Six

The quiet knock came a little after midnight. Neil had been sitting cross-legged on the floor on the entryway, waiting, but now he rose stiffly and crossed to the door. He hadn’t bothered locking it—a child could have forced that lock—and he opened the door and stepped outside to meet Jasper.

“Well?” he asked without preamble.

“He spent most of the day in an alehouse called the Ox and Bull.”

“Not a gin house or a brothel?”

Jasper made a noncommittal sound. It was too dark for Neil to see his expression, and he wouldn’t have been able to read it anyway, as Jasper wore his head covering and mask. “I’m not certain what the place is.”

“Not merely an alehouse?” Neil asked.

“There’s something more there. I’d like to watch the place again tomorrow. Your cull was already back here by the time I tracked him to the Ox and Bull. I’d be interested to see what he does if he goes back and who he sees.”

“So would I.” But Neil was aware he no longer commanded Jasper. “I would consider it a favor if you did this for me, Grantham, but I know you have other obligations.”

In the darkness, Neil could feel Jasper’s scowl. His shoulders straightened, and he became Lord Jasper—a man Neil rarely saw. “After all we’ve been through, you think I’d put tracking some petty rogue before your concerns?”

“I don’t even know if I have any concerns. Goring may be straight as they come.”

“I’m not ready to vouch for that. I’ll take another day to observe, if that’s agreeable to you.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

“You don’t owe me anything, Jas. I don’t want you to feel as though you owe me anything.”

Silence broken only by the distant sound of a baby squalling and the twang of someone playing a stringed instrument.

“Neil, you’re an even bigger arse than I thought. Of course I owe you. I owe you my life. But”—he held up a hand—“if you think I do this out of some sense of obligation, you’re an idiot and an arse. I do it because you’re my friend. My brother.”

Neil raked a hand through his hair. “I am an arse. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“I do. You feel guilty because you gave the orders that ended men’s lives.”

“Now, wait—”

“Don’t bloody argue, Neil. We all know it eats you up inside. We also know that every single one of us joined Draven’s troop voluntarily. And when Draven asked if we were afraid to die, we knew what we were up against. Your orders brought twelve of us back, so start looking at the men you saved and stop looking back at the men we—all of us—lost.”

Neil wished it were that simple. He wished he could close his eyes just once and not hear Bryce screaming as he burned alive or watch Guy’s eyes go flat as the blood poured from the gash in his belly.

“I’ll look into this Goring not because I owe you, but because I have your back. I’ll always have your back.”

“And I have yours, Jas. You know if you ever have need of me, you have but to say so.”

“I know.” He gripped Neil’s shoulder with one hand. And as he walked away, Neil heard him murmur, “Unfortunately, no one can give me what I need.”

* * *

The chair in the entryway needed new stuffing, but despite his aching back, Neil dozed. He didn’t dream. He’d become an expert at keeping his sleep light enough that he did not dream. He had no desire to wake the boys with his screams.

And so it was with some shock that he came awake suddenly at the sound of a blood-curdling scream.

Not his.

One of his men, then. The camp was under attack.

He reached for his pistol, then realized he wasn’t wearing it. He wasn’t in camp. He wasn’t a soldier any longer. The curving staircase of the orphanage’s entryway rose before him and the back of the chair rested against the front door. The door hadn’t opened or he would have been jarred.

He heard the scream again—a child’s scream. He grabbed the fireplace poker leaning against his chair and took the steps two at a time. When he reached the second floor, he first passed Lady Juliana’s bedchamber. Her door stood open, and one glance inside told him she had fled her bed in a hurry. The door to the older boys’ dormitory was closed, but across the way, the younger boys’ door was open.

Neil went directly to it and stepped inside, squinting at the light from a lamp set on a table. “What the devil is wrong?” he demanded.

“Shh!” came the response from the far corner, where Lady Juliana sat on the edge of one of the beds. “You’ll wake the whole house,” she chided him.

“I’ll wake the house?” He hadn’t been the one screaming.

He saw who it was. It was the dark-haired boy, Chester. Tears streamed down his face before he buried it once again in Lady Juliana’s shoulder. She was dressed all in white, a long robe of muslin draped over the bed and trailing to the floor. But the material didn’t hide her bare feet. Neil could only be glad she’d taken a moment to don the robe. Over the course of the long night, he’d entertained several fantasies about seeing her in various states of undress, and it was better for everyone if she stayed well and truly covered.

He would have followed the same principle, except he’d forgotten to pull on his coat and now stood in shirtsleeves. She had been right to worry about the lack of a chaperone. If anyone saw the two of them, she’d be as good as ruined and he’d be forced to ask her to marry him.

