Two

Lady Juliana, only remaining daughter of the Earl St. Maur, could have screamed. She’d had a more abominable morning than usual, and that was saying something.

First, she’d been called away from the Duke of Devonshire’s ball by the appearance of Robbie, one of the orphans from the Sunnybrooke Home for Boys. He’d told her she must come immediately. There was an emergency at the orphanage, and she’d made her excuses and run out, much to her father’s annoyance. It probably hadn’t helped matters that she’d taken the family coach.

Then she’d arrived at the orphanage just as the sun was rising to find that her cook was packing her bags to leave. Julia had known it would happen sooner or later; she’d simply hoped it would be later. Mrs. Nesbit had been complaining for months about the state of the kitchen, claiming she could hardly be expected to work in such conditions. Julia had agreed. The ovens smoked, the roof leaked, and the boys had stolen all the decent knives. Lately, Mrs. Nesbit had also complained the staples she stocked had been steadily disappearing as well—flour, cornmeal, potatoes, and garlic. Julia wondered if perhaps Mrs. Nesbit was cheating her and selling the stock on the sides, but she had no proof and couldn’t afford to lose the cook. She’d begged Mrs. Nesbit to give her more time to ask the orphanage’s board for money and make the repairs.

She’d thought she’d succeeded at persuading the woman, until, of course, the boys had thought it amusing to loose three tame rats in the kitchen as Mrs. Nesbit prepared breakfast. When Charlie had shown her the rats again, just to prove they were harmless, the poor cook had shrieked loud enough to wake the dead—or at least the dead tired, as Juliana thought of herself—and resigned effective immediately.

Which meant Julia had to cook the boys breakfast. One could not simply allow a dozen boys to go hungry, and she did not have the funds to buy them all pies from the hawkers’ carts. Not when each boy ate as much as a horse.

And so, Julia had calmly collected the rats, placed them back in their straw-lined box with a bit of bread for their breakfast, and, in her jewels and dancing slippers, heated oats in a large pot she could barely move. She tried not to feel sorry for herself. Even as she rolled and kneaded bread until her arms ached, she pushed memories of walks in the promenade and ices at Gunter’s Tea Shop aside. And when her once-lovely copper-colored ball gown was covered in flour and sticky pieces of dough, Juliana did not allow her thoughts to stray to all the lovely balls where she had worn the gown and danced with countless handsome and charming gentlemen.

Or at least she didn’t allow her thoughts to stray much.

But no sooner had she placed the bread in the oven than Mr. Goring, her manservant, had knocked on the open door and informed her Mr. Slag was waiting for her in the parlor.

Julia had stared at the servant as though the man had gone mad. Sticky, white hands on her hips, she’d glowered at Mr. Goring until he’d lowered his eyes. “Why on earth did you seat Mr. Slag in the parlor?” She also wanted to ask where he had been when the boys he was supposed to be watching in her absence were foisting rats on the cook, but she couldn’t afford to lose Mr. Goring too.

“There ain’t nowhere else except the dining room, and the lads is in there making a racket about wantin’ their vittles.”

Julia had heard and ignored the noise. If the boys had wanted to be fed in good time, they shouldn’t have taunted the cook with the rats. “What I meant, Mr. Goring,” she clarified, though she knew he’d understood her perfectly, “is why did you admit Mr. Slag? I told you never to admit him. Not under any circumstances.”

Goring scratched the sparse hair at the crown of his forehead. “Did you want me to close the door on him?”

“No.” She spoke slowly and deliberately, as she often spoke to Charlie, who was four. “I wanted you to say what I told you to say.”

“But, my lady, you are home.”

“Not to him!” Defeated, she removed the apron that was supposed to protect her ball gown and tossed it on the worktable. She’d deal with Mr. Slag, then serve breakfast. Before leaving the kitchen, she closed the box with Matthew, Mark, and Luke and perched it under one arm. She did not want to risk the rodents escaping into the kitchen and causing more mayhem.

With a last look of annoyance at Goring, she marched toward the parlor, passing the dining room as she did so. She studiously avoided turning her head to look in. The boys were stomping their feet on the floor and banging their plates on the table. They needed a lecture, and she had no time at present to give it.

She wanted to be angry at Mr. Goring for admitting Slag, but she supposed Goring was as frightened of Mr. Slag as everyone else in Spitalfields. The crime lord ran the rookery, and his methods for dealing with those who displeased him were rather…harsh.

