Five

When he stepped out of the orphanage, Neil felt as though he could breathe again. The tightness in his chest finally lessened, and by the time he’d hailed the hackney and was away from Spitalfields, his shoulders had relaxed and his head ceased throbbing.

He didn’t need to go to King Street in St. James to post the letters for Lady Juliana. He could have done it in Spitalfields, but he wanted to go to his club. He needed one hour there, just to remind him who he was. The orphans were not as bad as he’d first thought. It was fortunate none were older than eleven, or Lady Juliana would never have been able to manage them. As it was, she would need to watch Walter and Billy closely. Living in the midst of a rookery meant there were always gangs looking for cubs to train as thieves. Small hands were nimble hands, and the young were given lenient prison sentences and could be back to work within months.

Neil had told himself his work at St. Dismas Home for Wayward Youth was temporary. He had his orders—persuade Lady Juliana to return home. It hadn’t taken a quarter hour for him to ascertain she would not be easy to persuade and that the situation was worse than he’d anticipated. She wasn’t safe in the least, and as far as her well-being… Well, the rats with biblical names spoke for themselves. So he’d done what he always did when he assumed command: he handled the crises as they came. He’d fed the children and then handed them off so he could do the real work of identifying the threats to safety. But every time he thought he had the boys taken care of, they landed back in his hands.

And so he’d gritted his teeth and did what was required. He’d told himself he’d been assigned worse tasks than supervising a dozen orphans. He’d had to set up camp in Russia in the middle of winter, he’d had to order men to complete missions he knew were suicide, and he’d had to inform mothers and fathers that the sons they’d lovingly rocked in their arms as infants were dead.

Making tea and toast with orphans was—pardon the pun—child’s play. Except it wasn’t. Because every single time he looked into those boys’ faces he saw himself. No, he hadn’t been raised in an orphanage, but he was Robbie and Jimmy and Chester all the same. His mother had died in childbirth. His father had claimed him, but even that acceptance couldn’t wipe away the shame of his birth. He was a bastard, and every look, every word exchanged, every moment spent with the orphans was a harsh reminder of his bastardy.

When the hackney stopped in front of the Draven Club, Neil almost sagged with relief. Here no one cared he was a bastard. Here he could forget that he was an outcast and that his own father didn’t quite know what to do with him, and that father’s wife would gladly have traded Neil’s life for that of her beloved son Christopher.

There were days Neil would have traded himself for Chris too.

The Draven Club was a haven from the circumstances of his birth, and it was the one place he could go to remember the men he’d lost. Ewan and Rafe and he could reminisce about their fallen comrades and, in that small way, keep the men’s spirits alive. It was the least Neil could do, considering he’d killed them. All eighteen of those lives were on his conscience.

He paid the hackney driver and walked briskly to the door of the club. Porter opened it as though he’d been expecting Neil at precisely this moment. “Hello, Porter.”

“Mr. Wraxall, a pleasure to see you, sir.”

Neil handed the Master of the House the two letters from Lady Juliana. “Would you post these for me, Porter?”

“Certainly, sir.” He tucked the letters into a pocket and took Neil’s greatcoat and hat. “Do you want dinner?”

It was still a bit early for dinner, and Neil wasn’t hungry. The churning of his stomach from the reminders of his bastardy that had been thrown in his face all day had dampened his appetite. But he had promised Lady Juliana to deal with dinner for the children.

“I wonder if you could help me on that point, Porter,” Neil said.

“Of course, Mr. Wraxall.”

Neil explained his needs, and Porter assured him it would be nothing for the cook to make another pot of stew and bake several more loaves of bread. The bounty would be ready in an hour, and Neil must take the club’s carriage in order to convey the meal to the orphans and their mistress.

Neil made a note to mention increasing both Porter and the cook’s salary when Draven’s men next met to discuss club business. He’d also ask about the aforementioned conveyance. Why hadn’t he known the club had a carriage and a coachman?

“Is anyone here at this hour, Porter?” Neil asked.

“Mr. Beaumont is in the Billiards Room, sir.”

Neil nodded. No doubt Rafe was hiding from some woman who hoped to sink her claws in him for a night or two. Most men would have been happy to have Rafe’s problems with women. Even Rafe had been happy to find himself a magnet to the female sex, until he’d realized that his love affairs often created more trouble than they were worth.

Neil ascended the stairs and leaned against the door, watching Rafe study the billiards table and position his cue, then, taking aim, knock two balls into the pocket.

