Twelve

She didn’t know where Mr. Wraxall disappeared to after their conversation. He’d gone out in the rain and hadn’t returned by dinner. She and the boys had enjoyed a delicious meal together, and Julia had initially been happy it would be just her and the boys at dinner. It would be like old times again—before Wraxall had come.

Except it wasn’t.

The boys had talked of little else throughout dinner. No one could say enough about when Major had done this or when he’d said that or how he’d promised to build Matthew, Mark, and John a new enclosure. Julia had tried to steer the conversation away from Wraxall, but the attempt had been only halfhearted. The truth was that Sunnybrooke wasn’t the same without him. She didn’t know how that was possible when he’d only been there two days, but in that time, they’d all become used to him and come to rely upon him. Now, there was more than an empty chair where he usually sat. There was an empty spot in the boys’ hearts. In hers as well, though she told herself it was a small spot that could be easily filled.

The danger was in allowing the little piece of her heart he’d claimed to grow larger. She had to stop the attachment she felt from becoming any stronger. No more long conversations. No more nighttime eavesdropping. And no more kisses. Definitely no more kisses.

In that spirit, she’d tried not to think of him the rest of the evening as the boys had played games or listened to her read, then complained when she made them wash faces and brush teeth and climb into their beds—beds that had clean linen in rooms that were spotless.

But she would not think of that because noticing all of the changes would only lead to thoughts of Wraxall.

Finally, all the boys were tucked in. Julia checked with the new cook, who looked to have the kitchen in order and everything ready for the morning meal. Julia sent her to bed and told Mr. Goring he could retire. Part of Goring’s job was to lock all the windows and doors at night, but considering what she knew about Goring, she checked everything again. All was secure. Was it possible Wraxall had been wrong about Goring? After all, with the major away, now would have been the perfect time to send Mr. Slag word she was alone and vulnerable. But Goring had stayed close all evening and locked everything up tightly.

In fact, she was left with a dilemma. She was ready for bed, but Wraxall still had not returned. He’d given her no information as to where he’d gone or when he’d be back. She did not want to leave the door open, but neither did she want to lock him out. Finally, she decided she would give him until midnight. If he hadn’t returned by then, he was obviously not returning until the morrow. She built up the fire in the parlor and looked over correspondence and ledgers at her desk, but soon her eyes drooped and since she only had an hour until midnight, she decided to rest on the couch.

She opened her eyes what seemed like a moment later and screamed at the man standing above her. Before much more than a squeak left her lips, his hand came down and covered her mouth.

It was Slag, and he would kill her. Why hadn’t she locked the door?

“If you scream, you’ll wake the children.”

She stilled and stared up at the man, whose face was in shadow. He removed his hat, and she instantly relaxed. It was Wraxall. Then anger replaced fear. She wrenched his hand from her mouth. “Just what are you about, sneaking in here and scaring me to death?”

“Sneaking in? I walked in. The door was open—a matter I’d very much like to discuss with you.”

She sat and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Oh, don’t blame me for that. That is your fault, sir. I had no idea if you would return or not, and I did not want you banging on the door and scaring everyone to death when you returned to find the door locked.”

“Give me more credit than that.” He moved away to stand by the fire, and in the light, his features looked weary and a bit haggard. The man was exhausted.

“Very well.” She lowered her voice. “You probably would have behaved like an idiot and sat outside all night, keeping vigil or some such nonsense. It’s still raining, and you’d catch your death of cold. I don’t want your death on my conscience.”

He grinned at her. “Your concern is touching.”

“I hope so. Where have you been all night?” She was aware she sounded more like a wife than she ought, considering he was under no obligation to tell her anything.

“At my club.”

“Drinking?”

“I wish. No, I’ve been talking with friends of mine about the situation with Mr. Slag.”

“What sort of friends?”

“The sort who can help me rid you of him permanently. Do you mind?” He pointed to the couch.

“Mind?”