Julia was frightened of him as well, but she was able to mask her fear better than most. After all, she’d met other imposing figures—the King, the Queen, Wellington, and Brummell, to name a few. If she hadn’t flinched when Brummell had scrutinized her dress with his quizzing glass, she would not flinch when confronted by Mr. Slag. And truth be told, until recently, he’d been no more than a minor irritation. But as she’d been forced to spend more time at the orphanage and less at her father’s home in Mayfair, Mr. Slag had been harder to push to the back of her mind.

She opened the door to the parlor, and Slag rose immediately. He was a robust man and not very tall, only a few inches taller than she. He had mentioned on several occasions that he had been reared in a foundling house. She knew how cruel and heartless such institutions could be, which was one reason she was here and trying to improve the lives of the orphans under her care. But Joseph Slag had obviously found no such protector. He might have been a handsome man if not for the ravages of his brutal youth. His crooked nose, the deep lines around his eyes and mouth, and his cold, hard eyes were testament to the harsh life he’d led. Even dressed in fine linen and well-tailored clothing, he wore his low station like a permanent mantle. Joseph Slag was known to always carry an ebony walking stick with a golden handle in the image of a flame. The rumor was that he’d beaten more than one man to death with the stick.

Julia glanced at the stick now, leaning against the armchair Slag had occupied, and tried not to shudder. She pasted on a bright smile. “Mr. Slag, how lovely to see you this morning.” She set the box of rats on the table just inside the room and curtsied prettily. Her mother would have been proud.

Slag bowed with some style of his own. “Lady Juliana, how kind of you to take time from your busy morning to see me.”

He hadn’t given her much choice, but she merely smiled and took the seat across from the one he’d occupied. “I’m afraid I am not at leisure to chat this morning, sir. My cook has given her notice, and as you no doubt can hear, I have hungry boys to feed.”

“Ah. No wonder you look”—his eyes traveled down her dress, lingering a bit too long on her breasts, all but on display in the ball gown—“out of sorts. May I be of some assistance?”

“Do you cook?” she asked.

He gave her a look of appalled shock.

“Then I’m afraid not.”

“What I meant, my lady, is that maybe I could find you a new cook. I’m well connected, I am. Maybe I’ll hire a maid for you too.” He didn’t look at the dust covering the table near him, but Julia knew he’d seen it nevertheless.

“I thank you kindly, Mr. Slag, but I have a maid”—though she only came once a week—“and I already have another cook in mind.” This was a blatant lie, but she knew that without a doubt it would be a mistake to put herself in Mr. Slag’s debt. She’d made that mistake once before, and she would not repeat it.

“Then maybe I could make a donation to the orphanage. I know what hardships these boys face.”

Julia raised her hand. “That is far too generous of you, Mr. Slag. I couldn’t possibly accept any more of your charity.”

He moved closer. “Then maybe you’ve given some consideration to my other proposal?”

The other proposal.

The proposal of… It hadn’t exactly been marriage. Lord, she’d hoped he had forgotten about that. When he’d propositioned her last week, she’d pretended she hadn’t understood what he meant.

Perhaps that tactic would work again. “I cannot recall another proposal at the moment, Mr. Slag, but I am ever so distressed this morning.” She rose. “If you could call another time—”

His hand came down hard on her shoulder, and she flinched from the feel of his leather gloves on her bare skin. “Allow me to remind you, Lady Juliana. I offered you my protection.”

“Thank you very much.” She slid out of his grip. “Now, if you will excuse—”

“Stop playing games. I am a man of business, and you are not a stupid woman. There are dangerous men about, and you and the children who live here need a protector.”

Julia didn’t need to translate his words. He was the dangerous man.

“I am offering you my protection for a small fee.”

Small fee? “I do believe you mentioned one thousand pounds, Mr. Slag. That is no small fee.”

“Your father is an earl.”

“Yes, and most of his money is tied up in lands.”

“There is another option.” He moved closer, his round belly brushing against her dress. “You can pay the fee by offering me a place in your bed. You’re an attractive woman.” His gaze slid to her breasts, making her skin itch. “And even the gentry like a bit of slap and tickle. What do you say, Julia?”

Though abhorrent to her, he made the proposal in earnest. He probably thought it more than fair, and if she had been another woman, she might have agreed without blinking an eye. Her father had tried to marry her off to men ranging from elderly to lecherous. What did Slag propose but a similar arrangement without the permanence of the vows?

