Eleven

Julia ducked into the shadows of the drawing room at the top of the stairs as Walter raced by her. The boy hadn’t even known she was there, and neither had Wraxall. Or perhaps she should think of him as the Warrior. She’d gone back to her room after their kiss, and she hadn’t been able to calm herself enough to lie down.

No wonder, as she’d never been kissed like that in her life. None of the kisses she’d received previously could even compare, and she would have remembered. Her body still vibrated from the feel of his hands on her. Her lips still tingled. Her heart had continued thumping hard in her chest. No, she would not soon forget the Warrior’s kiss. She would still remember how it had made her feel when she was an old, old woman.

She wouldn’t have heard the noise if she hadn’t still been pacing her room. But she’d heard the voices and crept out, half-afraid Mr. Slag had returned. And despite all her protests about Wraxall’s presence here, she was certainly happy he was nearby in that moment.

Except, it hadn’t been Slag at all. It had been Wraxall and Walter. Julia had ducked into the drawing room so she wouldn’t be spotted. She’d almost revealed herself when Wraxall had challenged Walter to stab him, but she should have known a former soldier could handle a mere boy.

What she couldn’t have known was how the boy and the man would melt her heart. She’d never particularly liked Walter. He wasn’t sweet like James or adorable like Charlie. He wasn’t smart like Michael or helpful like Robbie. And he certainly didn’t want her love like Sean or Chester. Walter had always pushed her away. No matter which method she employed to get to know him, he’d wanted nothing to do with her.

But he’d embraced the Warrior. Julia wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t seen it. She almost hadn’t, as she should have been hiding and not sticking her head out to watch. What made it even worse was all the weeping. When Wraxall had talked about his friends, tears had streamed from her eyes. She could hear the sorrow in his voice and knew that though he made war sound heroic and glorious to Walter, the Warrior found it anything but.

And that could only mean one thing—Wraxall cared about these children. He might say he couldn’t look at them. He might dislike that the orphans reminded him of the circumstances of his own birth, but they were winning him over. Just as the boys had won her over—not that she had been a difficult case. She could grudgingly admit she had a soft heart.

Unfortunately, Wraxall was winning her over too. He’d touched her heart tonight when he’d told Walter to look around and to think what he had. The man really did see and understand what she was trying to do here and what she wanted to give these boys. And the way he’d put his arm about Walter, the way he’d spoken to him softly but firmly, the way he’d counseled him had melted her heart—Wraxall reminded her of her own father before her mother had died. Then he had been a different man, one who had always taken the time to listen to Julia’s stories and praise her childish drawings and encourage her in piano and singing, even though every instructor had declared she had no musical talent.

Not all men were kind like her father, though. She’d come to think of him as the exception, not the rule. Damien Holbrook, Viscount Lainesborough, had showed her what most men were truly like. And who was to say the Warrior was not the same as Lainesborough once the layers were peeled back? Hadn’t Damien been charming and kind when he’d courted Harriett? Hadn’t he been everything genteel and charming even after they married? Then he’d grown tired of his new wife and Harriett had come home, weeping and inconsolable because the man she’d fallen in love with was not the man she’d married. The man she’d married was selfish, callous, and lecherous. He’d gone to Town for the Season, leaving her at his country home because she had been too ill with the first symptoms of pregnancy to join him at routs and balls.

Instead, he’d found a mistress and all the papers had reported their great love affair, making Harriett look like a complete fool.

And yet, Julia might have forgiven him that behavior. She was not the sort of person to hold a grudge. But she could never, ever forgive what he’d done after Davy had been born.

And now, Julia was tempted to trust this Warrior, this Mr. Wraxall. Though she feared she would be making the same mistake Harriett had made. The sisters had grown up in the ton. They had been weaned on scandal, raised on gossip, and educated early as to the differences between rumor and innuendo. That men—and women—were often unfaithful in their marriages was no surprise. Their father had not been quite as censorious with the papers as he ought to have been, and so Julia and Harriett always knew when the Duke (or Earl or Marquess) of Somewhere and the new actress from Drury Lane (or the new opera singer or the new viscountess) took up together, leaving their respective spouses to hold their heads high and ignore the liaison.