“If I join you.” He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he sat heavily beside her. She almost fell into him but managed to scoot over toward the arm and thereby maintain some space between them. Julia marveled at how small the couch seemed once he sat on it with her. She had considered moving it out of the parlor several times, as it was rather large for the small area, but now it felt decidedly too small.

Julia also marveled that she was still seated beside him. Why hadn’t she stood up?

He laid his head on the back of the couch and closed his eyes.

“You should sleep, Mr. Wraxall. You look terrible.”

He smiled without opening his eyes. “You do know how to give a compliment.”

But she didn’t know how else to describe him when he had the shadow of a beard on his jaw, dark circles under his eyes, and a pallor under his bronze skin.

“You can go to bed now,” he said. And how was she supposed to sleep when all she could think of was kissing him again?

“I have a bit more work to do.” She stood and moved to the desk. As soon as she was away from the couch, she felt colder and missed his scent of coffee and baked bread. “Why don’t you rest for a few moments while I finish?”

“I know what you’re about,” he said, his eyes still closed. “I’m perfectly fine. You can go to bed.”

“I have no idea what you mean.” She sat at her desk and tried to look busy. “This letter to the prime minister will not write itself. I promise to rouse you when I am finished and retire. In the meantime, I assume you trust me to keep vigil.”

“Not a chance.”

“Mr. Wraxall, surely you assigned watches when you were in the army. You had to sleep at some point. Why not give me the watch for an hour and then I promise to hand it back for the rest of the night.”

One eye opened. One bloodshot eye. “Fine. But if you don’t wake me—”

“Yes, yes. The full power of your mighty wrath will fall upon me and my entire household. I will wake you, sir.”

He opened the other eye and gave her an assessing look. Then with a nod, he fell, rather than lay, on his side and was snoring softly within seconds. Julia stared at him, rather awed at his ability to fall asleep so quickly. She usually had to read for at least an hour, then toss and turn until the bedclothes were perfectly arranged and fluff her pillow at least five times before her mind would quiet enough for her to consider drifting into slumber.

Wraxall seemed to need only to close his eyes.

In case he was only pretending, she did write the letter she’d mentioned. Her father had told her about a bill he supported to give more aid to homes for unwed mothers. If the bill passed, Julia hoped more women would have the resources to keep their babies, rather than give them up. She could not vote, of course, but she had been writing the prime minister weekly to express her support for the bill and to urge him to take up her father’s cause.

She finished her letter and, having penned a rather passionate epistle, did not feel at all tired. She checked the clock on the mantel and saw it was nearing one. Surely she could give the major another half hour of rest. She sorted through more correspondence and made notes in the boys’ files, then finally had to admit her eyes would no longer stay open. Though she thought it ridiculous that Wraxall insisted on staying awake, she had promised to rouse him before going to bed.

She bent over the sleeping figure on the couch and looked down into his face. He looked so peaceful when he slept. He never looked thus when awake. Now that she had an idea of the demons that plagued him, she could understand why. But she hoped, for the past ninety minutes, his mind had been weary enough to give him nothing but blackness.

“Mr. Wraxall,” she said quietly. “I am retiring now.”

He did not move.

Julia considered leaving and telling him she’d tried to rouse him but that he would not wake. But she had promised. And she had not tried very hard.

“Mr. Wraxall.” She shook him a bit. “I am retiring now.” Nothing from him. Not even a change in his even breathing. Goodness but his shoulder was firm. Her hand wandered down his bicep, and even under the thick wool of his coat, she could feel the hard outlines of his muscles.

“Mr. Wraxall.” She sat on the edge of the couch and bent closer. “Major?” That did it. He made an unintelligible sound and his hand reached out and wound about her waist. His eyes still did not open.

Julia tried to pull away, but he was holding fast and she feared if he let go suddenly, she would fall to the floor. “Major,” she tried again. “Wake up.”

“Not now, sweetheart,” he muttered. With a shock, Julia realized he must think she was some sort of…trollop. He must think she was in bed with him and wanted him to wake for…carnal activities. “Lie down.”