But Julia had not come to Spitalfields to end up some man’s plaything. She could have stayed home in Mayfair and become a kept woman. Which meant her answer to Slag was an unqualified Never. No! Not ever.

But one did not say such things to Mr. Slag and walk away with one’s brains intact. Julia liked her head round, not smashed flat on the carpet. And so she smiled and chose one of the many phrases she knew and had used in the past on the sons of dukes and viscounts and lowly barons. “Sir, you flatter me with your proposal, but this is all so sudden.”

“Then maybe you just need a bit of persuading.” He reached for her, and she took a step back. Dear God. She dearly hoped this would not turn into him chasing her about the parlor. And why hadn’t she seen this coming? The problem was that she spent only part of the week within the walls of the St. Dismas Home for Wayward Youth—er, rather Sunnybrooke Home for Boys, as she had renamed it. And during that time, she was so absorbed with the problems of the boys and running the orphanage, she had no time to consider how to deal with Mr. Slag. And when she might have snatched a moment to deal with the problem, she had to return to Mayfair to be thrust into the world of the ton, and then Slag and Sunnybrooke seemed so far away.

But Slag was not far away now. He was far too near and her strategy of ignoring him and hoping he’d go away would not work this time.

She took another step back, and he followed, but she was saved from running behind her desk when someone tapped on the parlor door.

“Come in!” she yelled. “Please!”

The door opened to reveal Mr. Goring.

“Sorry to interrupt, my lady.”

“Not at all, Mr. Goring. Come in.” She crossed to him and pulled him inside. “You should join us.”

He frowned at her as though the ways of the upper classes were foreign and mysterious to him. “You have another caller, my lady.”

Julia frowned. Another caller? Who on earth would be calling on her here? Her friends had been forbidden to visit her here, and her father did not rise from his bed this early, and when she did see him, he preferred she go to him at their town house in Mayfair. It occurred to her that this caller might be one of Slag’s men. In which case, she would be in worse straits than at present. “Do you know the caller?”

“No, my lady. He says it’s a matter of—what was the word?—urgency.”

He? Then the thought struck her. It was a representative from the bank. Perhaps the board had made good on its threat not to pay the mortgage and the bank had come to close her down.

“Tell him to come back later,” Slag ordered.

“No!” Bank representative or no, whoever it was would be an improvement on Slag. “Show him in, Mr. Goring.”

Goring looked from her to Slag.

“Go on, Mr. Goring,” she said as forcefully as she could. “Show him in.”

“Maybe I should come back at a more opportune time,” Slag said.

“Please do, Mr. Slag. I am so sorry we were interrupted.”

“May I call on you tonight?”

“Tonight? No. I’m very, very busy tonight.”

He lifted his stick, then crossed to her and took her hand. At some point during their little dance, he’d removed his gloves, and as she’d removed hers in the kitchen, the press of his bare fingers on hers made her throat tighten.

“You can’t put me off forever, Lady Juliana,” he said softly. “Lest you forget, I’m a man who gets what I want. And the longer you make me wait, the more I want.”

With that, he strolled out of the room, jostling the man entering. The two stopped, looked each other up and down, and then with a warning glare, Slag went on his way.

The other man watched him, then strode into the room. “Friend of yours?” he asked.

Julia let out a breath, then caught it again. She blinked at the man before her, but she had not dreamed him. He was better than any dream her mind might have conjured. It was as though he had just stepped out of a painting depicting a god or an angel. He was tall but not so tall she had to crane her neck to look up at him, and he had olive skin with a touch of gold. His thickly lashed eyes were the most beautiful shade of blue she had ever seen. She had never been to the Mediterranean Sea, but this was what she imagined the waters would look like. His hair brushed his collar, the thick waves falling about his face. With a cupped hand, he brushed them back in what must have been a habitual gesture, then, seeming to remember his manners, bowed to her.

His bow and the attention it drew to his clothing told her everything she needed to know. This man was no crime lord. He was of her father’s ilk. Her ilk, when she was playing the part of Lady Juliana in Mayfair drawing rooms. His dark coat fit snugly over broad shoulders, his cravat was snowy white against bronze skin, and his breeches strained quite nicely over muscled thighs…

She tried to speak over the pounding of her heart. “You will forgive me, sir, if I do not recall having met you before.” She hadn’t met him. If she’d met him, she would not have forgotten.

