Hero, Come Back

by Stephanie Laurens

Now, later that evening, standing by the side of the Grismeades’ ballroom, he watched Anne whirl down a country dance. Even from this distance, he knew she was slightly flustered, although she knew her partner, Gordon Canterbury, quite well. She didn’t like being physically close to other men, yet conversely, with Reggie, she took his arm with relief, stepping as close as propriety allowed. And when they waltzed, she came into his arms with an alacrity she didn’t try to hide; her senses might leap, but they did so with pleasure, with anticipation and delight.

  The noise about him faded; a vision swam before his eyes—the first sight he’d had of Anne that morning at the Foundling House. She’d been seated on a stool reading a story to a score of children gathered about. Her attention had been complete, as had been theirs.

  And his.

  Then she’d looked up, seen him—and smiled.

  And promptly conscripted him into helping with the older boys.

  Later, he’d looked across the yard and seen her with two toddlers in her arms, one balanced on each hip. By then, her pins had come loose, or been pulled loose by chubby hands; she’d been flushed and radiant.

  The sudden surge of remembered feeling jerked him back to the present, but left him slightly giddy. He dragged in a breath, then uttered a prayer of thanks as the music ended.

  Enough was enough.

  Concealing grim resolution behind his usual affable mask, he crossed the floor to rescue Anne. She looked about, searching for him, then saw him and smiled. When he joined her, she slid her hand onto his arm.

  Gordon Canterbury blinked, but was too polite to comment.

  The end of the ball was nigh; once again, the Caverlocks had been noticeable by their absence. Reggie steered Anne toward the chaise where Minerva sat.

  “I’m not sure what to make of it,” Anne murmured. “Harriet Grismeade said Imogen had intended to come but sent word yesterday that she was indisposed.” She glanced briefly at Reggie. “She hasn’t been about for the past two days.”

  Reggie didn’t truly care about Imogen. “Perhaps she caught a chill.”

  Anne caught the edge to his tone; startled, she glanced at him.

  He captured her gaze. “Tomorrow morning.” Once assured he had her complete attention, he stated, “I’ll call to speak with you at noon.”

  “Noon?”

  “Yes. Be there.”

  She searched his eyes, then, a touch of nervousness returning, nodded. “Very well. I’ll be in.”

  “Good morning.”

  Anne’s soft voice reached him; he turned as she shut the parlor door.

  A morning gown of pale green emphasized her delicacy, turning her hair a deeper chestnut in contrast. The wide skirts shushed as she came toward him, searching his face, her expression guarded; he kept his features impassive, searching her eyes in return.

  He saw a frown grow, inwardly frowned in response.

  She halted with a yard between them, drew herself up, clasped her hands before her. “If you’ve come to lecture me on watching the Caverlocks…”

  Her uncertainty reached him; irritation surged anew. He felt his lips thin. Caverlocks, be damned! “You don’t need—” He saw her draw back, steel herself; he broke off, hauled in a quick breath, held it for a fraught second, then let it out with the words, “That wasn’t what I wanted to speak with you about.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh.” Her defensiveness abruptly eased, replaced with a finer tension. After a moment, she prompted, as always gentle, “What, then?”

  He felt his jaw set, fought to overcome the instinct not to reveal himself in anything so definite as words—even now not to make himself vulnerable to the hurt she could deal him if he’d misjudged her.

  Yet he hadn’t misjudged—either her or him; he could see it in her eyes, watching him, as wary and as hesitant as he felt, every bit as unsure, wondering if it was possible to hope.

  “At Lady Hendrick’s. In the parlor.” He ran out of words. How the devil was he to phrase it?

  A blush rose to her cheeks; she was struggling to follow his direction. Her blush grew brighter; her gaze fell. “I… apologize if I was too forward—”

  “No.” He stepped closer, ran a finger down her cheek. “Don’t apologize. If anyone should it should be me—” He broke off as she looked up, was lost for a moment in her eyes, then continued, “But I have no intention of doing so. If I hadn’t— if we hadn’t—I might never have known. Never realized.”

  Her gaze was locked with his. “Realized what?”

