Chapter 2

Eleanor stood behind her desk and glared at the man in front of her. “How dare you come onto my property and demand that I hand over one of my boys.”

“The boy’s not yours, ma’am. He’s my son, and I want him back.”

“He’s no more your son than I’m your mother.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

An angry scowl covered the man’s face, and if Eleanor weren’t so angry, she might consider being afraid. His eyes were dark with anger, and he spoke out of one corner of his mouth, like a sneer, only nastier. She knew who’d sent the man pretending to be Willie Fielding’s father. And she knew why.

“If you are in fact Willie’s father, then you would undoubtedly know the date of his birth. When was he born, Mr. Bryant?”

The man pretending to be Willie’s father stuttered.

“Well, Mr. Bryant. Surely you remember the date your son was born.”

“Of course I do,” he stammered. “It was . . . it was in the summer. Yes, I remember it was hot when my Willie was born.”

“Get out.” Eleanor walked to the door and opened it. “The boy you claim is your son was born in January.” Eleanor stepped back to give the man room to exit. Instead, with a movement so swift she didn’t see it coming, Bryant reached out and jerked the door out of her grasp. It slammed shut with a loud bang.

“Now you listen here, lady. I want what belongs to me, and the boy is mine.”

Eleanor felt the first niggling of fear. Bryant’s pockmarked face sported an angry scowl, and his watery blue eyes glared at her with such evil she didn’t want to hold his gaze. But she knew looking away wasn’t an option. Not if she wanted to stand up to him.

“Do you think I don’t know who sent you? Do you think I don’t know you’re one of Virgil Blackboot’s henchmen? I know exactly why you want boys like Willie. To sell to the workhouses or any number of other places that are willing to pay for the innocent children who can’t defend themselves. Well, you’re not going to get him.” Eleanor took a step toward the man. “And I’m going to rescue as many of the children as I can to keep them out of Blackboot’s clutches.”

“You’re playing with fire, you rich Society whore. Mr. Blackboot ain’t someone you want mad at you. And he’s tired of you coming into his borough and taking what don’t belong to you.”

“They’re innocent children. They don’t belong to anyone. Certainly not someone as vile as Virgil Blackboot.”

“You’re going to regret those words. Mr. Blackboot won’t take kindly to you not cooperating.”

“You can tell Mr. Blackboot he’s not getting any of the children who make it to Southern Oaks. Once they arrive here, they’re safe from his filthy grasp.”

“You can’t save them all,” the man growled.

“I can try,” Eleanor answered. “Now, get out!”

The man took a menacing step toward Eleanor, and when she tried to step out of his reach, he grabbed her. “I think you need to learn just how stupid you’re being,” he said, tightening his grasp on her arm. “Mr. Blackboot doesn’t like people who take what’s his. In fact, he told me to show you what he does to people who take what don’t belong to them.”

Before Eleanor could protect herself, the man’s other arm shot out, and his hand connected with her cheek.

Stunned, she tried to twist out of his arms, but he had too tight a hold on her.

“Get out!”

“Not until I convince you not to be stealing no more lads from Mr. Blackboot’s territory.”

“Get out!” she cried again.

Bryant drew his hand back to slap her again, then halted his arm in midair when a deep voice sounded from behind them.

“Strike the lady and you’re a dead man.”

Bryant spun around to face the intruder. The stranger took another step into the room and stopped inches from Bryant.

Eleanor got a clear look at the man who’d saved her. He was tall. No, not just tall—he was exceedingly tall. And his shoulders were as broad as any she’d ever seen. But it wasn’t his height and breadth that caught her attention and held it. It was his face. The strength of character that showed plainly in the set of his jaw sent unmistakable warnings. This was a man not to be crossed.

Eleanor’s hand instinctively rose to press against the lace fichu tied at her bodice.

The man’s hair was swept in unruly waves of deep gold about the fringes of his face—at least the parts that had escaped the tail tied at the back of his neck with a leather band. His cheekbones were high and his skin taut with a ruggedness that was appealing, yet it made her somehow apprehensive. But it was the hard look in his nearly black eyes that told her much about his personality.

He wasn’t a weak man. He wasn’t timid or indecisive. He was used to being in command. And he was used to being obeyed.

As these assessments passed instantly through Eleanor’s subconscious, she realized that even the brutish Bryant recognized the man’s dominating presence. He dropped his hands and stepped away from her.

“You’re going to regret this, ma’am. You’re going to regret that you didn’t cooperate. You were given the chance.”

And with that, Virgil Blackboot’s henchman exited the room, and Eleanor was left with the man who’d come to her rescue.

She looked at her savior and realized he hadn’t moved a muscle. He hadn’t even shifted on his feet. She was even more impressed. “Thank you,” she said when she regained her voice.

“My pleasure,” he answered, then reached out a hand to steady her when her legs threatened to give out from beneath her.

“Perhaps you’d care to sit for a moment,” he said, then led her to the nearest sofa.

While his language was proper, his movement was muscled, yet fluid, as if he did not often suffer the strictures of a carefully tied cravat.

Eleanor sat and breathed a shaky sigh. “No matter how often I have to stand up to one of Blackboot’s men, I never get used to it.”

“Then why do you do it?”

Eleanor looked up, then up farther until her gaze locked with his. “For the children, of course.”

He nodded, a slight acknowledgement that he knew what she meant.