It was simply that Julia and Harriett had always considered that sort of behavior to belong to other people. Never in their wildest imaginings did they suppose the men they married would be the one to flaunt his paramour. And when Harriett came home in just such a situation, Julia was not as shocked as her sister, but it didn’t make the blow any less painful.

If only she’d known that wasn’t the worst outrage her brother-in-law would perpetrate on the family.

Wraxall might not look as though he was made from the same cloth as Viscount Lainesborough, but how could she be certain? She’d known him but two days, and she could not allow one dizzying kiss to completely addle her brain and weaken her resolve.

With that thought in mind, she retired to bed. Unfortunately, she did not sleep well, and she was still rather groggy the next morning when Mr. Wraxall knocked on her bedroom door at barely half past seven.

She’d been finishing dressing her hair and thought it must be Charlie, as he was always awake first. “Charlie?” she asked through the door.

“It’s Wraxall.”

Julia closed her mouth. She’d been about to invite Charlie in, but she could not extend the same invitation to Wraxall. “One moment.” She gave her image reflected in the cheval glass an annoyed frown, then hurried to the door, her hair pinned on one side and loose on the other. “Yes?”

Wraxall stared at her. “Is that a new style?”

She blew out a breath. “You know very well it is not. I supposed you had come to my room with a matter of some urgency. If the matter can wait—”

He stuck his hand in the gap between the door and the casement, stopping her from closing the door. “It is a matter of concern. You have a line of women at the kitchen door. As the rain hasn’t slowed, I told one of the boys to let them in. They’re currently dripping on the kitchen floor.”

Julia stared at him. “A group of women in the kitchen?”

“Yes.”

“They stood outside in the rain?”

“That’s what I said. They’re here for the cook’s position. What do you want me to do with them?”

The cook’s position! Of course. The advertisement must have run in the Times. “Send them to the parlor.”

He frowned. “Then they’ll drip on the rug.”

She waved her hands. “Then keep them in the kitchen.”

“How do we prepare breakfast?”

Julia let out a huff. Men and their stomachs. But she could hardly be annoyed when Wraxall was apparently prepared—again—to cook the morning meal.

“Very well. What do you suggest we do with them?”

“Put them in the entryway. There aren’t any rugs, and they’ll be out of the way.”

“Fine.” She stepped out of her room and closed the door. “You send them to the entryway, and I’ll bring the first one to the parlor to interview.” She started down the stairs to the kitchen with Wraxall right beside her. Finally, they would have a cook. One of her problems would be solved. She would not think of the other half dozen she faced—namely, what she would do when Slag confronted her at the Darlington musicale.

They reached the bottom of the staircase, but before she could push the door open, Wraxall pulled her back against the wall. Julia caught her breath. She had never thought about how narrow the servants’ staircase was or how enclosed and private. She could hear the prospective cooks’ voices on the other side of the door, but in the stairwell, she and Wraxall were quite alone.

“What are you doing?” she whispered. Did he think to kiss her again? Her heart clenched with hope while her belly fluttered with fear. She did not want him to kiss her again. Did she? Certainly not here and not now? But her gaze drifted to his mouth and her lips suddenly felt quite dry. She licked them, and Wraxall’s hand, which had been reaching for her, paused in midair.

“Don’t tempt me,” he murmured, low enough for her to hear but not loud enough to carry over the din in the kitchen. His voice slid over her like warm velvet.

“Tempt you?” she hissed. “If you think I want you to kiss me, you are sorely mistaken.”

“I don’t think you want me to kiss you,” he answered.

Well, that was good then. She had at least made one point clear to him the night before.

“I know you want me to kiss you.”

Julia sputtered, too shocked to form a coherent thought or sentence.

“But that is not my intent.” He reached for her again, but this time she caught his wrist.

“Do not touch me.”

He lowered his hand and shrugged. “Fine. Go in like that.”

“Fine.” She turned to the door, then looked back at him. “Like what?”

He twirled a finger, indicating her head. “With that new style in your hair.”

Julia gasped, her hands flying to her head. She’d completely forgotten her hair was only half-pinned. And she’d thought he wanted to kiss her. No doubt he wanted to laugh just looking at her in all her ridiculousness.