He tugged her, but she resisted. “Major, it is I, Lady Juliana. Wake up. I am going to bed.”

He moved, turning more fully on his side. The action pulled her down, and when she got her bearings, she was tucked against him on the couch. Her back was to his chest, her legs dangling over the side, but his arm was clamped around her middle.

“Sir!” she hissed. When there was no response, Julia thought about elbowing him in the abdomen. That would surely wake him—but then she stilled. Why exactly did she want to wake him? No one could argue she hadn’t tried to wake him. If she stayed here, he would get more sleep. If she stayed here, she could spend a few hours being held by a man and no one would ever be the wiser. It wasn’t likely she’d ever have this opportunity again. After the business with Viscount Lainesborough, she knew she would never marry. And for a woman like her that meant chastity. When would she ever have the chance to lie in a man’s arms after tonight? When would she be able to feel the steel of his muscles wrapped around her or the solid warmth of his chest?

He would relax in a few moments and release her. Then she could move safely away, and he need never be the wiser. No one need ever be the wiser. The parlor door was closed and the entire house was sleeping. She’d done nothing for herself since Harriett had come home. Couldn’t she be forgiven for giving in to this one small urge?

Julia closed her eyes and snuggled back against the man holding her. Just for a moment, she pretended he loved her and that he held her thus every night. She imagined this was their house and the children here their children. It was a house filled with laughter and happiness and family. She’d had a life like that once. She’d had a family—before it had been ripped away from her not once but twice.

All she could do was imagine what it would be like to have that again. Of course, she knew she could never have it with Wraxall. What did an illegitimate son know about family? He was as unlikely as she to ever marry or become a parent. The difference was he did not want a family. He’d made it clear from the beginning that he saw her and the boys as a burden. She would always mourn what she could not have.

His hand tightened around her middle, and she closed her eyes and allowed herself to sink into his warmth and security.

* * *

The sound of the cannons firing was relentless. Portugal. That’s where he was. A well-aimed cannon blast shook the hill and Tiberius reared as dirt flew at them from a few feet away. Neil lost his hold and toppled from the saddle, landing on his side and rolling to stand again. He slapped the horse’s rump, a signal to depart, then pulled his pistol and fired at the first French soldier coming for him. With no time to reload, he raised his saber and charged into the thick of the French infantry.

As the First and Second Dragoons crested the hill, the French fought harder, knowing to give any ground would mean retreat.

It seemed hours had passed as Neil fought. His sword arm ached, his shoulder screamed, and he blinked blood out of his eyes. He wasn’t certain if the blood was his or the spray from one of his casualties, and he didn’t take the time to wipe it away. Every fallen redcoat might be Christopher. He took foolish risks, looking down at the bodies instead of in the faces of the enemies. Fatigue weighed on him like a waterlogged greatcoat, pulling him down and down.

The Sixteenth is coming. The Sixteenth is coming.

He had to hold out until the rest of the regiment arrived.

Finally, when Neil feared he could not raise his arm one more time, he could not cut down another living, breathing man, he heard the roar of hoofbeats. The ground shook beneath him. The French commander called for retreat, and Neil sagged as the enemy melted away.

The dragoons thundered past him. Neil stumbled to a man wearing the insignia of the Second Brigade. “Lord Christopher. Is he alive?” he panted, his breath burning in his lungs.

The man—more of a boy, really—shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. I haven’t seen him since we last stormed the hill.”

Neil stumbled away, his eyes on the fallen infantry, looking for Christopher’s golden-blond hair. Men with brown hair, black hair, gray hair, and dark-blond hair lay with unseeing eyes or clutching bleeding arms or legs. One man held a hand over a gash across his middle, keeping his intestines from spilling out. Neil couldn’t let himself see this. Couldn’t allow himself to believe any of it was real, else he’d lose his breakfast and his faltering courage. Neil trudged through the pools of blood, halting at the bright cap of blond hair lying in one of the bloody puddles.