  She—her wide eyes, the softness in her face, the delicate curve of her lips, the rich fall of her hair, the light perfume—some combination of apple blossom and honeysuckle—that rose from her skin, that skin itself, pure and pale, the promise of womanly warmth that, standing so close with her skirts brushing his boots, reached for him and wrapped him about—all that gave him the courage to take her hand, raise it to his lips, say, “That if we wish—if you agree—we could share our lives in great happiness.”

  She blinked; like veils falling, her shields came down and he could see the wonder in her eyes. “You felt it, too. I thought perhaps it was just me, or that I was reading too much in to the moment—”

  “No. It was as…” He couldn’t stop his lips from twisting wryly. “Powerful as you thought. And as surprising.”

  An answering smile curved her lips. “I hadn’t thought of you before—you hadn’t thought of me, either.”

  “No.” He frowned at her, the her he could now see. “I can’t understand why.”

  “Does it matter?”

  He looked into her eyes, lit with a warm eagerness that was all he could ask, all he’d hoped for. “No. Not at all.”

  His arm slid around her; he drew her to him, and she came without hesitation. He lowered his head; their lips, eager to recapture the sweetness, touched, brushed—

  They both heard voices, then footsteps hurrying along the corridor outside.

  Reggie released her; quelling an uncharacteristically violent flash of temper, Anne stepped back and swung to face the door.

  Her heart was thudding, her lips throbbed.

  It took effort not to glare at Leighton when he entered.

  “Excuse me, sir, Miss Anne, but there’s an urgent message come for you, miss.” He proffered a salver on which lay a folded note.

  Anne took it. “Who brought it?”

  “A boy. He said the ladies at the house were in quite a state.”

  She unfolded the note, briefly scanned its contents. “Good heavens!” She heard the faintness in her voice, felt the clutch of sudden fear, felt the blood drain from her face.

  Reggie’s fingers closed about her elbow; he was there, beside her, strong, supportive. “What is it?”

  “Benjy. He’s been stolen away.” She could barely take it in.

  She offered Reggie the note, and he took it. She looked at Leighton, waiting for her orders.

  “The carriage—no, that’ll take too long. Find a hackney, and get my maid to bring my coat and bonnet, please.”

  “I drove here—my curricle’s in the street. I’ll drive you.” Reggie lifted his head and looked at Leighton. “Get the coat and bonnet—we’ll be waiting in the hall.”

  Reggie drove like a madman to the Foundling House.

  The first thing Anne noticed as Reggie drew up was the absence of children in the yards to either side. At this time of day, the yards should be overflowing with children, laughing and playing.

  Now they lay deserted.

  Inside was equally strange; a sense of suppressed panic reigned. Various women whose job it was to oversee the children hurried back and forth, footsteps echoing down the corridors. There was no sign of their charges.

  Anne went straight to the office and found Mrs. Keggs, pale and gaunt, collapsed in a chair.

  “Such a terrible thing, miss! That poor wee mite—whisked away he was by some gentleman! Some evil cur.”

  Anne dropped her bonnet on her desk. “Indeed—now it’
s up to us to get him back.” Pulling up another chair, she sat and took the older woman’s hands in hers. At the edge of her vision, she could see Reggie blocking the doorway; the intensity of his gaze, fixed on her, kept her panic at bay. “Now tell us exactly what happened.”

  Mrs. Keggs gathered herself. “We only knew he was gone when we sat them down for lunch— he’d been playing with the others in the yards. According to what Robbie Jenkins and Petey Smythe told us, he must have been taken about an hour or so before that, as soon as they’d been let out after their morning lesson. Seems a black carriage was drawn up a little way along the street. When the boys raced down to the fence to climb it—you know how they do—the carriage rolled closer.”

  She drew in a breath. “According to Robbie and Petey, the carriage door opened, and a gentleman called Benjy by name—called him Benjamin. Beckoned him to come closer. Benjy went. He climbed over and down to the pavement, but he hung back at first. He and the gentleman in the carriage talked—Petey thought the man said something about Benjy’s mother. Then the man beckoned again, and Benjy went and climbed in. The door shut, and the carriage rolled off.” She sniffed. “Robbie and Petey thought Benjy went off for a lark so they weren’t going to tell tales. We had to drag that much out of them, but they’re worried, now, so I daresay it’s the truth.”