She moved back from the door, but he anticipated her. “There’s no time now,” he said and reached for her again. This time, she didn’t move quickly enough, and his hand slid into her hair. She stiffened, unable to move as his fingers searched deftly for the pins she’d slid into the mass to secure it. Her scalp tingled as, one by one, he removed the pins, dropping them into his hand. Her hair fell down about her shoulders. When she glanced at him again, she felt very young and somehow more vulnerable with her hair loose.

“That suits you better. You look too matronly with your hair wound on top of your head.”

There were more flattering styles, but one needed a hair dresser to achieve those, and before he’d come, Julia hadn’t cared what her hair looked like as long as it was out of her way.

“I am the matron of this house, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t allow me to forget that point. And as such, you cannot interview these ladies with your hair undone. You need…something…” He tapped his finger on his lips. “Ah!”

This time, she swatted his hand away when he reached for her bosom. “What are you about, sir?”

He caught her hand and smiled at her. It was a rogue’s smile if she’d ever seen one. She knew she should not have trusted him.

“Not what you are thinking, though you seem to have found a way to make even drab gray look enticing.”

She looked down at her muted dress, a dress she had put on without much thought this morning. “What do you—”

He reached for the bodice again, but when she would have slapped him away, he murmured, “Trust me.”

Those were exactly the words that should have sounded the alarm in her head and her heart. Instead, she stood completely still while his fingers caught hold of the dark-blue ribbon adorning the dress’s bodice. The bodice did not have a particularly low neck, but it was a dress suitable for multiple occasions. As it was morning, and she was supposed to be the head of the orphanage, she had tucked a thin, gauzy fichu in the bodice to cover the modest flesh exposed by the rounded style. Wraxall’s fingers crushed the flimsy material as he pulled the ribbon from its bow and gently tugged it free from its moorings.

Julia could not have breathed if she’d wanted to. His fingers, though not straying from their task, burned her flesh wherever they touched. The feel of the ribbon being pulled free made Julia all the more aware that Wraxall might move his hand but a tiny fraction and he would be cupping her breast. She found, inexplicably, that she wanted to feel his hands on her. And the more she imagined his hands on her, the heavier her breasts felt and the more her nipples hardened until the peaks strained against the light fabric of her chemise.

She gulped in a deep breath, feeling much like a fish that’s been tossed on land. Horrified, she couldn’t help but notice that when she breathed in, the tops of her breasts rose from the dress’s bodice and encountered Wraxall’s warm fingers. A gentleman would have pulled his hand away. Wraxall didn’t move any part of himself, except for his eyes, which lifted from their focus on the ribbon to meet her gaze.

Those eyes, usually so blue and clear, were the color of a stormy sea. Heat seemed to burn off the man, radiating in waves and washing over her. He nodded slightly, and Julia felt as though some agreement had been made between the two of them, some promise that would be honored later. She did not know precisely what it might be, but her body seemed to understand it. Her body swayed closer to him even as her mind cautioned her to flee.

She might have run back up the steps too if he hadn’t put his arms around her. They didn’t go around her exactly, but he reached behind her, gathering her hair into a long tail. Her whole body came alive as little frissons of pleasure trailed from her scalp to her neck and all the way to her toes. He looped the ribbon about her hair and tied it into a bow. Then slowly—far more slowly than necessary—he stepped back and away from her.

She still could not catch her breath, and she knew her chest rose and fell as she gulped in air. His eyes assessed her, initially inspecting his handiwork but then drifting to the motion of her chest and then to the folds of her skirts where her legs formed a vee. Oh yes. She was warm there too. Moisture had gathered and with it a ripple of awareness. But he couldn’t know what she felt at the juncture of her thighs.

Could he?

“You had better go in now.”

She nodded. And stood motionless. In one smooth movement, Wraxall pushed the door to the kitchen open and extended an arm in invitation. Julia closed her eyes to clear her head, then marched through the kitchen to the vestibule, smiling broadly at the potential cooks waiting for her.

* * *

After Neil had moved Lady Juliana’s applicants to the entryway, he corralled the orphans upstairs. There was no point in scaring the cooks away before they’d even interviewed. He’d planned to repair the roof today, but a steady drizzle interspersed with heavier deluges thwarted his plans. Perhaps that was for the best. He was so weary he would probably fall off the roof if he attempted to repair it. One of these nights, he would have to sleep. And at some point, he hoped he would be able to go home. He’d sent for clean clothing and washed in the servants’ quarters, so at least he was clean and properly attired. He’d also managed to waylay Goring, who had returned this morning with a story of a sick relative. Neil intended to keep the manservant close and Slag uninformed.