His breath caught and his belly tightened.

“Chris,” he said hoarsely, turning the man over. His heart pounded wildly, his vision dimmed, but when he opened his eyes again, the man he touched was not Christopher, not his brother.

“Water,” the man croaked. With shaking fingers, Neil unfastened his canteen and pressed it into the man’s hands. He moved on, moved down the hill, his eyes scanning for that crown of bright curls.

Please, God. No.

He almost passed another man with blond hair. This man’s cap was still on his head, his face obscured because he lay facedown on the hill. Neil did not want to do this. Did not want to see the dead face. But he had to know. He’d go mad otherwise. Neil got behind the body, dug his heels into the steep slope for purchase, and flipped the man over.

Shock and pain stabbed through him as he stared at the face of Christopher Wraxall. He hadn’t really expected it to be him. He hadn’t been ready.

One green eye stared up at him, seeing nothing. The hole where a musket ball had entered stood in place of the other eye. Neil turned to the side and retched quietly, then he sank to his knees and lay in the mud and the gore beside his fallen brother.

How he wished the dead man had been himself.

Neil knew it was dream, but he couldn’t seem to wake, couldn’t seem to rouse himself from the soft, warm bed. It was like climbing out from under a mountain of blankets. Finally, he forced his eyes open and frowned in confusion at the unfamiliar room. Then he looked down at the unfamiliar body pressed against him. It was female. He knew that much, but he wasn’t in the habit of spending the night with women. He tended to wake screaming, and guests seemed to find shrieks in the night off-putting. The smell of roses and the copper hair spilling over his chest left no doubt as to who he held in his arms. As soon as he realized Lady Juliana—he had certainly earned the right to call her Julia now—was sleeping beside him, he remembered his trek to the Draven Club the night before, returning to find her waiting for him, and that she’d promised to wake him after an hour.

The weak light slanting through the windows of the parlor told him what he already knew. He had slept all night, not merely an hour. Had she slept here with him? And what the devil was that pounding?

“Juliana Rose, open this door right now!” said a voice from the other side of the door.

The aforementioned Juliana Rose faced him, her cheek buried against his chest. She stirred and then snuggled closer to him. Neil had the mad urge to tell the person at the door to go away. But that would only cause more trouble, and he knew there would be trouble. No one but someone familiar with Lady Juliana would refer to her as Juliana Rose. That meant it couldn’t be the cook or the maid, and Neil wouldn’t be able to dismiss the intruder and make this all go away.

“My lady,” he said, voice low. “You have a visitor.”

She murmured something unintelligible and closed her fingers around a button on his coat. How had he slept so bloody well when he still wore his coat and boots? He’d barely loosened his cravat, and he couldn’t have had more than four or five hours of sleep, but those hours had been some of the most restful he’d had in months. He hadn’t dreamed of the war or of his missions until the pounding on the door reminded him of cannon fire.

“Juliana Rose!” came the impatient woman’s voice.

“One more minute,” she groaned.

“In another minute she will knock the door down and the situation will be far worse,” Neil observed.

“Whose voice is that? Who is in there?”

Something she heard must have finally penetrated her brainbox because she started like a frightened fawn and tried to sit but ended up falling off the couch. Neil winced when he heard the thump. He probably should have caught her, but he rather thought he’d held her enough for the time being.

She popped up again, pushing her tousled hair back from her face. She looked at him. “Oh no.” Then she looked about the room. “Oh no.” Then she looked at the door. “Oh no!”

“Juliana Rose, if you do not open this door this minute, I will have this man—What is your name, sir?” There was a muttered reply. “This Mr. Goring knock it down.”

“Mrs. Dunwitty?” Juliana asked more to herself than anyone else.

“It is I. You did write to me, did you not? And this is the welcome I receive!”

Her gaze met Neil’s, and there was the panicked-fawn look again. “She cannot find us here together.”

Neil’s brows drew together. “Do you want me to hide like some sort of rake?”