“Nice shot,” Neil commented.

Rafe turned smoothly. Neil had no idea if his presence had surprised Rafe. The man had a way of appearing smooth and unruffled no matter the situation. “I wondered when you would show your face.”

“Tired of looking at your own?” Neil entered the room and stood at the other end of the table. He wasn’t interested in billiards, but he liked to watch a man with skill, like Rafe, sink the balls.

“Who could tire of looking at my face?” Rafe asked, lining up another shot.

“I could name any number of husbands.”

“I don’t dally with married women,” Rafe said. He hit the white ball, but his aim was off and it went wild, bouncing off the sides of the table.

Neil laughed. “Since when?”

“It has always been my policy.” Rafe chalked the end of the leather cue tip. “I cannot be held responsible if some of those wives are extremely persuasive.”

“No, I’m sure you can’t.”

“We could talk about me all day.” Rafe lined up another shot.

“We usually do,” Neil muttered.

“Where have you been? I thought your father had business for you and imagined you’d be riding to Hampshire or Dorset to oversee some agricultural fiasco.”

“The business was actually closer to home.”

“Oh?” Rafe took his shot.

“Spitalfields.”

Rafe looked up sharply, ignoring the thunk of the white ball into the pocket. “What was that?”

“You heard me.”

“There’s no agriculture in Spitalfields.”

“Not unless you count the growing of thieves and the multiplying of stolen wipes in shop windows.”

Rafe studied the table again.

“I’ve been at the St. Dismas Home for Wayward Youth.”

The table was forgotten, and Rafe stared at Neil with something like horror on his face. “Why? Did your father discover another offspring?”

“No. I think he learned his lesson after me. Not to mention Lady Kensington would probably castrate him if he showed up at her door with another bastard.”

“Then… But you couldn’t possibly have one there.” The sentence was a statement. Still, Rafe gave Neil a questioning look.

Neil shook his head. “My feelings on that score haven’t changed. None of the boys are mine.”

“Then you are still…” Rafe gestured vaguely.

“A virgin? Yes, though with my experience I think one could hardly call me that.”

“And yet I do enjoy it. Our Virgin Warrior.”

Neil ignored the jibe. He was not so easy to bait. The men of Draven’s troop had always called him the Warrior. It was only Rafe and a few other brave ones who dared add Virgin before it.

“And if you weren’t searching for lost offspring, what were you doing at an orphanage?”

“Lord St. Maur’s daughter has made the place her pet project.”

Rafe blew out a breath. “Women and their charities.” He rounded the table and began to collect the balls from the pockets. “I suppose your father asked you to make her see the error of her ways.”

“Exactly. The situation is worse than I thought. She has no cook, no teacher, and her manservant is not to be found. Not to mention the place is about as invincible as the ladies in a Parisian brothel. If she will not return home, I may be forced to spend the night.”

Rafe dropped the red ball with a heavy thud. “Then St. Maur’s daughter is as beautiful as I’ve been told.”

“What has that to do with it? Whether or not she’s pretty, she must be protected.”

A slow smile crossed turned Rafe’s mouth upward. “So she is pretty.”

“Who is pretty?” asked another voice. Neil glanced at the door and saw Jasper standing in it. He was removing the length of black silk that covered his hair and the half mask he wore when outside to conceal the scarred skin on his cheek. He dropped it in his coat pocket and rubbed his face, which was rather pink from the heat of the silk against his skin.

“No one,” Neil said at the same time Rafe said, “St. Maur’s daughter.”

“Why do we care about St. Maur’s daughter?”

“Neil cares,” Rafe said, repositioning the balls for the opening shot.

“No, I don’t. I am only following orders.”

Both Jasper and Rafe groaned. Neil couldn’t blame them. He’d said that phrase so often during their time on the Continent that even he’d wanted to groan when he said it.

“If I have to hear about orders,” Jasper said, “I need a drink.”

“No drinks.” Neil spotted Porter entering with a decanter of amber liquid and waved him away. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Of course,” Jasper answered automatically. It never failed to amaze Neil that these men who had barely survived the war would risk their lives if Neil asked. He hadn’t even had to give them orders. He’d done that initially, but after surviving a mission or two, the men formed a bond that went far beyond that of superior and subordinate. These men were his brothers. They’d saved his life and he theirs. They’d suffered victory and defeat together. They’d lost eighteen of their brothers, and they were the only men alive who knew what the last moments of those who’d been lost were like.