“My lady,” he said in a deep voice, “it is you who must forgive me.” He had a cultured British accent with no hint of the Spanish or Italian that must run in his blood. “I’m sorry to call on you without notice. I do, however, have letters of introduction from your father and mine.” He reached in the pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew a small packet of papers. He handed them over smoothly, his hand gloved hand brushing hers. Her heart thudded again, and she looked up at his face. He was perfect, so handsome that he did not seem real. If he’d asked her to dance a waltz, she’d have said yes and suffered her father’s displeasure. What she wouldn’t give to press against his strong, muscled body.

The man cleared his throat and raised his brows. Julia realized she had been staring too long and hadn’t offered him a seat.

“Where are my manners?” she said, keeping her eyes down. He must think her a complete ninny. And she was! If she looked at him again, she’d probably start drooling. “Please sit. I should offer you tea, but my cook just—” Quite suddenly she remembered the bread and the oatmeal.

“Oh dear God.” Dropping the letters, she hurried toward the door. Why hadn’t she smelled the smoke earlier? Her bread was burning!

Unfortunately, her guest blocked the door, and she swerved to the side to avoid colliding with his shoulder. That sudden motion brought her hip in contact with the table near the door, which held the box of rats. She’d placed it precariously close to the edge—that was her fault—and at the collision, it tumbled toward the floor. Uttering a shriek, she bent and caught the box, but one of the rats—Mark, she thought—managed to catch his little paws on the edge and began to climb out. Julia shoved the box under her arm, caught the little creature before he could escape, tucked him in the small silk pocket tied under her gown, and raced for the kitchen.

Behind her, the visitor muttered, “What the hell?”

Julia didn’t have time for explanations. She spotted Robbie’s concerned face peering out of the dining room. At eleven, he was one of the older orphans and had stick-straight, brown hair framing a long, amply freckled face. The children’s din had quieted now, as they had probably smelled the smoke as well and realized their breakfast was in jeopardy.

“My lady! I smelled—” Robbie began.

She raised a hand. “I am on my way, Robbie.”

She burst through the door to the kitchen. Smoke filled the area near the oven, its acrid smell making her nostrils burn. She placed the box of rodents on a chair near the worktable and grabbed the first towel her hand landed on, a thin one for dish drying. Wrapping her hand, she used the towel to open the oven door. More black smoke poured out. Waving the towel to disperse the smoke and coughing so hard her lungs burned, Julia reached in and took hold of the bread. As soon as she had it free of the oven, she realized the towel was scant protection from the heat of the charred bread.

“Ow!” She tossed the bread in the air, catching it again so it would not land on the floor, just in case it was salvageable. She quickly dumped it on the worktable and frowned at the charred loaf.

“May I be of some assistance?” her too-handsome guest asked, stepping gingerly into the kitchen.

Julia refrained from moaning. She had no time to mourn the loss of the bread. She might still save the oats. A quick glance at the hearth showed the oats bubbling over the big black pot. Mindful of her raw hand, she took a moment to locate the thick, quilted mitten, slip it on her hand, and pull the pot away from the fire. She lifted the large spoon hanging nearby and stirred the oatmeal. The top layer of mush ceased bubbling onto the floor, but the oats at the bottom stuck fast to the pot. Breakfast had been burned.

Tears stung her eyes.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” the visitor asked from the door.

She heaved out a sigh. “Not unless you can repair burnt oatmeal or bake bread.”

“I confess I have no talent in either arena. Was that the children’s breakfast?” Abruptly, the man took a step back. “Uh, I don’t mean to alarm you, but you have a mouse in your pocket.”

She looked down to where Mark’s head poked out. “It’s a rat,” she said. Think, Juliana. There must be something else you can prepare.

If only she had restocked the larder, but the shelves were all but bare.

“My mistake.”

Mark had wriggled to the edge of her pocket, and she caught him before he could make a bid for freedom. There had to be more oats, and she knew there were potatoes. Potatoes took so long to cook, though…

“Here.” She held the rat out to her visitor absently. He took a large step back, his gaze telling her exactly how daft he thought her.

“Will you hold him for a moment?” she asked in exasperation. “I need to search for something to cook.”

“No, I will not.”

“Oh, don’t be missish. He’s harmless.”

“Missish?” His blue eyes narrowed.

She shoved Mark into the visitor’s hands. The visitor made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a curse, but he held the animal securely while she searched cabinets and shelves.

“If that was breakfast,” the visitor said, “perhaps you could have the cook start on the noon meal. It’s nigh eleven.”