“No, of course not.” She looked wildly about. “I want you to escape through the window.”

“With whom are you speaking, Juliana? I know there is someone in there with you. Open this door.”

“Just a moment, Mrs. Dunwitty!”

“Who is Mrs. Dunwitty?”

“This is no time for questions!” She rose, grasped his hands, and yanked him up. His back protested, but he stood anyway.

“Jump out the window,” she demanded, rushing across the room and yanking the draperies back from the rectangular window looking out on the street, obscured somewhat by a light fog. At least the rain had ceased.

She tried to push the sill up, her face turning as red as her hair as she strained.

“I cannot jump out the window.”

“This is the first floor,” she said between clenched teeth. “You won’t be hurt.”

“What I mean is the window is sealed.”

She slumped down, breathing heavily. She was dressed in her robe and night rail again. The robe had come open, exposing the vee of her breasts, and though Neil had been trying to keep his eyes on her face, all of those heaving breaths made it difficult to act the gentleman.

She gave him a pained expression. “Why is the window sealed?”

“I sealed all the windows whose locks were broken beyond repair.”

“And what shall we do if there is a fire?”

“Break the window or use the door.” The pounding on the door to the parlor resumed. “Speaking of breaking doors, you should probably let her in.”

“I can’t do that! Do you know who she is?”

“No. You said there was no time for questions.” Neil crossed the room. Apparently, he would have to admit the dragon, else he would be repairing this door later, and God knew he had enough on his hands with patching the leaky roof, building a rodent enclosure, and keeping Slag away from Juliana. Neil opened the door. He spotted Mr. Goring right away. The servant looked as though he would rather be anywhere else. Behind him, every boy in the orphanage, in various states of dress—or undress—had lined up to gawk at the newcomer.

Neil had to look down to address her. She was easily the most petite woman he had ever met. He doubted she was five feet in pattens. She wore all black and her small face looked up at him from under a tiny hat perched on a tower of white hair. He remembered reading that Marie Antoinette had worn towering wigs with birds and ships and probably whole pleasure gardens depicted in them. This woman’s hair was not a wig, but it was piled high enough that a nest of birds could inhabit it. He couldn’t help but wonder how she kept the hat pinned in place.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

Neil had never been called charming. He was a soldier through and through, better with orders and strategies than charisma. Rafe was the charming one, but at that moment, Neil would have traded places with his friend. He bowed, giving the gesture a flourish he’d seen Rafe make many times. “Major Neil Wraxall at your service.” He never used his rank any more, but he needed all the fortification he could in the face of this tiny tyrant.

Mrs. Dunwitty put her hands on her tiny waist. “And what were you doing in the parlor with Lady Juliana, Major?”

The lady certainly did not have a small voice. Neil was fairly certain all of Spitalfields had heard the question. He held his hands up defensively. “Nothing.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Then why was the door locked?”

“For…safety?”

Juliana rushed out of the room then, and Neil wished she had taken a moment to right her appearance. Not that he minded her rumpled hair or her gaping robe. But he minded Mrs. Dunwitty the Terrible seeing her thus. Mrs. Dunwitty’s large, green eyes widened behind her spectacles. “Lady Juliana! What on earth!”

Neil glanced at Mr. Goring, who quickly looked at the ceiling as though something up there interested him greatly. “Perhaps we should discuss this in private,” Neil suggested.

Mrs. Dunwitty glanced behind her, seeming to notice the audience of orphans for the first time. “Boys,” she said, her voice full of authority. “March right back upstairs. I want you in the dining room in twenty minutes—beds made, teeth brushed, hair combed, and dressed impeccably.” She clapped her hands. “Off with you!”

To Neil’s astonishment, the boys scattered, running like squirrels when a carriage approached. He could have used Mrs. Dunwitty in the dragoons. As the boys retreated, he heard Charlie say, “What does ‘’peccably’ mean?”

“I don’t know,” Robbie answered. “But we’d better do it.”