Neil looked about the room and saw James rubbing his eyes sleepily. Meanwhile, Charlie lay on his side, thumb tucked securely in his mouth. Jimmy slept too, his arms flung upward as though in surrender.

“You can go back to bed,” Lady Juliana said, glancing at him over her shoulder. “It was only a nightmare.” Then, looking back at the boy in her arms, she said, “You’re safe, Chester. No one will hurt you here. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Neil must have looked dubious because James propped himself up on his elbows. “No need to worry, sir. He does this all the time, he does.” He nodded to Chester. “No one but me wakes up anymore.”

Neil looked back at the weeping boy, whose sobs and shudders were slowly subsiding. Why would a boy of five have frequent bad dreams? What had happened to him before he’d come here?

“Good night, then, lad. I’ll wait outside the door until everyone is settled again.” He said it more for Lady Juliana’s benefit than anyone else’s, but she ignored him and went on cooing to young Chester.

Neil stepped outside and leaned against the wall. He was tired and his body ached from the uncomfortable position he’d occupied for the last several hours. He missed his bed, and though he rarely had an uninterrupted night of sleep, at least in his flat there was a chance of it. He ran his hands through his hair and rolled his neck to work out the stiffness. Then he paced up and down the corridor. The third time he passed Lady Juliana’s chamber, he slowed and peered inside. He’d seen it earlier, but then the bed had been made—hastily so, but made nonetheless. He could see the slight indentation where her body had lain before she’d been awakened by Chester’s screams. He wondered if her pillow smelled like flowers or perhaps something a bit more sultry…

Neil made himself walk on. Another few passes and he craned his head to see into the dormitory. Lady Juliana stood beside Chester’s bed, looking down at him. The long robe gave her an ethereal quality, and the straight fall of her coppery hair down her back looked like a river of lava. Finally, she bent and kissed the boy’s forehead. Neil tried not to notice her rounded backside when the fabric of her robe tightened over it.

She turned and started for the door, pausing to kiss James as well. Neil moved out of the doorway and stood at attention. A moment later, she emerged and quietly pulled the door closed. She’d tugged her hair over her shoulder, and when she faced him, it fell between her breasts. They were generous breasts. The robe had opened enough for him to see the edges of the lace cupping her form. At his glance, she pulled the fabric closed, holding it securely with one small, white hand.

“You could have gone back to bed,” she told him in a whisper.

“I don’t have a bed,” he whispered back.

“That’s your choice. As you can see, I’m needed here.”

He did see that, although if he could hire the right people, that wouldn’t be the case. “James says the lad often wakes screaming.”

She nodded. “He dreams of men yelling and hurting him. I don’t know what his life was like before he came here. He says he doesn’t remember in the daylight. I think he must have been born in…well, a place no child should be born.”

“A brothel?” Neil didn’t frequent them, but he’d seen his share on the Continent. They were places men gathered, which made them good places to gather information. Neil hadn’t been interested in the services the ladies were selling. When he looked at the women, he saw frightened or numb girls forced to sell the only commodity they possessed—themselves. He’d seen the children too. Boys and girls as young as three or four, not peddling their bodies, but fetching and carrying and witnessing all sorts of lewd behavior.

If what Chester said was true and his mother was a harlot, it was likely he’d seen all sorts of activities he didn’t understand and that might frighten a toddler.

Juliana lifted the lamp and motioned him away from the closed door, closer to her room. “That is what I suspect, although I don’t know for certain because the woman who ran the orphanage before I took over kept very poor records. Only a few of the boys—Robbie, Billy, and Jimmy—have any sort of file with information as to when and why they were left here. Some of the boys, like Ralph and Sean, have nothing at all. I have no idea how long they’ve been here or if those are really even their names.”

He wanted to ask her if that was why she’d come to live at the orphanage, to straighten out paperwork, but that didn’t really matter to him. What mattered was convincing her to leave so he could complete his mission.

He should have told her good night then, but he waited too long, his gaze fixed on the copper trail of silky hair winding through the valley of her breasts. He would have liked to brush it over her shoulders and brush the robe off in the process. By the time he met her gaze again, she was looking at him expectantly. He cleared his throat, searching for something to say. “And is it true about Jimmy then?”

“That his parents are in debtor’s prison? That is what his file says and what he claims as well. I’m sure they will be back for him, but of course, they have to find a way to pay the debt first.” She stepped back, closer to her open door. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Wraxall, I’ll say good night again. The boys are awake early, and I’d like to rest a few more hours before I attempt to make them breakfast.”

