliana know this, sir?”

  Neil put his hands on his hips. “Not that it matters, as she has no authority over me, but yes, she knows. I believe she will be quite glad to see my back.”

  “But I thought—”

  “Do not think, Jackson. Pack.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jackson trudged into Neil’s chamber, shoulders hunched in dejection. Neil blew out a breath. He’d thought at least Jackson was on his side.

  Once upstairs, Neil found Billy easily enough. He was in the dining room with the other boys, waiting impatiently for the morning meal.

  “Major!” a chorus of voices rang out, surprising Neil. James ran to him and grabbed one of his legs in a fierce hug. Charlie smiled around the thumb in his mouth. George held up a paper where he’d drawn what Neil thought might be a horse—or a ship—and even Ralph nodded at him, his black eye now just a faded yellow.

  “Can I sit by you, Major?” Sean asked.

  “I get to sit on ’is other side,” Angus said.

  “He sat on that side of the room yesterday,” Michael announced. “He’s eaten on that side five times and only four on this side. That is, if we’re counting.”

  “You are always counting,” Robbie muttered.

  “When do we eat?” Jimmy asked. “I’m starving, and once Mrs. Dunwitty finds us, we’ll be trapped all morning.”

  “Can I sit on your lap, Major?” Charlie asked around his thumb.

  “Actually,” Neil said, speaking through the cacophony for the first time, “I haven’t time to eat this morning. I need to speak with Billy.”

  Billy, who had been sitting in a corner, looking down at his hands, raised his head. He was clean of soot and ash, but he had a welt on his forehead and his lip still looked swollen. The boy rose slowly to his feet. “What is it, Major?”

  “I’d like to speak in private.” Neil motioned to the door. Billy made his way across the now-silent room, and Neil led him into the parlor, where he left the door open slightly. “Sit,” Neil ordered, gesturing to the couch. He tried not to remember lying on that couch himself, Juliana wrapped in his arms. He tried not to remember her in his arms, pushed up against the far wall, her lips hot and eager.

  “You have a choice to make,” Neil said when Billy sat. “About your future.”

  Billy looked up, his eyes defiant. “What choice? No one ever gave me a choice. I had no choice about living here. No choice about being beaten every day, before Lady Juliana came, no choice about what to eat. What choices do I have?”

  “You have to choose between living here or out there,” Neil said, crooking his thumb at the street.

  “That’s no choice. If I don’t do what Slag wants, he hurts me.”

  “Slag is gone now. That means you do have a choice.”

  “And when another takes his place?”

  “Walk away. If you can’t, you send for me.” Neil reached into his coat and took out a card. “This is the name of my solicitor. He can always find me, and his offices are not far from here.”

  Billy took the card, looking at it as though it were an exotic piece of fruit.

  “You can always come to me for help, but if you want to live here, if you want to stay at Sunnybrooke, you’ll have no more dealings with the gangs and the upright men.”

  Billy pressed his lips together. “I don’t see the problem with making a little extra on the side.”

  “The problem,” Neil said levelly, though he wanted to rage at the boy to stop being an idiot, “is that sort of activity leads to the events of last night. Either I have your word you will walk the straight and narrow, or you pack what meager belongings you have and leave right now.”

  Billy’s head came up. “You can’t make me leave. Lady Juliana won’t make me leave.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  Neil’s gaze shot to the door where Juliana stood in the small opening. She pushed it wider, the skirts of her green dress swishing against the wood. She looked beautiful with her copper hair in a sleek tail down her back and the tight-fitting bodice of the dress molding to curves he wished he could forget. The contrast between her fragile beauty and the dark squalor of the orphanage was stark, but somehow she managed to look regal all the same.

  She did not look rested. Her eyes were puffy, her mouth a tight line. If he hadn’t known her well, he might not have noticed, but he knew her now. Knew he was most likely the cause of her tossing and turning.

  “Mr. Wraxall is correct, Billy. You do have a choice to make.” She moved into the room, her gaze on Billy and studiously averted from him. “Last night proved to me that every relationship has give-and-take. I can offer you love and safety and a home, but I can’t make you take it.”

  She didn’t look at Neil, but he knew she spoke to him as well as to Billy.

  “And you cannot have things both ways. You choose this orphanage and me, or you leave. I do not want to give you up, but I have eleven other boys to think about. I won’t sacrifice them for you. And I won’t risk them for you again either. Make your choice.”

  Billy looked from Juliana to Neil and back again. The silence in the room was so heavy Neil wished he could push the weight from his shoulders. He wished he could take Juliana in his arms, tell her he’d made his choice for her.

