Chapter 12
Trying to put distance between you and your troubles never works. Wherever you go, you carry them with you. As soon as you pack your valise, thinking to leave them, your failures sneak into your pocket and come along for the journey. They sink in their talons and travel in your memories. They steal into your idle daydreams when you least expect them. Their ugly heads rise up in night terrors. And unfortunately, you can’t misplace them or drop them off somewhere, as if they were an unwanted parcel.
They come home with you as well.
—Mr. Lawrence Sinclair, who wished he packed troubles as scantily as his personal effects.
Lawrence and his mount flew across the freshly cut meadow. Crooning a few curses his uncle would have whipped him for, he leaned over the horse’s neck. The forbidden words seemed to make the gelding stretch out and go even faster. Lawrence raised himself slightly in the stirrups, his knees bearing the jolting rhythm so that his body moved in perfect harmony with the galloping horse.
Ralph bumped along behind him on the crupper, clinging to Lawrence’s waist, tight as a tick. The younger boy screamed at the top of his lungs.
His cousin wasn’t afraid. Ralph always howled like that when he was excited. He said it was his Pictish battle cry. When Lawrence had asked what a Pict was, Ralph had explained that they were early Britons who defended the fair isle of Albion against Roman invaders. When Picts went to war, they dipped themselves in woad and screamed out their defiance.
Lawrence understood the battle cry part. Roaring as loudly as they could would give the Picts courage and scare the Romans silly. For the life of him, he had no idea why the Picts thought painting themselves blue would help, but Ralph was the history scholar. Lawrence believed him. If Ralph said they colored themselves with blue dye, it was so.
“Faster! Faster!” Ralph yelled. He wasn’t a good enough horseman to handle this kind of speed on his own. But that didn’t stop him from begging to fly across the field with Lawrence whenever the pair of them escaped the watchful eye of Ralph’s father, the earl. “Now the jump. Do the jump!”
His uncle would kill him if he caught Lawrence at it.
But Ralph loved the thrill of flying over an obstacle. The harder the jump, the more he squealed for joy.
“Oh, fiend take it!” Lawrence cried and tossed caution to the wind. Riding neck or nothing, he headed for the nearest waist-high stone wall. The gelding’s powerful haunches bunched under them and suddenly they were airborne. Ralph screamed again, a Pictish war cry if ever there was one.
The jolt of their hard landing knocked Lawrence awake. He must have been holding his breath in his sleep because he sucked in a noisy lungful. His heart hammered in his ears. He swallowed hard and sat up.
For a moment, he wasn’t sure where he was. The dream had seemed so real, he half-expected the grassy smell of a freshly cut field and horse sweat to hang in the air. But he hadn’t wakened in Ware Hall, eleven years old and shivering in his cold chamber. He was in as opulent a bedroom as he could imagine.
Then it all rushed back into him, the years of his life galloping by—the accident, the pack of wolves at the boarding school, serving with the dragoons, roaming the Continent alongside Bredon and Rowley, and, finally, running headlong into the original immovable object, Lady Caroline Lovell.
Beguiling, confusing, unattainable Caroline.
And with that sobering thought, he remembered what he needed to do that day. Judging by the light streaming in through his windows, breakfast was long past. He rose and dressed without ringing for Dudley to come help him. If he was going to live by his own means, the first thing he’d have to do without was a servant of any sort.
With regret, Lawrence didn’t slip out the back of Lovell House and saddle one of Bredon’s horses, even though his friend had told him often enough that any of the mounts in Lord Chatham’s stable were at his disposal. A horse was another luxury he couldn’t afford. Keeping one in London—never mind a carriage or a racy curricle—was a rich man’s convenience. Lawrence was no pauper. He had enough to live comfortably, but he’d definitely have to cut back on some of the niceties he’d enjoyed in Lord Bredon’s company.