“I’ll take care of breakfast,” he said before he could stop himself. He should quit making her life easier. Yesterday, he hadn’t known the situation he’d stepped into. Now, he did. She had made her bed. Why not let her lie in it?

“I couldn’t ask you to do that, sir.”

He frowned. “You didn’t ask. I offered.” And he’d be damned if he would retract his offer now. The pie man would be back, and to supplement, they had a whole house full of able-bodied children. “Besides, the boys should learn some self-sufficiency.”

Her dark eyes rounded. “You intend to have the children cook their own breakfast?”

“Why not? I did it during the war.” If he could do it, so could these boys. More to the point, if a man like Rafe Beaumont, who could charm a woman into pretty much anything and probably never had to cook or sew or even shave himself before joining Draven’s men, could cook his own porridge, so could these boys. Even little Charlie would do a better job than Rafe’s first laughable attempt.

“It must bring back fond memories,” she said. When he raised a brow, she added. “You’re smiling.”

“Just send the boys to me when they wake,” he told her. “I’ll take care of breakfast.”

The look she gave him was one he could only characterize as confusion. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

He let out a choked laugh. “You think I’m nice?” If only she had even an inkling of what he’d done during the war, she would probably run from him, screaming all the way. Shaking his head, he strode down the stairs, back to his hard chair and his cold post.

* * *

In the morning, Julia did as Wraxall had suggested and sent the boys down to the kitchen. With Wraxall in charge of the boys—and the scent of something cooking—she had extra time in the morning for the first time since she’d come to the orphanage. She took her time washing all over with the cold water in her basin, dressed carefully in the best of what she thought of as her work dresses. Those were the ones she had pulled from her dressing room and taken with her—she swallowed the lump in her throat—when she’d come here.

Her work wardrobe amounted to four or five dresses, although she had finer garments here as well. She could not return to Mayfair dressed like a maid. Of course, now that she no longer had Mrs. Nesbit to help her dress, she was rather limited to what she could manage to don without assistance. The dress she wore—a pale-blue muslin day dress with pink roses on the hem and bodice—was probably too fine for the orphanage. The material was too light in color and would show every stain. It would probably be soiled by midmorning. She’d have to tie an apron over it. And, Lud, but she hoped her mother did not look down from above and see her dressed in an apron.

Julia often tucked her hair in a mobcap, but though it was practical and modest and kept her hair out of the way, she could not make herself do it this morning. She didn’t want to think too much about why she wanted to look pretty. She didn’t want to think about who she was trying to look pretty for because the boys certainly didn’t care what she looked like.

She braided several sections of her hair and was almost done winding them into a simple but elegant coiffure when she heard something crash. She dropped the hairpin she’d held delicately between two fingers and listened for more crashes.

None came.

She also didn’t hear any yelling.

Whenever one of the boys had been responsible for a mishap in the kitchen previously, the cook had screamed with the full power of her well-developed lungs. Now, she heard nothing more than a pause in the murmur of voices and then their resumption.

Interesting. So Wraxall was not the sort of man who lost his temper easily. Not the sort of man who yelled and bellowed at others—or at least not at children. She lifted the pin from the floor and frowned at herself in the small oval mirror. The man was too good. She’d find him out today.

When she’d finished her hair, she gave herself a slight nod in the mirror. She looked more presentable than she had in weeks. She took the servants’ stairs to the kitchen, wanting to see what exactly Mr. Wraxall had the boys doing, but she was met at the closed door by Charlie, thumb in his mouth.

“Youangoinere,” he said around his thumb, holding his free hand up for emphasis.

Julia smiled. “Charlie, I can’t understand you with your thumb in your mouth. Do take it out.”

He did, keeping the wet, wrinkled digit at the ready. “But, my lady, it’s clean and everything. The major made us wash our hands and faces.” He wrinkled his nose. “With soap.”

“The major? Is that Mr. Wraxall?”

“Mmm-hmm.” The thumb had gone back in his mouth.

“And he made you wash with soap?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

She tugged the thumb out gently. “And why do you call him the major?”

“Robbie asked… I forgot what he asked, but Mr. Wraxall said ‘major.’ So now we all call him the major.” His thumb went back into his mouth like a spoon into a plum pudding. Julia stared at the kitchen door and pressed her lips together. This would not do at all. She did not want the boys giving Mr. Wraxall nicknames and growing close to him. He would not be staying.