When he had all the children gathered in the older boys’ room, Neil issued his orders. “We can’t work on the roof this morning and you still have no teacher for lessons—”

A resounding shout drowned him out. Neil ignored it. He raised one hand, and the din quieted. “So we will make use of our time by cleaning your quarters.”

“Boo!” was the response.

Neil crossed his arms over his chest. “Gentlemen, when I want your opinion, I will give it to you. In the meantime, strip the beds, push all the furniture to one corner, get the broom, find a mop and bucket, and start cleaning.” He turned to the four younger boys. “Mr. Goring will help you.”

Goring frowned. “I ain’t a maid, sir.”

“You are today, Goring. Be thankful you don’t have to do it all on your own.”

The four younger boys scampered off, full of excitement, and Neil turned back to the chaos in the older boys’ dormitory. Before he knew what had happened, the red-haired boy pushed a box into his arms. “You’d better hold on to these, Major, or they’re likely to get free.”

Neil looked down at the three rats, who blinked up at him. He took a deep breath. He’d never cared much for rats. He’d encountered them plenty of times on missions when he’d had to camp in dark cellars or fetid alleys. These rats were certainly cleaner and tamer. One of them rose up on its hind legs and sniffed at him with its little, pink nose. Neil didn’t shudder, but he wouldn’t go so far as to call the creature cute.

He resolved to build a proper cage for the little beasts, but until then, he took the box and placed it inside Lady Juliana’s room. He made a point not to look around, not to imagine her in that silk nightgown he’d seen snatches of last night.

Leaving the rats, he returned to the dormitory in time to see the tall boy who kept to himself shove something under his mattress. “You.” Neil pointed.

“That’s Billy,” Michael told him. “He’s eleven.”

Neil had already learned that Michael enjoyed numbers. He counted everything he could.

“What do you have there, Billy?” Neil made his way over.

Billy didn’t look him in the eye. “Nothing, Major.”

“What did you hide under the mattress?”

Billy’s dark eyes rose and settled on Neil’s face. Billy had a maturity beyond his years, and Neil knew that before he’d come to the orphanage, Billy had seen plenty on the streets of London.

“Let’s see,” Neil said.

Still looking at Neil, Billy lifted the mattress. Underneath, six kitchen knives gleamed. Immediately, the other boys in the chamber found themselves engrossed with other tasks.

“That’s quite a collection,” Neil remarked. “What do you need the weapons for?”

“Defense.”

Neil looked about the room. “Against these lads? You’re bigger than all of them. It seems to me if you had trouble, you could use your fists.”

“I’m not worried about these lads.”

Neil nodded. “Then who?”

Billy shrugged. “If there’s any trouble, I like to be ready.”

“I’m here,” Neil said. “If there’s any trouble, I’ll handle it.”

Billy nodded. “How long are you here?”

It was a good question. It was a question Neil continued to ask himself. He’d intended to be here a few hours. Then one night. Now, he’d been here two nights, and those would undoubtedly turn into three. But he didn’t plan to stay after that. He didn’t want to run an orphanage. He’d deal with Slag, see Lady Juliana safely home, then say his goodbyes.

That would be little consolation to Billy, though. A new thug would move into Slag’s place or a thief desperate enough would find a way to break into the orphanage, and the boys and Lady Juliana would have no one to defend them. No wonder Billy wanted the knives.

Neil held out his hand. “Before I go, we’ll find a way for you to defend yourself, if there’s still a need. In the meantime, the new cook will want these.”

Billy scooped the knives up in one large fist and handed them over. Neil nodded. “I have Walter’s knife.” He looked at the room of boys who were still pretending not to listen. “Who else has a knife or a weapon? Turn them over now. If I find them during my inspection later, you won’t like the consequences.”

By the end of the hour, Neil had collected three more knives, two bricks, a sharpened stick, two candlesticks that probably belonged in the dining room, and a half dozen hairpins that Lady Juliana was probably missing. The younger boys had their share of weapons too. Jimmy had a needle he’d swiped from Lady Juliana’s sewing box, and Chester had taken a small pan from the kitchen.