It pained him to leave Lovell House, but he must. Caroline had decided to get to know him, of all things, and he couldn’t have that. She was sure not to like what she saw. Leaving with her good opinion of him still intact was the best he could hope for.
So he set out across the city on shank’s mare. In Leicester Square, he found a flat on the first floor of a respectable-looking house, located on a quiet street. The sameness of the house’s surroundings ensured that he wouldn’t waste much time looking out the small windows. There was a bakery on the corner, and a pub within easy walking distance where he could take his evening meals.
Best of all, his landlady had asked a modest sum that was well within his budget for the furnished flat. The three rooms were too humble for entertaining, but they were clean. Mrs. Abernathy even offered to come in weekly to tidy up and change the bed linens.
Lawrence decided it would suit him.
Of course there was no chance of seeing Caroline in this neighborhood, but he told himself that was a blessing. When he’d goaded her into meeting him in the ballroom last night, he had thought no farther than the joy of being alone with her. Of holding her in his arms. Maybe kissing her. But he’d pushed her too far.
Caroline had pushed back.
Why do women always think things are made better by talking about them?
He might have come round to sharing some of his war stories with her, but only if he sanitized the tales a great deal. He’d never tell her about how he came to be estranged from his family. He’d never told anyone.
He hadn’t had a bite all day and the nearby church tolled three, so he decided to walk down to the bakery for a bun or two to tide him over until supper. But as he neared the corner, he noticed the carriage with the Chatham coat of arms emblazoned on the side. Old Sedgewick, the driver, nodded on his bench as usual, having slipped into the light sleep of age.
“What’s this?” Lawrence asked him. “Where are your passengers?”
Sedgewick roused himself from his catnap with a shake and cleared his throat noisily. “My lady and her maid popped into that bakery yonder.” He motioned toward the shop at the end of the block.
“The countess?” Lawrence doubted Lady Chatham had ever shopped for baked goods in her life.
“No, o’ course not. Her Ladyship is at home receiving calls this time of day. It’s the young lady of the house I’m meaning. Lady Caroline.”
“Are there no bakeries near St. James Square? What’s Lady Caroline doing in that one?”
“Buying scones and biscuits, near as I can guess.” Sedgewick shrugged and scratched his balding head. “If you want my opinion, young sir, never try to figure out why a woman does anything. May as well ask the wind why it blows.”
“That has the ring of truth and the sting of experience, my friend,” Lawrence said, giving the draft horse a pat on the neck. “I shall take it under advisement.”
Just then, the door to the bakery flew open. A lad with a disreputable-looking cap pulled down so the brim hid his face scrambled out of the shop, turned up the street, and disappeared down a narrow alley as if his knickers were ablaze.
“Help! Oh, help!” Alice appeared in the doorway of the shop. “Help, someone! Murder!”
Murder? Lawrence bolted across the street. “What’s happened? Is Caroline all right?”
Alice lifted a brow at him. “Lady Caroline is fine,” she said, correcting him with a withering tone for failing to use her mistress’s title.
“But you cried murder.”
“Well, maybe it wasn’t murder, but that horrid boy stole my lady’s reticule right enough. And half a dozen scones to boot.”
“You’re sure she’s all right?”
“Yes, yes. She just took a fright,” Alice said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other in nervousness. “Hurry! He’s getting away.”
“Wait here.” Lawrence raced down the alley and spied the lad as he turned onto a cross street. Lawrence put on some speed and closed the distance, managing to keep the boy in sight as he dodged through a tangled rabbit warren of alleys and lanes. The youngster might have lost him in a sprint, but a half-starved urchin was no match for a well-fed man in his prime on a long run. Lawrence caught up to the lad, grabbed him by the collar, and swung him around, lifting his feet off the ground.
“What’s this?” Lawrence demanded, an intense burst of energy still flooding his veins. But he decided to temper his tone when he saw the boy was even younger than he’d first thought. “Thievery in broad daylight.” He made a tsking sound and lowered his captive until his feet touched the ground, but he didn’t release his hold on the boy’s collar. “A respectable footpad waits for night to cover his ill deeds.”