  “What did the gentleman look like?” Reggie asked.

  Mrs. Keggs seemed to notice him for the first time. She shook her head. “The boys didn’t see him, only his hand—gloved—beckoning. They were too far back and the shadows of the carriage hid him.”

  “Did they notice anything about the carriage?”

  “Just that it was black.”

  Anne exchanged a look with Reggie. A black carriage in London was one straw in a haystack. Trying to exude a confidence she didn’t feel, she stood. “For now, don’t worry—it’s possible the gentleman I spoke to recently might know something of this. I intend to find out. But for now, we need to get the rest of the children back into their normal routine. I don’t think it’s likely any of them are at risk. It was Benjy the man wanted.”

  Mrs. Keggs looked at her, following her argument, then her expression cleared. “Aye—you’re right. I hadn’t thought of it like that.” She heaved herself up. “I’ll get everything here back on track, but you’ll let us know…?”

  “Of course.” Anne whisked up her bonnet and started for the door. “The instant I find him, I’ll send word.”

  Reggie followed her onto the street. She reached his curricle, then stopped and whirled to face him. “I’m sorry—I just assumed. I can take a hackney, of course.”

  “Don’t be silly. Get in.”

  He handed her up, then followed and took the reins. Without asking where she wanted to go, he set the horses trotting. “You can’t seriously believe Elderby stole Benjy away.”

  She pressed her lips together, then replied, her gaze on the street ahead, “If not Elderby, then Lord Thomas. I didn’t tell anyone else, and I seriously doubt they’ve made the information public.”

  “True, but—”

  “Benjy wasn’t a threat to anyone else.”

  After a moment, Reggie said, “We don’t know that he was a threat to Elderby or Thomas either.”

  She drew a breath, held it, then inclined her head. “Yet surely it’s too much of a coincidence that after being at the House for a year, some gentleman turns up to find Benjy just days after I told the Caverlocks of his existence.”

  Reggie heard the fear and self-blame in her voice. He glanced sharply at her. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” He could see only her profile; its bleakness didn’t change. “We’ll find him, I promise.”

  She did look at him then, met his gaze, saw the concern in his eyes. The line of her lips eased; she laid her hand on his arm and squeezed gently.

  Then she faced forward.

  He drove on.

  Thomas’s house in Duke Street was closest; Anne insisted they stop there first. Reggie drew up before the house and turned to her. An urchin materialized, offering to hold his horses; by the time he’d negotiated and handed over the reins, Anne, in a fever of impatience, had jumped down and started up the steps.

  With a muttered curse, he leapt down and strode after her. He caught up with her—caught her arm—just as she was reaching for the knocker.

  She swung to face him.

  “Let me handle it.” He glared down at her.

  She glared back. “Benjy is my responsibility. I want to hear what Thomas has to say.”

  “Damn it—I’ll wager Thomas isn’t even out of bed yet!”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “It’s after one o’clock. He must be awake.”

  With an effort, Reggie swallowed his retort. Thomas might well be awake, but he still wouldn’t have left his bed. He glanced at the curricle; in truth, he couldn’t leave Anne alone outside. “Very well. But let me do the talking.”

  He thought she humphed, but as she lifted her head and swung to the door, he took that as assent.

  The man who answered their knock looked doubtful—as well he might—when faced with their request to speak with his lordship. Reggie swept his stammering excuses aside, swept Anne over the threshold, and summarily sent the man for his master, stressing the urgency of their case.

  He ushered Anne into the parlor. They were standing on either side of the small hearth when the door opened and Thomas walked in.

  One look at his face, one glance at the multihued silk dressing gown swathing his long figure, and it was clear Reggie had been right. Thomas had been in bed.

  He wasn’t, however, sleepy; his gaze sharpened as he looked from one to the other, then he closed the door.

  “What is it?”

  “I assume,” Reggie said, before Anne could open her mouth, “that Hugh told you what Miss Ashford made known to him recently.”