By the time Neil disposed of or returned the items and inspected the boys’ chambers, it was noon and no one had eaten. He made his way to the parlor, through the now-empty entryway. The parlor door was open and an appetizing smell drifted from the kitchen. He stuck his head in the door, finding Lady Juliana with her head bent and a quill in her hand. She was writing quickly, her lip caught between her teeth as she worked.

Neil cleared his throat. She looked up at him and her cheeks flushed. Just as quickly, she looked down again. He would have bet she was remembering their shared kiss.

“What is it, Mr. Wraxall?”

She was all business, but Neil wasn’t put off. Something about the sight of her with her copper hair spilling over one shoulder and that full lip between her small, even teeth made him want to kiss her again.

“I wondered how the interviews had gone, and the boys wondered when they might eat.”

Her head popped up. “Oh no! They haven’t eaten at all this morning, have they?” She rose, dropping her quill. “How could I have forgotten?”

Neil raised a hand. “I’ve kept them busy in their rooms, but as the weather is still unfit for travel, I haven’t been able to go out and procure any foodstuffs. Does that appetizing smell mean you hired a new cook?”

“Yes, a Mrs. Koch. Appropriate, isn’t it? Her husband fought in the Colonial War, and after his death, she settled in England. She has nine grown children and is used to cooking for a crowd, so to speak.”

“She sounds perfect.”

“Yes. I’ll ask if she can have something ready for a noon meal.”

“Good. If you need me, I’ll be in the servants’ quarters. I have a project I’d like to begin.”

She frowned. “What sort of project?”

He felt like an idiot telling her he planned to build a cage for the pet rats. He should have been ordering her to release the rodents. But he knew she would refuse. The boys had become attached to the creatures, and they seemed harmless enough. “It’s a surprise for the boys. I’ll take Goring with me. If you would be so kind, send something down for us.”

“Very well.” She moved in front of the desk, looked toward the door, then leaned toward him as though telling a secret. “You are keeping an eye on Mr. Goring.”

“I don’t want Goring running to tell Slag what we’re up to.”

She furrowed her brow. “We aren’t up to anything.”

“I told you last night.” He moved closer, lowering his voice. “Slag will not touch you. I’ll bring several of my men to the musicale, and we will deal with Mr. Slag.”

“You plan to kill him?” She put her hand to her heart.

“There are worse fates than death. The prison hulks come to mind.”

“But—”

He held up a hand. “Leave it to me. And without Slag in command, his gang will falter. The last thing the men will care about is you or the orphanage. They will be too busy killing each other to determine the next arch rogue. You can go home.”

“I told you. This is my home now.”

Neil closed his eyes. Why had he gone to see his father? Why had he agreed to help St. Maur? It will take an afternoon, his father had said. A piece of cake for a man like you, his father had said. Neil, for one, would have been pleased never to set eyes on cake again.

“You cannot save this orphanage, Lady Juliana.”

“I beg to differ. You just said with Slag gone, the orphanage would be the least of the gang’s concerns.”

“Until there’s a new leader who takes an interest.”

“And then we will have our foodstuffs stolen again.”

Neil waved a hand. She still did not understand. “Turnips and flour are not the real valuables here.”

“Then what is? We have little else.”

“You’re wrong. You have a dozen boys who would make perfect thieves and pickpockets.”

“I won’t allow that to happen. When I came here, I vowed to keep these boys safe. I won’t let them go the way of so many of the former residents.”

“You cannot stop it. You are one woman against deadly criminals and impossible odds.”

Her gaze met his. “You faced death and impossible odds, and you came home a hero.”

“I came home a ghost. I should have died with the men I sent to their deaths.”

“Have you ever considered there’s a reason you survived? What if you were spared because I needed you? What if you lived to save these boys—bastards like you but just as deserving of a chance in this world?”

Neil felt cold seep through his veins. He was no hero. He was not the man to save these children, not the man Lady Juliana seemed to want him to be. “I have one mission, Lady Juliana, and that is to return you home.”

“I told you,” she said tightly. “I am home, and I will never give up on these boys or Sunnybrooke.”

Neil couldn’t help but admire her spirit, misguided as she was. She was stubborn and idealistic, a dangerous mixture. And one he couldn’t quite seem to resist.