by Eloisa James
She stepped back, holding the door open, so Villiers left his footmen outside and followed her into the shadowy house. It smelled like flour and apples. “He’s just down for a nap,” she whispered.
“A nap?” By Villiers’s estimation, this child had to be twelve years old. He hadn’t napped at that age. Well, as far as he remembered.
“We’ll have to be quiet,” she said. “They all sleep together, of course.”
“Do you take in many children?”
“I’ve five at the moment, four girls and he. He’s a sweet one.” She stopped and turned, her arms crossed over her bosom. “Did someone tell you aught about the way I’m raising these children? Because it’s a lie. I never take more than five, and they have their own beds. They go to church of a Sunday, and wear a clean pinafore every other day. There’s no—”
“Absolutely not,” he said. But she seemed to be owed an explanation, though it irked him to do so. “I have decided to rear my son in my own house.”
“In your house?”
He allowed a flash of annoyance to cross his face, and then stated, “I shall rear my baseborn children under my own roof.”
“Goodness me,” she said, looking not the least afraid. “That does make me feel better about letting him go. I’ve come to love him.” She opened a door to a sitting room full of rather faded but clean furniture.
“If you’ll wait here, I’ll tiptoe in and bring him out. I’m afraid he’ll be a mite crotchety.”
“I am frequently crotchety,” Villiers observed, sitting down. “The boy wouldn’t be my son without the trait.”
The boy was not his son.
This child was as plump as a sofa, if sofas came in baby sizes. His eyes were like little dark currants peering out from all that fat. Villiers felt an instant dislike for him.
The baby apparently felt the same, given his bellows.
Villiers came to his feet. “I’m afraid there’s been some mistake,” he said to the woman, who was energetically patting the fat piglet and whispering things to it. “My son is twelve years old, and his name is Tobias.” It wasn’t a name he would have chosen, but it wasn’t terrible.
“What?”
He raised his voice over the child’s blubbering.
“My son is nine years old. Perhaps even ten,” he added, being rather uncertain about that matter himself.
She plumped into a chair, staring at him as if he’d shocked her to the bone. “You’re Juby’s da. You’re Juby’s da? I never knew more than that he was a gentleman. Templeton promised that.”
“A duke is a gentleman,” Villiers informed her, resisting the temptation to take out the sheet of foolscap in his pocket and consult it. “And my son’s name is definitely not Juby. It’s Tobias.”
“We all called him Juby.”
“Ah.” That was regrettable. It sounded like the name one might give to a racehorse who would almost win the Derby, but not quite. “Could you please call Tobias, and we shall be on our way?”
“He’s not here,” the woman said, still staring. “I do think I see some resemblance. He’s got a way about him and you have it too.”
“If you would be so kind as to call him?”
“He doesn’t live here anymore. Templeton said as how he had to go to school.” Her face darkened. “I don’t mind telling you that I don’t like your man Templeton.”
“Because he sent the boy to school?” Villiers inquired, wondering in the back of his mind why Templeton had provided this address, rather than that of the school.
“He would come here and look about the place as if he were a duke himself,” she said, scowling. She’d managed to get the little lump on her shoulder back to sleep. “And he never gave the slightest bit toward a name day present or anything of that nature. Not Twelfth Night either. And then one day he ups and takes Juby off to school, without as much as a by-your-leave.”
“I placed no limitations on the child’s support,” Villiers said. “I regret that Templeton did not interpret my instructions to include appropriate gifts.” He had never thought of such a thing himself. He made a mental note to have a generous amount sent to Mrs. Jobber on the morrow.
“I can see from the sight of you that you didn’t know of it,” she said resignedly, rocking back and forth to keep the babe asleep. “At least you’re here. There’s many a man never even touches his child in the whole of his life, you know. The babes go from my house to an apprenticeship, and that’s the end of it.”
“Could you give me the address of the school?” Villiers inquired. The fat baby was drooling on her shoulder, and he felt a strong urge to leave the premises.
“He took him to Grindel’s in Wapping,” the woman said. “I wouldn’t have chosen it myself. Not for Juby. He’s a smart one. He could be anything. You could have apprenticed him to a goldsmith, or even the rag-and-bone man, and he’d be mayor of London someday. That’s what we always teased him with. That he’ll be mayor of London, just like Dick Whittington.”