“A bloke gets hungry in the daytime same as the night, don’t he?”
“I expect you’ve the right of it there. Give me back the lady’s purse. You can keep the scones.”
The boy fished the small beaded reticule from his pocket. The laces had been cleanly slashed.
“Let me go, will ya?” The boy struggled, trying to free himself from Lawrence’s grip to no avail. “Don’t nobody despise a thief if he steals when he’s hungry. Says so in the Bible.”
“And what would you know about the Bible?”
“I sneaks into church sometimes. ’Specially if it’s rainin’.”
“And while you’re there, no doubt you help yourself to the poor box when no one’s looking.”
The boy spread his arms wide. “Who’s poorer than me, I asks ye?”
“I’ll give you that, but you should go to the vicar if you’re in need of alms.”
The lad squirmed, trying to break free again with no success. “A thief I may be, but I ain’t no beggar. I do for me and mine.”
Against his better judgment, Lawrence felt a grudging admiration for the lad’s twisted set of ethics. Not begging showed he still had a bit of dignity under that sorry excuse for a hat.
“You and yours, you say. Who is it you steal for?” Lawrence had heard there were gangs of street children run by thuggish types who took most of the boys’ ill-gotten gains. Then they coerced the youngsters into stealing more in exchange for a roof over their heads and a few beans from a communal pot. If this boy was in thrall to a boss of some sort, Lawrence wouldn’t rest until he gave the man responsible a good thrashing and hauled him before a magistrate. “Does someone force you to steal?”
“Don’t nobody tell me what to do.” The boy’s lips settled in a tight line. “It’s just…well, I got sort of a sister what I take care of by giving her a bit of coin when I can.”
The boy’s clothes were thin, but they were fairly clean for someone who lived on the street, and Lawrence noticed more than one neat patch in the boy’s shirt. He ran a finger over the fine stitching on the boy’s forearm.
“I suspect this ‘sort of sister’ takes care of you.”
The boy sighed. “All right, then. She sees to a few of us what ain’t got nobody else. You know, a loaf here and there. A bit of sewin’ and scrubbin’ when we needs it. She even gives me tuppence when she has it to spare. Lord knows, she’s got little enough herself.” The boy frowned. “I don’t got no way to pay her back for all she does for us. But that don’t mean I can’t try to do somethin’ nice for her once in a while, do it?”
“You stole so you could do something nice for someone. That’s the most original moral code I’ve heard in a long time,” Lawrence said. “Do you think this sister of yours would approve of your methods?”
He kicked at the cobbles. “No. Me methods don’t work so well, do they? You got the purse and I got a handful of fingers.”
Lawrence shook his head. “What I mean is someone who cares enough to mend your clothes might take offense at thievery done in her honor.”
The boy pulled a face. “Well, when you put it like that, I s’pose she might take it wrong.”
“Who is this sort of sister of yours?” Lawrence had in mind giving the lady a few quid to help with her street lads.
“Oh, no. You’ll peach on me to her.”
The boy hadn’t begged Lawrence not to turn him over to the magistrate, but he definitely didn’t want this sister to know he’d been lifting a lady’s purse. That bit of shame saved him. Lawrence decided to help the lad.
“I won’t tell your benefactress what you’ve been doing,” he promised.
“My bene-what?”
“Your sort of sister. I will not tell her about this unfortunate incident,” Lawrence said. “Now, you and I have a few more things to discuss. If I turn you loose, will you promise not to run again?”
The boy squinted at him. “Even if I did promise, who’d believe the likes of me?”
“I would,” Lawrence assured him. “You’d be giving me your word, you see. And a man’s word is sacred.”
The boy stood straighter. “You have me word.”