  Because he loved her too.

  Then Billy lifted a hand and swiped at his eyes, but it wasn’t enough to stem the tears. Juliana leaned forward and stopped herself. She wanted to take the child in her arms—and that was what he looked like again, just a child—but she would wait
until he made his choice.

  “I want to stay with you, my lady,” Billy sobbed. “Please let me stay.”

  And then Billy was in her arms, and she was patting his back and smoothing his hair, and whispering that everything would be okay. Over Billy’s shoulder, Juliana’s gaze met Neil’s. Neil nodded. Everything was as it should be again. She had her lost chick back under her wing.

  She’d saved another boy, but Neil was no child who could be soothed with a pat on the back. She couldn’t change the station either of them had been born to.

  With a sardonic salute, he walked away—out of the parlor, out of the orphanage, out of her life.

  Twenty-one

  Life went on without Neil Wraxall. She hadn’t thought it would. She’d thought she’d wither and close herself off from the world like Harriett had when Lainesborough had finally shown his true colors.

  But Julia wasn’t Harriett. Or perhaps she’d learned from her sister. Or perhaps she just had too much to do to take the time to indulge her broken heart. She had workers on the roof to oversee, boys to feed, wages to pay, and the riffraff of Spitalfields to fend off.

  Neil might have gone, but Billy had stayed. The tall, quiet boy still kept to himself, but once in a while, he would sit beside her. He might make a face when she tried to hug him, but he didn’t push her away. Billy and Robbie had declared a truce of sorts, and the two of them had worked with Walter to build a racetrack for Matthew, Mark, and Luke. All the children and Mrs. Dunwitty had gathered in the parlor to watch the rats race. Although Julia had firmly outlawed any wagering, she suspected a few of the boys had placed bets anyway.

  “Robbie, I believe we are ready,” Julia said when all the boys had gathered around the track, jostling and nudging each other with excitement. The younger boys had climbed on chairs to see better, and Julia was pretending not to notice.

  Robbie rubbed his hands together. “That’s it then, lads. Last chance to, er, find a seat.”

  Julia wanted to roll her eyes. She really would have to lecture the children on the evils of gambling—but she’d pretend, just for tonight, that she didn’t know what they were up to. She knew she should have put an end to the wagering, but everyone was so excited and so happy and all together. The boys had been glum since Neil had left, and they needed something happy to bring them all together. She needed something happy because, as she looked around the room, all she could think of was Neil. He would have found Michael with his pencil and notebook and serious expression amusing and she wished he could see that Charlie had finally stopped sucking his thumb (except at bedtime, of course), and she wanted to show Neil that Billy and Robbie were almost standing beside each other.

  The room and the orphanage seemed empty without him. She could wish him back for the next decade, but he’d made his choice. He didn’t want her. He wanted his life of blame, a life where his status as a bastard would mean he never truly fit in. He had fit in at Sunnybrooke. The boys had loved him, and they didn’t care about circumstances of birth or one’s past deeds as a soldier. They’d loved Neil because he’d cared for them, given them his attention, given them his time.

  She’d loved him because he’d cared for the boys and because no other man she’d ever known would have done the same. She’d loved him for a thousand different reasons, not the least of which was the way he’d kissed her, the way he’d made her feel.

  But in the end, he hadn’t loved her back. Or at least not enough to stay.

  She caught Mrs. Dunwitty’s gaze on her from across the room, and Julia gave a watery smile. She blinked her eyes to stem the tears that threatened and focused on Robbie as he placed each rat in his starting box. Each rodent had his own lane, and the race would begin when the block sealing the rat in the box was lifted. At the end of the race were three pieces of cheese—incentives for the rats to run quickly. The first rat to make it to his cheese was the winner. Julia did not wager, but if she had, she would have put her money on Matthew. He was fleet of foot and not quite as rotund as Mark and John.

  George, Ralph, and Angus each put a hand on a block, poised to lift it when Robbie said the word. Robbie raised his hand, and the room hushed. “Ready?” Robbie said.

  Angus nodded slightly and George and Ralph kept their eyes on their blocks. “Steady,” Robbie cautioned. The room took a collective breath.

  “And go!”

  The blocks were yanked up and the room erupted in cheers. The three rats looked about in surprise, not a one showing any inclination to run.

  “Do be quiet, boys,” Mrs. Dunwitty said. “All this noise will startle them.”

  The boys quieted—or at least what was quiet for them—and Julia heard whispers of Should we nudge them? and Come on, Mark!

  Then Luke’s nose twitched, and Charlie said, “He smells the cheese!”