“And you.” Mrs. Dunwitty looked at Mr. Goring. “Do you not have duties to attend to?”

“Yes, madam. I’ll see to them right away.”

Then she turned her gaze on him. “If you would, Major.” She gestured to the parlor. Juliana scurried in and Neil followed. Mrs. Dunwitty closed the door with a thud behind them. “Now, I think we all know what happened here.”

Juliana shook her head. “No, madam, you do not. Nothing happened.”

“Do not talk back to me, young lady. I may not be a woman of the world, but I am not a fool. A man and a woman alone in a locked room is bound to lead to frolics.”

“Madam,” Neil said as seriously as he could, “I vow there was no frolicking between Lady Juliana and me.”

She glared at him. “And even if I believe you, sir, what does that matter? It is the appearance of frolicking that is the problem. You have ruined the lady whether you had your wicked way with her or not.”

“My wicked way?” If he wasn’t afraid she’d smash him over the head with her cane, he might have protested further. How fitting that he, of all men, should be accused of deflowering the lady.

“I am not ruined, Mrs. Dunwitty. Not that it matters. I told you that I will not marry. Regardless, Mr. Wraxall did not compromise me. He arrived late last night and fell asleep on the couch in the parlor. I…accidentally fell asleep too.”

Neil studied her expression. There was more to the story, but he would wait until he was alone with Lady Juliana to hear it. He rather wondered how the lady had come to be asleep in his arms this morning.

“Do you expect me to believe that?”

“It is the truth.”

Mrs. Dunwitty looked at Neil, and he nodded his agreement.

“Very well,” said Mrs. Dunwitty, seating herself in one of the armchairs. “I will accept that explanation for the time being. But we have not finished our discussion of this matter. However, I see there may be more pressing matters to discuss. You wrote that you needed a teacher?”

“Yes. Have you come to help?”

So this was Lady Juliana’s former governess. It all made sense. No wonder she played the overzealous chaperone. And no wonder Lady Juliana had asked for her assistance. If anyone could teach these boys, it was obviously Mrs. Dunwitty the Terrible.

“I will stay and teach until you can find a replacement. I’m far too old and feeble to take the position permanently.”

Neil covered his laugh with a cough.

“Are you quite well, Major?” Mrs. Dunwitty asked.

“Actually,” he said, clearing his throat, “I have a few matters to attend to. If you will excuse me.”

“Of course.” She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. A knock sounded on the front door, and Neil knew he was saved.

“What sort of matters?” Lady Juliana asked, her eyes flicking to him as if to beg him not to desert her.

“That is not our concern,” Mrs. Dunwitty told her former charge. “Now, tell me what the boys have learned thus far.”

Neil waved as he left the parlor, only to almost trip over the new cook, who had been standing just outside the room. “Mrs. Koch, was there something you needed?”

She put her hands on her hips. “Yah. If you vant me to cook the breakfast, then I don’t have the time to answer the doors.”

“Of course. You needn’t answer the door.” That was his excuse for escape. “Where is Mr. Goring?”

“I don’t know vhere that man vent, but he vent in a hurry.”

Bloody hell. Neil knew exactly where Goring had gone.

“You have a guest, yah?” She nodded to Neil and then pointed to the entryway.

Neil pointed to his chest as if to verify it was he who had a guest. When the cook nodded, Neil moved down the corridor and into the entryway and found Jackson suspiciously eyeing one of the buckets collecting rain.

The valet was tall and almost gangly with thinning, black hair that he combed over the bald spot on the top of his head. He had large eyes that reminded Ewan of a puppy’s, along with a bulbous nose. But Jackson was good at his job. He did not dress Neil to within an inch of his life, as Rafe’s valet did Rafe, but he made sure Neil was somewhat fashionable and that his clothing was well-maintained.

Jackson frowned with disapproval when he spotted Neil. “I see I was right to come.”

It had obviously been a mistake to stop at his flat the previous day before visiting the Draven Club. “No, you were not. I didn’t ask you to come here. I asked you to send clothing and toiletries.”