They were the only men alive who had gone to hell and come back again because the missions Draven had been taxed to give the troop dubbed the Survivors were not missions the men were expected to return from. Only men who had special skills, who were younger sons, and who had no dependents were chosen. Only men who answered no to Draven’s infamous question were accepted.

Are you afraid to die?

Neil had answered no when he’d been asked shortly after Christopher’s death. He’d wanted to die at the time, would have welcomed death to shut out the pain he’d felt. Maybe that was why Draven had chosen him as the group’s leader. He was a warrior, a man who lived for nothing but combat.

He’d certainly had his share of war, and he’d managed to beat the odds and come home. He didn’t want to fight anymore. And that was part of the problem. If he wasn’t the Warrior any longer, who was he?

“I suppose you need me to play Runner,” Jasper said when Neil didn’t elaborate immediately. Jasper was the best tracker and scout among Draven’s men. In fact, he was the best Neil had ever known. Now that he was in London again, Jasper often took work as a bounty hunter or assisted the Bow Street Runners. Despite what would have seemed a very conspicuous mask, Lord Jasper could slide in and out of places without ever being seen, and that was how Jasper liked it. The wicked scar of burned flesh on his face made him self-conscious everywhere but in the Draven Club.

Before the ambush where he’d been burned, Jasper, one of the higher-ranking men in the troop, had often attended social functions and was quite popular with the ladies. Now, he was never seen in public, and Neil suspected Jasper kept his distance from women too. He would have liked to tell his friend the scar was not as monstrous as Jasper seemed to think, but when he’d tried, Jasper argued that was because Neil was used to it.

“There’s a man named Goring,” Neil said. “He’s employed as the manservant for St. Dismas Home for Wayward Youth, but he’s a frequent deserter. Assuming he returns for dinner, I want you to watch him tomorrow and tell me where he goes and what he does. If he doesn’t return, find him and report back.”

Jasper shrugged. “Call Porter back with the brandy. I can finish this racket in my sleep. In fact, I don’t even have to look for him to tell you where he is.”

Rafe placed the cue balls on the baulk line for the lag. “Are you playing?” he asked Neil.

“No.”

“Jasper?”

“Sure.”

Rafe handed Jasper a cue.

“Where is he?” Neil asked Jasper.

“One of two places: drinking in a gin shop”—he watched as Rafe took aim—“or in bed with a woman. Probably a brunette with tits like…” Rafe looked over and his cue scratched the table. Jasper smiled and held his hand out. “Like billiard balls.”

“Arse,” Rafe muttered.

Jasper blinked innocently. “What? Do you like buxom brunettes?”

Neil rolled his eyes. Rafe liked every shape, size, and flavor of woman, but he had a weakness for dark-haired ladies with ample charms.

“Those are the logical choices,” Neil said, watching Jasper circle the table.

“Then why do you need me?”

“Because despite that fact that St. Maur’s daughter seems to have gone temporarily daft, risking her reputation and her safety to run an orphanage, she doesn’t strike me as a lackwit. If Goring disappeared like this every day, she would have discharged him by now.”

“So what changed?” Rafe asked, scowling as Jasper considered his next move.

“I don’t know, but I’ll know more when Jasper tells me where Goring has been all day and where he goes tomorrow.”

Jasper lowered the cue. “Oh, now I have to find out not only where he goes, but where he’s been?”

“Too difficult?”

“Nice try.” Jasper was the least likely of his men to fall prey to goading, but Neil knew the man was proud of his skills and probably wouldn’t hesitate at the chance to show them off.

“Mr. Wraxall,” Porter said, leaning into the room. “The cook has your dinner ready. Would you like it loaded into the conveyance now, or would you prefer to keep it warm a little longer?”

Neil checked his pocket watch. It was growing late, and he had a dozen hungry boys waiting for him. “Now, Porter. Tell John Coachman I’ll be there in a moment.”

“Very good, sir.” Porter nodded and was gone.

“What conveyance is this? Did you buy a coach?” Rafe asked. Then, “Hell’s teeth, Grantham, will you take the shot already?”

Jasper ignored him.

“It’s the club’s carriage,” Neil answered.

“The club has a carriage?” Rafe looked as surprised as Neil had been earlier. “Why didn’t I know that? I could have been using it for nefarious purposes all this time.”

“That’s probably why you didn’t know,” Jasper answered.

“I didn’t know either.” Neil turned to Jasper. “But you did?”

“Of course.” He leaned down and took a shot, striking Rafe’s cue ball, then the red ball for a cannon.