But when she stepped forward to try again to enter the kitchen, Charlie held up his hand. He pushed his thumb to the side of his mouth, stretching his face almost comically. “I’m supposed to take you to the dining room, my lady.”

She raised her brows. “Oh?”

He offered her his arm. It took a moment for her to realize she was supposed to take it, but when she did so, he led her back upstairs, then down again via the formal stairway. Mr. Goring skulked outside the dining room, but when he saw her, he straightened and removed his cap. “Will there be anything to break our fast this morning, my lady?”

Julia looked down at Charlie. “I understand they are hard at work in the kitchen.”

“Who? Them boys?”

“Unless you have seen them elsewhere, Mr. Goring, that seems to be the case.”

He stuck out his lower lip. “If you don’t mind, my lady, I’ll find my own breakfast. Can I have leave?”

“Certainly. But don’t be gone too long, Mr. Goring. I may have need of you later. Mr. Wraxall has pointed out several places in need of repair.”

He doffed his cap and was gone.

Charlie opened the door to the dining room and led her inside. The two tables that stood side by side and ran the length of the room had been set with the mismatched dishes she’d found when she came here. Prior to her arrival, the boys had served themselves from a communal pot, but Julia thought it important to eat meals seated together like a family. She’d also intended to teach the boys some table manners, although she had not been overly successful in that endeavor. Yet.

Her mind flashed back to all of the house parties she’d attended at country estates. When she’d come down to breakfast at ten or eleven in the morning, not seven or eight, the tables had been covered in expensive linen and set with the best china, silver, and crystal. A footman would pull out her chair and pour her chocolate, and she’d serve herself from a sideboard laden with so many delectable dishes she had difficulty choosing. As she ate, she’d listened to discussions of poetry, literature, and music. And she’d faced windows that overlooked rolling hills and fabulous gardens.

Now, her standards were simpler. Today, she was pleased to see the dishes set at each chair, the cheap silverware beside them and laid straight, if not necessarily on the correct side. The curtains had been parted to let in the morning light. One of the four windows had broken and been replaced by a large board some time ago, but the others were moderately clean and the light filtering through them created a patchwork of squares on the wooden floor below.

“Am I to sit and wait?” she asked Charlie.

He nodded, then ran off in the direction of the kitchen. Julia sat in the chair at the head of the table where the younger boys ate. Mrs. Fleming had eaten at the table with the older boys when she’d stayed for meals, but Julia supposed Mr. Wraxall could take that seat—for today only.

It had been some time since Julia had had any time to herself to think or reflect, and as she looked about the room, she remembered the improvements she’d planned. She’d wanted that window replaced, new curtains, and tablecloths for the tables.

The cook had told her there were tablecloths in a storage room, but she’d advised against using them, since it would mean more washing. Though Julia now had a maid coming once a week, and a few tablecloths would not add too much to her load. If only she could squeeze a few extra pounds from the board of directors, she might be able to have the maid come twice a week. Except the board was made up of a half-dozen titled men whose wives had cajoled them into serving and who had very little interest in the orphans or Sunnybrooke. Since she’d taken over, the board had only met once and that was to accept her donation to the orphanage and to ensure she had her father’s permission to concern herself with matters in the orphanage.

Her father had written the check that would ensure the St. Maurs were the leading benefactors of the orphanage and thus had some say in its day-to-day operations, and he’d reluctantly given his consent for her to live there a few days a month. She’d never forget his pale, drawn face as she’d stood in the grand vestibule of their town house in Mayfair, waiting for the coachman to finish loading her things and drive her to Spitalfields.

“Julia, it has been six months. You cannot think Harriett would want you to leave your family and go to live with orphans.”

They’d had the argument before, and she’d said all she wanted to say. She wasn’t leaving because Harriett was dead or because her mother was dead or because the house was silent as a tomb. She was leaving because Davy was not dead, and she couldn’t stand to be in the place where everywhere she looked she thought of him. But she would never see him again, and she could only think of one way to fill the ragged hole in her heart, and that was to take these little orphan boys under her wing and do what no one else in the world seemed to want to do—love them.

And so she’d straightened her back and looked her father in the eye. “An empty town house is not a family. There’s nothing to keep me here, Father. I’m three and twenty, well past my majority. If I want to ruin my chances at marriage by concerning myself with the upkeep of an orphanage, then I hurt no one but myself.”