  He must have because Luke took a few tentative steps forward. The other rats couldn’t see Luke, but their noses seemed to twitch, or perhaps Luke sent them some sort of message only rats could decipher, because Matthew and Mark began to scurry forward.

  The closer to the cheese the rats came, the faster their feet carried them until they were running full speed and all the boys were once again yelling. Julia yelled too. She couldn’t help it. Their enthusiasm was infectious, and when Matthew and Luke reached the cheese at the same time, she cheered.

  “It’s a tie!” Robbie announced. “We need another race.”

  “Let them finish their cheese first,” Charlie said, always concerned for the rats’ welfare.

  “We need more cheese,” James said.

  “I’ll get it!” Charlie offered. But just as he ran to the door of the parlor, Mrs. Koch stepped inside. Charlie almost ran into her, but she held out a hand and grabbed his shoulder stopping him.

  “Let me guess. You vant more cheese?”

  “If you have any to spare, Mrs. Koch,” Julia said.

  “Cheese for the rats. Vhy not? This is a strange country, yah. Very strange.” She held out a parcel wrapped in paper. “This came few minutes ago. You vere making so much noise, I could hardly hear the rap on the door.”

  “What it is?” several of the boys asked.

  Mrs. Koch looked at Julia for permission. She gave a slight nod. “I think in this country you call it black pudding. Yah?” She parted the paper to reveal the long black cylinder resembling a large sausage. The boys gasped in shock, as did Julia. She did not care for black pudding, but she knew it would be a treat for the boys who had grown tired of their daily diet of porridge.

  “Where did it come from?” she asked.

  “A man delivered it,” Mrs. Koch said. “I don’t know him, but he said it vas a gift. Vhat do you vant me to do vith it?”

  “Can we eat it, my lady?” George begged. “Please, please?”

  “Yes, can we cut it and eat it now?” asked Michael. “If my estimate is correct, we can slice it into about fifteen even pieces.”

  “Can we give some to the rats?” Charlie asked.

  Julia tapped her chin. “I don’t know if we should eat it. A gift like this—who sent it?”

  “I don’t know, my lady,” Mrs. Koch said. “I asked him, but he said ‘a friend.’”

  “I bet it’s from Major,” Sean said. “I bet he sent it! Please can we eat it?”

  Julia did not think it was from Neil, but it might have been from someone of the upper classes trying to do a good deed. But why wouldn’t the person have left his or her name?

  “Please?” James asked. “Please?”

  Julia smiled. How was she to hold up against this sort of pressure? “Very well.”

  The boys cheered.

  “We will eat it at breakfast.”

  The boys groaned.

  She clapped her hands. “If we’re to have another race before bedtime, someone go with Mrs. Koch to fetch more cheese.” She almost smiled as Charl
ie and Jimmy both all but knocked Mrs. Koch over in their attempts to be the first to the kitchen. She would have smiled if she hadn’t seen Billy’s white face. The boy hadn’t said a word, but he had gone white as a sheet.

  “Billy, what’s the matter?” she asked.

  He blinked as though just remembering where he was. “Nothing, my lady. Nothing at all.”

  “Are you well?”

  “I… Can I go lie down? My head is pounding.”

  “Of course. Is there anything I can do?”

  “No. I’ll be fine.” He tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

  * * *

  “I didn’t think it possible, but you look even worse tonight than you did last night.” Rafe Beaumont slid into the chair opposite Neil. They were alone in the dining room of the Draven Club, although it was well beyond the time when meals were served. Neil had lost all track of time.

  “In fact, you look even worse than you did the morning after that skirmish in—”

  “Stubble it,” Neil said, pouring more gin.

  Quick as a cat, Rafe swiped the bottle of gin and Neil’s glass, handing it to Porter, who was conveniently passing by.

  “What the devil?” Neil roared, rising.

  Rafe blocked Neil’s path as Porter made his escape. “If you want to hit someone, old boy, hit me. I’m to blame.”

  Neil stared at Rafe, and Rafe stared right back, refusing to back down.

  “I would ask that you confine your blows to the area below my face. Others have found a punch to my breadbasket quite satisfactory.”

  “I ought to break your nose.”

  “And face the ire of London’s female population? They’re far less forgiving than me.”

  “I don’t give a damn about London’s female population,” Neil said, but he sank back into his chair.

  “And with the way you look, they won’t give a damn about you.” Rafe also sat, slowly, keeping his gaze on Neil. “If it’s any consolation, Porter had considered sending for Draven. I asked him to let me have a try first.”