  His black brows drawing down, Thomas nodded, his expression impassive, his eyes guarded.

  He said nothing; Reggie continued, his tone at its blandest, “I take it you have no…personal interest in the matter?”

  Thomas blinked, glanced at Anne, then colored faintly. He looked again at Reggie, and raised his brows.

  “I’m assisting Miss Ashford with certain inquiries we unfortunately have to make.”

  Thomas considered, then looked at Anne. “Hugh told me you’d discovered another Caverlock—a boy. He said the lad was nine years old. Is that correct?”

  Anne nodded. “He turned nine last month. He’s sure of his birthday, and it matches that on the parish records. And before you ask, the name the mother gave appears to be a fabrication, and there was no father listed.”

  Thomas shrugged. “The mother’s name would mean nothing to me anyway. If that’s his age, then I can be absolutely certain he’s not my son.”

  Anne’s eyes narrowed. “How can you be so sure?”

  Reggie rolled his eyes. Thomas frowned at her, but answered, somewhat waspishly, “Because I know which lady I was consorting with at the time, and she did not fall pregnant.”

  “How can you know? Maybe she spent some time in the country once your liaison ended?”

  Thomas inclined his head. “Indeed, she did, but even then, I can be sure, because I seriously doubt she could have concealed such a state from her husband.”

  Anne blinked. “Oh.”

  “Indeed.” Thomas waved them to the two armchairs and drew a chair from the small table for himself. “And the boy’s not Hugh’s, either,” he added as they sat.

  This time, Anne was more circumspect. “Why do you say that?”

  A glimmer of a smile played about Thomas’s lips. “Because, strange though it may seem, Hugh is thoroughly devoted to Imogen. Yes, she’s a stickler and sometimes so stiff-backed you expect her to break rather than bend, but…” He shrugged. “I’d be happy to swear an oath that the boy’s not Hugh’s either.”

  Reggie pulled a face. “That leaves…”

  “Precisely.” Thom
as grimaced, too. “And that’s what’s been causing the delay. Hugh, naturally enough, wanted to know if I knew anything to explain this boy’s existence before he girded his loins and broke the news to the pater.”

  Thomas looked at Anne. “It’s really not that easy to find the words in which to put it to one’s father that he did not do the right thing.”

  “He may not have known about the boy,” Reggie put in.

  Thomas looked at him, rather bleakly. “He would never accept such an excuse from either Hugh or me; I rather doubt he’ll expect us to accept it of him.”

  Reggie held his gaze, then nodded. Seeing Anne’s lips part, he quickly asked, “I take it you’ve been upstairs all morning?”

  Thomas blinked. “As it happens, yes. Why?”

  “Some gentleman lured Benjamin, the boy, into his carriage this morning. He’s disappeared.”

  Thomas’s shock was transparently genuine. He glanced from Reggie to Anne. “You’ve lost him?”

  Anne blushed. “Yes. But it has to be someone associated with your family who took him—no one else among the ton knows of his existence.”

  Thomas’s gaze grew distant; he frowned. “Perhaps Hugh wanted to speak with him…” Abruptly he shook his head. He rose. “Allow me to sort things out here, then I’ll meet you in Charles Street.” He glanced at the clock. “With luck, Hugh will still be at home.”

  Reggie nodded, and briskly ushered Anne out before she could think of anything more to say. He handed her into the curricle; as he sat beside her, she humphed. “If Hugh has taken Benjy, of course he’ll be at home.”

  Reggie said nothing. A frown in his eyes, he turned his horses and set off for Hugh’s house.

  The butler showed them into the morning room. “I will inquire if his lordship is at home.”

  Anne glared at the door as it shut. “Hugh better not try to deny us.”

  Reggie noted the belligerence that sat so ill on her gentle face; he hid a smile. “He won’t—your name will be enough to get him down here.”

  It was, but to their surprise it was Imogen who came through the door first. A tall, thin woman, pale, brown-haired, with fine ascetic features rather too severe to be fashionable, she carried herself well, but somewhat rigidly. Hugh followed her, grave, concerned—and not just for them, or what they might say. His gaze followed Imogen as she swept across the room.