“Please, sit,” she said.

The man moved to sit in a chair, and that’s when she saw what he had attached to him. A small dirt- and grime-covered lad clung to the man’s leg.

There was an empty chair next to where Eleanor had indicated the man should sit. Before he sat, he reached down and lifted the lad to the empty chair. But the lad slid from the chair and reached upward, as if he wanted to be held. The man rolled his eyes, then lifted the lad to his lap, where the boy wrapped his arms around the man’s neck and buried his face into the man’s chest.

Eleanor’s heart went out to the lad. “Hello, young man,” she greeted. “My name is Lady Eleanor. And your name is . . . ?”

The boy burrowed deeper against the giant of a man.

“Can you tell the lady your name?” the man asked.

His voice was deep and rich, smooth with an undercurrent of something that nearly resembled cheer. Eleanor felt his words sift through her veins like melting chocolate.

The lad shook his head.

“His name is Robby, my lady.”

“And his mother?”

“She’s dead, my lady.”

“And now you don’t want him?” Eleanor felt her temper rise for the second time today, and it wasn’t yet noon.

“No, my lady,” the man started to say, but Eleanor wasn’t ready to hear more excuses from another parent who was willing to give away a child to a perfect stranger rather than take responsibility for him.

She tried to stay calm, but she knew the anger she felt was evident in her voice. “Do you know how many children reside here at Southern Oaks, sir?”

“No, my lady.”

“Nearly fifty. Fifty children who either have no parents to care for them, or children who have been abandoned by their parents as if they were garbage to be left on the street.”

Eleanor was getting angrier by the second. How could a father whose child clung to him as if he were the last hope for salvation be so callous as to give his son away? Oh, how wrong she’d been about him. She’d sensed he was a good man. A decent man.

“The children who have lost their parents need us. They need Southern Oaks to care for them. But Robby isn’t one of those. He has you. He has a father!”

“No he doesn’t,” the man said without raising his voice.

Eleanor stared at the stranger as if she hadn’t heard him correctly.

“No he doesn’t,” he repeated. “His father is dead, as well as his mother. His father died in the war.”

Eleanor sank back into the sofa. “Then who are you?”

“Caleb Parker, my lady. I was a captain in Her Majesty’s army. I don’t know who Robby’s father was, but he could have been one of the men who served with me.”

It was rare that Eleanor ever found herself at a loss for words, but this was one of those occasions. “Oh dear, Captain Parker. Please accept my apology. I had no right to speak to you that way. Please believe me when I say that I seldom jump to such conclusions. And I rarely raise my voice as I did.”

“Apology accepted, my lady,” he said, and the corners of his mouth lifted to the most heart-stopping smile. “In fact, I was quite impressed with your defense of the children.”

Eleanor met his smile with one of her own. “Perhaps we might begin again, Captain Parker?”

“That sounds like an excellent idea, Lady Grattling.”

Captain Parker turned the child around on his lap so the boy faced her. “Robby, this is Lady Grattling. But she said you could call her Lady Eleanor. Say hello.”

Robby lowered his head and stared at the floor, but Eleanor thought she heard him say a weak hello. “Do you know why Captain Parker brought you here, Robby?”

The boy shook his head.

“He brought you here because he thought you would like to play with the other boys and girls who live here. Would you like to do that?”

Even though Robby didn’t lift his head, he at least nodded that he wanted to see the other children. That was a positive sign. She stood and held out her hand. “Then let’s go meet them,” she said. “The last time I checked, they were playing duck, duck, goose. Have you ever played that game?”

Robby shook his head. “Then you’ll learn something new today. And it should almost be lunchtime. I believe Cook said she was going to bake gingerbread cookies for lunch. Do you like gingerbread cookies?”

Robby nodded several times, then slid off Captain Parker’s lap and took her hand. His grimy little fingers broke her heart. No child should be so terribly neglected.

Eleanor led the lad to the garden beyond the back door where the children were indeed playing duck, duck, goose. Robby stood shyly at her side until Jenny, one of the older girls who looked to be in charge of the orphans, came over.

“Jenny, this is Robby. Would you take him to the kitchen and give him a bath and find him some clean clothes?”

“Yes, my lady.” She turned to Robby. “Come with me, Robby. Cook has a gingerbread cookie with your name on it.”

“It has my name on it?” Robby said.

“Yes, it does,” Jenny said, taking his hand. “But you might not be able to see it. Only the fairies can see it. Unless you’re a fairy.” She paused and looked at him. “Are you a fairy?”

“No. But sometimes my mum called me an angel.”

“Oh, angels are far more special than fairies,” Jenny said as they walked to the house. “Sometimes Cook gives angels two cookies.”

When Robby and Jenny disappeared into the kitchen entrance, Eleanor turned to Caleb Parker. “Where did you find Robby?”

“On the street. He was stealing food.”

“And you brought him here?”

“That seemed the best for the boy.”

Eleanor thought for several moments. The idea that entered her head wasn’t rational. In fact, when she looked back on it, she might consider such an impulsive move regrettable. But something urged her to follow through with her notion.

She turned to the man and looked into his handsome face. “Are you looking for employment, Captain Parker?”

He hesitated a moment, then faced her. “I might be.”

“Then let’s talk,” Eleanor said, knowing she’d either made the best decision of her life . . . or the worst.