Rafe groaned.

“I’m paid to know these sorts of things.”

That was what Neil counted on.

* * *

Julia finally tucked the last of the younger boys into bed, said prayers with them, and blew out the lamps. Carrying her lamp, she checked once more on the older boys. They were all in bed, but Robbie lay with his hands folded under his head, staring at the ceiling. He glanced at her when she peered in. “Is everyone in bed?” she whispered.

“Yes, my lady.”

“And where are Matthew, Mark, and Luke?”

“In their cage, my lady. Charlie tried to convince us to let him sleep with them, but we told him you’d object.”

“He does love those rats.” Charlie could spend hours petting the creatures and giving them morsels of food. “Thank you. Good night, Robbie.”

“Night.”

She closed the door and paused at the top of the steps. She would have to go down to the parlor to speak to Mr. Wraxall, and she wanted to put that off as long as possible. The old Julia would have looked forward to spending time with such a handsome man. The old Julia would have flirted with him. The old Julia would have suffered apoplexy at the thought of sleeping with rats. Now, she only forbid it because she feared Charlie might roll over in his sleep and crush the little animals. Rats were actually cleaner and more companionable than she had known.

That was only one of the things the new Julia knew that the old Julia couldn’t have fathomed.

She started down the steps, telling herself speaking with Mr. Wraxall was no hardship. He was quite pleasant to look upon and he had good manners, when he wasn’t ordering everyone about. He was thoughtful as well. He’d provided two meals for the boys today. In fact, dinner had been absolutely delicious. She couldn’t remember when she’d had such a tasty meal. But when she’d asked if the cook was looking for hire, he merely smiled and shook his head.

After dinner, he’d managed to organize the boys into washing, drying, and stacking teams. The dishes were clean and put away in far less time than ever before. He had a way of getting people to do what he wanted. He had a way of convincing her to do what he wanted. Look at what he’d done today. She’d planned to post the letters she’d written herself as soon as Goring returned, but Wraxall had held out his hand and she’d given them over without so much as a peep of protest.

How did she know he’d really posted the letters? It was no secret her father wanted her to give up the orphanage and come home. If she didn’t have a cook or a teacher for the children, then her father might go to the board and persuade them to remove funding if she did not accede to his wishes. Wraxall was only her father’s latest method to convince her she should return to Mayfair.

Well, Wraxall would have to return to her father in defeat. These boys needed her, and she would not abandon them. She would be the person to show them that there were good people, reliable people, in the world. She would be the person they could trust and count on.

She reached the parlor, and as the door was cracked, she spotted Wraxall inside. He sat at her desk…looking through her ledger book. Of all the nerve!

She shoved the door open. “What do you think you are doing, sir?”

He barely raised his eyes. “Looking through your accounts. Exactly how much of your own money have you contributed to the upkeep of St. Dismas?”

“It’s Sunnybrooke Home for Boys. I renamed it.”

He gave her a perplexed look. “Sunnybrooke?”

“I’ve asked Goring to repaint the sign.”

“Ah, that will cost more blunt. How much have you contributed again?”

“That’s none of your business.”

He glanced at the ledger. “Looks to be fifty pounds or more.”

“And?” She crossed to the desk and snatched the ledger away, slamming it shut. “It’s my coin.”

He studied her for a moment with those eyes that were far too pretty to belong to a man. “Pin money?” he asked. It was a logical assumption, as a woman of her station wouldn’t have any other means of income. “If you can spare fifty pounds, how much pin money does your father give you each month?”

“Not so much, but I preferred to save mine rather than spend it. I never needed for anything anyway.”

Neither had Harriett, but she had spent hers every month regardless.

He stood, and she realized the room suddenly felt smaller. She moved to the corner of the desk, trying to make room for him. Trying to put distance between them. Then she looked down at her hands where they clutched the ledger. If she didn’t look away, she’d end up staring at him like an infatuated schoolgirl.

“If you won’t return home, I will have to sleep here tonight,” he said.

“What?” Her gaze met his, and she forgot to be infatuated. “No, sir, you will most certainly not!”

“Yes, I will. My orders were to see you were safe and well.”

“And I am both.”

“You are not safe. I’ve done more inspecting while you were putting the boys to bed, and few of the windows and neither of the doors in this building are secure. Anyone could enter during the night and steal, commit murder, or attack you.”