A thud came from upstairs, and Neil realized it had been quiet for too long.

Jackson’s puppy eyes widened with pleading. “Sir, I apologize for my behavior yesterday. I promise it will never happen again.”

Neil moved toward the stairs. “What behavior yesterday?”

Jackson loped after him. “My gross inattention to my duties. Please do not dismiss me, sir.”

Neil paused outside the drawing room at the top of the stairs. “You mean, when I found you napping?”

Jackson’s face turned pink and he hung his head. “It will never happen again. I swear on my mother’s grave.”

Neil held up both hands. “I have no intention of sending you packing.”

Another sound came from above, but this time, it was more of a crash.

“Go back to my flat and sleep all you want.” Neil raced up the next set of stairs. “This torture can’t last much longer.”

“I cannot do that, sir,” Jackson said, racing after him. “I have come to prove my indispensability.”

Neil heard the shouts and the thumps from behind the closed door of the older boys’ dormitory. Chester and James stood in the doorway of the younger boys’ chamber, eyes wide with concern.

“What is this about?” Neil gestured to the closed door.

Chester shook his head. James just stared, wide-eyed.

Neil lifted the latch, but the door didn’t budge. The boys must have put something against the door to prevent entrance. He tried shoving it open with his shoulder but made little progress. “Open up!” He pounded on the door. “Open up or I’ll send all of you to a workhouse!”

The ruckus inside continued, and the door stayed closed. Neil pounded on it again.

“If you will excuse me, sir,” Jackson interrupted. “Might I have a try?”

Neil stared at the valet. “Why not?”

Jackson cleared his throat. “The first boy to open the door will receive a shilling to buy a sweet.”

Michael opened the door. “Where’s my shilling?”

Neil pushed past him and into the center of the room where Billy and Robbie were circling each other, fists raised. Robbie’s nose bled freely, flowing over his mouth and down his neck. Billy’s cheek was red and his lip was split, but he was certainly winning the match.

“What the dev…deuce is this about?”

The boys ignored him as Billy struck at Robbie with an impressive left hook. Neil stepped between the boys and pushed them apart. Robbie lowered his arms immediately, but Billy resisted. When he tried to throw a punch at Neil, Neil used the back of his arm to push Billy up against a wall. “You want to think long and hard before you try to punch me again, lad. Hit me and I’ll have you in a workhouse before noon.”

“No, you will not!” came Lady Juliana’s breathless voice. She ran into the room, her cheeks flushed and her eyes wide. “Robbie! Oh no! Billy, do stop.”

The boys moved aside to allow her to enter. She rushed straight to where he held Billy. “Let him go, sir.”

“My lady,” Neil said, “with all due respect, I believe I am better suited to handle this situation.”

“I don’t need your kind of help,” she argued. “How dare you come in here and threaten to take my boys away?”

Neil gaped at her. “This”—he inclined his head toward Billy—“is no boy. He’s practically a man, and he doesn’t need a hug. He needs another man to tell him what is and is not acceptable.”

“I don’t have to listen to you,” Billy muttered.

“Let me talk to him,” Juliana said.

“No. Go tend to Robbie. His nose may be broken.”

She glanced quickly at Robbie, then back to Billy.

“Lady Juliana.” Mrs. Dunwitty stood outside the room, her hand on her heart and her walking stick clutched in a small hand. “Listen to the major. Not only is that other boy injured, but the little boys are scared. They need you far more than that one.”

Juliana looked from Billy to Mrs. Dunwitty to Robbie. Jackson had given Robbie a handkerchief, and the boy had it pressed to his nose. “I will tend to the young master,” Jackson said, “if you want to see to the little ones, my lady.”

“I’ll help with the little ones,” Michael said. “Then can I get my shilling?”

Juliana finally nodded to Mrs. Dunwitty and gave Neil one last look. “We will discuss this later,” she said, then moved toward the youngest of the orphans.

Neil nodded. “Count on it.”