“I don’t have a cook,” she said, the feeling of hopelessness growing as she found nothing but empty drawers and bins. “She quit this morning.”

Silence.

“Then perhaps your lady’s maid—”

“She quit last week.”

“Your manservant then. Allow me to send the man to fetch bread or pies from one of the street vendors.”

She rose, wishing she could disappear, just for an hour, back to her Mayfair life, with its scones and drinking chocolate. “I would,” she said with a sigh, “but I don’t have the coin to spare.”

“Then allow me.”

She whirled to face him. “I cannot do that, sir.”

“I would gladly pay the price if it meant I could relinquish my role as rat holder.”

She almost laughed. “I do apologize.” She took Mark from him and placed him in the box that served as the rats’ cage. “My manners are sorely lacking this morning.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” His gaze met hers, and she found it hard to breathe with those Mediterranean Sea eyes so focused on her. Had she ever known a man this handsome? She didn’t think so, and she had known many handsome men. She’d had her share of Seasons and beaux over the years. She realized she’d once again stared at him too long when he lifted a brow.

“How many more of those are you wearing?” he asked with a nod at the box of rats.

“Just the one. There are three in total.” She lifted the box so he could see, but he didn’t even lean forward to catch a glimpse. “Their names are Matthew, Mark, and Luke,” she said, knowing she was babbling now and wishing she would simply shut up.

“What happened to John?”

“We don’t discuss John.”

His eyes almost smiled at her then, though his mouth remained tight. “I understand. Give me a quarter hour, and I’ll return with warm food.”

“Really, Mr…sir. I cannot allow you to do that.”

“Lady Juliana,” he said, already starting for the door. “You cannot stop me.” He paused and looked back at her. “And you look like you need all the help you can muster.”

With that, he was gone. She sank into the chair and would have cried, except that she did need help and just the knowledge this man would take care of breakfast was one small weight off her shoulders. But that weight was quickly replaced by a glance at the state of the kitchen. It was in shambles, and without the cook here, she would be the one to clean it.

“My lady?” Robbie stood in the doorway.

“Yes, Robbie?”

“Who was that man?”

“I…” Good question. She’d never had a chance to look at the letters of introduction. “I don’t know yet, but he’s gone to fetch you and the other boys something to eat.”

A roar sounded from the hallway, and she realized the other boys must have been standing behind Robbie.

“Before he comes back, will you please take your pets up to your room? They’ve caused enough trouble for one day.”

Robbie looked chastened. Almost. “Sorry, my lady.”

“I’m sure you are.” The boys were always sorry after they’d done something wrong. For the life of her, she could not seem to teach them to think of the consequences before they acted.

Robbie took the box and, with a quick smile she could not quite resist, ran off. The other boys followed, all but James, who was about five and as blond as a Dutchman. “Is the man coming back?” James asked in his sweet, high voice.

“I should think so,” she answered, tousling his pale hair affectionately. “And he’ll bring your breakfast with him. Are you hungry?”

“Yes, my lady!” He nodded vigorously. “Will you fix yourself before he returns, my lady?”

Julia raised her brows. “Fix myself?”

“Aye, my lady. You look a fright, and we’ll never find a father if you scare all the good ones away.”

Julia opened her mouth to reply, but she was saved from saying who knew what when James scampered away. She stared after him, her eyes burning for another reason. In the few weeks she’d been here, some of the younger boys had become quite affectionate with her, even mistakenly calling her Mama. Most of the time it was when they were sleepy or needed comfort from a scrape or tumble. She had thought it an innocent mistake, but was it? Had the boys begun to think of her as their mother, and were they, as James suggested, looking for her to find them a father?

She would happily mother them all as much as she could, but she had seen all of marriage and fathers she could ever want. And yet clearly a house full of boys needed a man to look up to. She didn’t even have a cook at present. Where would she find a man to guide a dozen orphans? How did one even advertise for a position like that?

Remembering James had said she looked a fright, she lifted one of the trays on the worktable. It was scratched and tarnished, but she could see well enough. Flour streaked her face and her coiffure was askew. She did look a fright. Normally, she wouldn’t have cared a whit, but normally she didn’t meet handsome strangers. Not that he had come to court her or any such foolishness. No, if her father had sent him, she had to consider him an enemy.

Still, she supposed it would not hurt to put her appearance to rights. And she would have done so if she hadn’t heard the yell and the crash and had to run up three flights of stairs, yelling, “What have you done now?”