Her cheeks heated because she knew by attack he meant rape. “I understand your concerns, Mr. Wraxall. I have my own concerns, which is why I employ Mr. Goring. As you saw at dinner, he has returned. I will lock my bedchamber door, as I do every night, and rely on Mr. Goring to keep us safe, as he has every night.”

“At least your bedchamber door has a solid lock.”

“You checked my bedchamber?” Her skin prickled with heat.

“I like to be thorough. And if your cheeks are pink because you left that scrap of lace on the floor, I assure you I was thinking only of my orders.” But his smile said otherwise.

He had seen her undergarments! Her cheeks were not simply pink but burning hot. “You, sir, are impertinent.”

He laughed. He actually laughed!

“I’ve been called far worse. I would rather be impertinent and see you safe than reverent and see you come to harm.”

She crossed her arms. “Lovely sentiments, but you cannot stay under my roof. We have no chaperone. I know it may seem to you that I am throwing my reputation to the wind, but I’d rather not have my neighbors mistake me for a woman of loose morals.” Mr. Slag’s face floated into her mind just then. No, she definitely did not want him to form any more ideas about her.

“I assure you I would prefer to sleep in my own bed tonight,” Wraxall said.

“Good. Then go home and sleep well. I shall see you out, sir.”

He shook his head. “I shall see you home. The only way I leave you here alone tonight is if you go to your father’s house.”

Her shoulders and her hopes fell. “Mr. Wraxall, I love my father. He and I have no quarrel. He supports my work at Sunnybrooke.” That was partly true. He did support her philanthropic endeavors, but he did not support her moving into the orphanage. “Nevertheless, the boys here need me. I cannot leave them.”

“Mr. Goring is here.”

She scoffed. “Mr. Goring is not to be relied upon. The last time I left him in charge, Mrs. Nesbit gave her notice. Not to mention Mr. Goring knows nothing about the needs of small children. What if Charlie wakes with a nightmare or James needs a drink of water?”

“You are not their mother.”

“I am the closest they have right now, and that is another reason you cannot stay. The more you are here, the more attached the boys will become. They need a father figure in their lives, but if that is not to be you, it’s best the boys do not become attached at all.”

Mr. Wraxall’s face seemed to have paled, and he made an odd sound in the back of his throat. “Me? Their father?”

“Father figure,” she clarified. “And yes, they could use one. The only men they see here are thieves and criminals. I’d like them to have a man with some morals to look up to.”

Wraxall seemed to shrink away from her. “I am not that man. I’m no father and certainly no model of good behavior.”

She frowned in disappointment but not surprise. She had known he would not want to become more involved. He was here temporarily, and as far as she was concerned, the more temporary, the better. “Then you should go home.”

He pressed his fingers to his eyes and then dragged his hands over his face. His jaw was lightly stubbled, now that it was the end of the day, and his hair was more tousled. “Madam, as I have already explained, I cannot go home if you do not.” He raised a hand before she could object. “And do not tell me you are already home. You know my meaning.”

“Then we are at an impasse,” she declared. “You cannot stay here, and I will not go home.”

“You forget I was a soldier. I have faced impasses before, and the way to resolve them is that one side must give ground.”

“And I suppose I am the one to give ground?”

He shrugged. “It’s for your own safety.”

Her chin notched up. She would give ground, all right. Let him see just what kind of ground she would give him. “Unfortunately, I have no bed for you. The boys and I occupy the second-floor rooms, and Mr. Goring has the only bed in the servants’ quarters. The former cook occupied my room when I was at my father’s town house, and Mrs. Fleming did not sleep here.” She indicated the parlor with its dainty furniture. “You are welcome to sleep here, although I am not certain you will fit on the couch.”

He didn’t even blink. “I have slept in worse places, and I don’t intend to sleep much. I’ll keep guard.”

“How gallant of you.” Julia did not think she would sleep much either if she thought much about him a floor below her, awake and keeping watch. He would probably loosen his cravat and unfasten his shirt, exposing the bronze skin of his chest…

She closed her eyes and prayed for strength. If this was a battle, now was the time for a retreat. “Good night, sir.”

“Good night.”

And she left him in the parlor. When she reached her bedchamber, she found the fire in her hearth stoked and her underclothing picked up from the floor and draped over her bed. She locked the door, then hastily removed her clothing and pulled her nightgown on. It was silly, she knew. She was in the privacy of her own room, but she couldn’t help feel strange having a man—an attractive man—so close by.

She took her hair down, brushed it, and performed her nightly ablutions. Then she climbed into her warm bed and tried, desperately, not to imagine his hands on the lace at her breast.