“Then I accept your parole,” Lawrence said with the formal courtesy a military officer would give to a defeated foe. “And I’ll also have the knife you used in your crime.”
“Aw, gov’nor, not me knife,” he whined. “I needs that.”
“In order to steal more efficiently, I warrant.”
“No, truly, kind sir. I needs it for protection,” the boy insisted. “You don’t know how rough it can be on the likes of me without I have a stinger in me pocket.”
“Then will you give me your word you won’t use the knife to slash the laces on another lady’s purse?”
The boy nodded. “I swears.”
“On the name of your sister.”
“On me sister, Mary Woodyard, I—” The boy clapped a hand over his mouth when he realized Lawrence had tricked him into revealing her name.
“Ah, yes! Mary Woodyard. I believe I have met the young woman. She is apprenticed to Madame Fournier, is she not?”
Lawrence remembered the beleaguered dressmaker’s apprentice from that unfortunate time when he’d come to collect Caroline and her friends at the shop. Madame Fournier’s bugged-out eyes and tight lips had betrayed her quiet fury with her paying customers. Lawrence suspected her poor apprentice had suffered in their stead once the Quality Folk left the shop.
“Yes, Mary works in a dress shop, but don’t you go peachin’ on me, sir.” The boy wrung his cap in his hands, as contrite as a puppy that had just piddled on the rug. “You promised you wouldn’t.”
“And I am a man of my word, too.” Lawrence extended his hand. “Mr. Lawrence Sinclair. And you are?”
“Billy Two Toes.” The boy shook his hand gravely.
“That’s not your proper name.”
“It’s all the name I got.”
“All right. Why Two Toes?”
“On account of I froze a couple off last winter, sir. That’s when me mates started callin’ me that.”
Some mates. It made Lawrence even more determined to help the boy. “If you’re willing to leave your life of crime, Mr. Two Toes, I should like to hire you.”
The boy blinked in disbelief. “To do what?”
What indeed? Lawrence had already convinced himself he couldn’t afford a servant. So far, young Billy had only shown an aptitude for petty crime. And a fondness for scones.
“Come to Rathbone Street off Oxford, second house on the left, around teatime.”
The boy removed his cap and scratched a headful of carrot-colored hair. “When’s that?”
“When the church bells ring five. I’m lodged at the home of Mrs. Abernathy. Ask to be shown to the first-floor apartment and I shall have a task for you by then.” He planned to also have a plate or two of biscuits for the boy. Lawrence had no idea what sort of job he might offer Billy, but surely he’d think of something to occupy the boy besides lifting wallets. If he continued his career as a cutpurse, Billy was well on his way to Newgate. “Off you go now. And no more thievery. That is an unconditional requirement of your employment with me.”
The boy sketched a deep, elaborate bow. “Right-o, your worshipfulness.”
“Mr. Sinclair will do.”
Billy gave him a gap-toothed grin. Lawrence hoped he was young enough to be missing his baby teeth but suspected they might have been knocked out. Life for a street urchin could be rough indeed.
Lawrence sprinted back toward the bakery, where he saw Caroline waiting at the door to the shop. By her side, a distraught Alice was still swaying and fidgeting with her hands.
Foot traffic in the neighborhood had picked up. Surrounded by folk of the middling sort going about their daily business, Lady Caroline was a goldfinch amid a flock of wrens. The Leicester Square neighborhood was perfectly respectable, but it might as well have been on a foreign continent compared to the rarified air of St. James. That was where she belonged, amid luxury and splendor.
And safety.
Lawrence, however, had to accept a place with the wrens. He was a gentleman of chancy prospects. She was the daughter of an earl. He had nothing to offer her.
Nothing but my very breath. Nothing but my heart’s blood. Nothing but my adoration until I’m laid in the dust.
It was all he had, but it wasn’t enough. He knew that now. It took getting out of Lovell House for him to see the world for what it was.
And his place in it. But he’d give ten years of his life if only he’d kissed her last night.