She didn’t want to wound her father, but she also did not want him to hold out hope she would return to her life before. She did not expect him to come after her. Her father spent all his time at his club or in the Lords. Anything else, he delegated to others. If he could have delegated his need to use the chamber pot to a lackey, the Earl of St. Maur would have done so. Thus, it did not surprise her that he had sent someone to fetch her home. The fact that it was a former soldier was a bit unnerving. Perhaps her father was more serious about her returning home than he had been in the past.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the scuffling of feet in the corridor, and a moment later, Robbie opened the door to admit Michael and George carrying one large pot and Angus and Sean carrying a smaller one to the sideboard. Ralph entered next with a basket, followed by Walter and Billy, who carried teapots. The younger boys carried serving utensils and the whole lot of them were talking all at once in an excited cacophony.

“We’re having porridge, my lady,” Jimmy told her.

“And toast,” James added.

“And Major says we’re to eat like the nobs do,” Robbie added. Then he smacked Angus on the back of the head. “Get your fingers out of the porridge. We have to pray and then Lady Juliana eats first.”

Angus sent up a loud protest, but it was interrupted—as was the rest of the commotion—by the arrival of Mr. Wraxall. He didn’t say a word or do anything more than step into the room, and the boys fell silent. Robbie gazed at him with something like adoration while Walter’s lip curled in a sneer. Julia rather thought her own gaze must have mirrored Robbie’s. Wraxall looked devastatingly handsome this morning. In a coat, breeches, waistcoat, and cravat, he made quite the contrast to the boys in their untucked shirts and frayed trousers. Charlie had said Wraxall had made the boys wash, and Julia could also tell some of them had brushed their hair. Wraxall had also tended to his own toilette. His face was freshly shaven and his dark hair brushed back. His blue eyes regarded her from under thick lashes.

He gave her a slight bow. “My lady.”

Her heart might have stopped if the boys hadn’t distracted her by copying him and bowing themselves—all save Walter and Billy. She blinked in surprise at the greeting. Then she remembered herself and rose. “Good morning, Mr. Wraxall and…gentlemen.” She had been about to call them boys, but she knew it would please them more if she called them gentlemen, especially as they were acting so gentlemanly. “Master Charlie tells me you have prepared a feast to break our fast.”

“It’s just porridge and toast, my lady,” James said, ever truthful.

Julia smiled. “Yes. A feast. Shall we say grace and then eat?”

“Aye!” George said. “I’m fair starving.”

Julia was thankful for the distraction of the boys. She had something to look at besides the imposing form of Mr. Wraxall. As she folded her hands, she spared him another look. He had a wry smile on his face. “Mr. Wraxall, would you like to do the honors, or shall I?”

He inclined his head toward her. “I wouldn’t dream of taking your place, my lady.”

She nodded, then lowered her head and closed her eyes. Usually, she kept one eye open and trained on Walter or Ralph, but today, she didn’t worry. She thanked God for the meal and the service of the young gentlemen, and when she finished, the young boys were beaming. Then at a nod from Wraxall, the boys took their seats and Charlie escorted her to the sideboard. As the plates were already on the table, she carried hers with her. When they reached the sideboard, Wraxall was there.

“What do I say again?” Charlie asked him.

“Ask if you can be of any assistance.”

“Can I be of any assistance?”

“No, thank you, Charlie. You may sit down.” She opened the towel keeping the toast warm and used tongs to place one on her plate. It smelled fresh and yeasty, and she gave Wraxall an approving smile. “I must say I’m impressed, Mr. Wraxall. This looks quite delicious.” She lifted the lid of the larger pot of porridge and spooned some into her bowl. Porridge was one of her least favorite foods, but she would eat every last bite because her boys had made it.

“The boys are good at following orders,” he said, taking her plate and handing it to Walter. “Take this to Lady Juliana’s seat.”

Walter took it and mumbled something.

“What was that, Walter?”

“Yes, sir,” he said more loudly. Clearly Wraxall understood, as she had quite early on, that keeping Walter busy meant keeping him out of mischief.

“You are good at giving orders,” she said, adding a meager helping of sugar to her tea. It was a luxury and she used it sparingly.

“I’ve had practice.”

“And your skills have proved quite useful. Do you think you will be able to finish securing the orphanage by the end of the day? I’m certain that applicants for the position of cook will arrive tomorrow, and I can handle breakfast for one morning. We can’t expect you to stay another night.”

His eyes narrowed. “I’ll stay as long as necessary.”

It was a generous offer, and she wanted to be appreciative, but every time she looked at him, she felt an unwanted tug of attraction. And every moment she was with him was one more chance for him to show his true nature.

You think I’m nice?

She had to remember he was a man. Everything he did was for his own selfish reasons. She could not fathom what those might be, but she did not trust him.