Villiers sighed inwardly. She followed him out, still talking of Juby. Just before the door he paused. “How many years had you the care of Tobias?”
“He was brought to me at just a few weeks,” she said promptly, “and Templeton took him from me two years ago. Horrid little thing he was as a babe, as thin as you can imagine.” She lovingly caressed the plump back she held. “Not like Edward here. Edward is the son of a baron, you know.” She drew herself up. “I take in only the best.”
“Were you adequately paid for your trouble?”
“Four guineas a month, just as I requested, and I thank you for that. Plus all doctor’s expenses, though Juby wasn’t one to get sick. Once I managed to get him plumped up, nothing stopped that boy.”
Villiers groaned inwardly. So he was looking for a junior-sized sofa who went by a dubious name.
“You’ll love Juby,” she said. “We miss him so. He made dolls for the girls, you know. Out of string and bits of wood. They were always hanging on him, begging for a story.”
Villiers had one thought in response to that information: Juby couldn’t be his son. Impossible.
“It’s an odd thing, you taking him in. Will he be in the stables? He does like horses.”
Naturally he would, with that nickname. “Madam,” Villiers said, “he will not be in the stables.”
“He won’t be good in the kitchens,” she prophesied.
“The cook will have a fit. That boy likes to eat.” She beamed proudly.
“I shall do my best to keep him fed.”
She put out a hand and touched his sleeve. Villiers froze. He greatly disliked being touched. “Will you let him visit me now and again? I’ve seen him only two or three times since Templeton took him to Grindel’s. He ran away once, but they took him back again. I do miss him.”
“Of course,” he said courteously, stepping back so her hand slipped from his arm. Then he bowed again and left her there on the doorstep, baby sleeping on her shoulder.
He had a biting headache and a strong inclination to forget this whole idea. He couldn’t have a child named Juby. It was inconceivable. He was Villiers. A duke.
How did he know this child was actually his? A gentleman’s son, she’d said. Surely Templeton would have mentioned that the child’s father was a duke?
Everything in him recoiled from the distastefulness of the entire visit. The slobbering child, the ridiculous nickname, the shabby house.
Gentlemen didn’t worry about this sort of thing. A child born on the wrong side of the blanket was no real child of his.
Even he couldn’t rationalize that assertion, though.
Tobias was his child. He remembered the mother, Fenela, well enough. She was a luscious girl, an Italian opera singer, who had been enraged when she found herself with child.
She had screamed, and he had laughed, and in the end he promised to care for the child when Fenela traveled on. As he recalled, he supported the entire opera company for some seven months. They contin
ued their entirely pleasant nightly encounters until she declared that she hated both him and her swollen ankles.
Eventually Templeton had informed him of the existence of a son, and the child’s settlement in a good establishment, and that was that.
He even knew why Tobias had the name: because Fenela had been singing the part of an innocent maiden, seduced by the dastardly baron, Tobias. The baron courted the maiden’s affections and lured her to an adulterous doom.
Except that the evil baron had turned into the flourishing, fat Juby.
Juby.
Villiers shuddered as he got into his carriage.
Chapter Twenty-one
Later that morning
Elijah woke with the distinct sensation that something was wrong. But what could be wrong? He and Jemma had finally fallen asleep as the first morning light was creeping through the curtains. Now he was lying behind her, her curvaceous bottom tucked against him, his arms around her.
He felt a pulse of joy…and yet the terrible sense of unease lingered. After a moment he slipped out of bed. Jemma made a little moue as his arms left her, and then she rolled farther into the pillows. Her hair was tousled and silky, the color of drowsy sunshine, just as he had told her.
The unease appeared again. Normally just the sight of Jemma fired his loins. But not this morning. With that realization came another.
His heart was misfiring. It had actually woken him up, which had never happened before. He sprang from the bed and walked a few steps. Sometimes even a small amount of exercise was enough to correct the timing. But his heart still bounded in his chest, as if it had forgotten the proper rhythm.
He would have to go for a ride; that often calmed its rhythm. He eased out of Jemma’s chamber and retired to his own rooms.
He had finished his bath and was pulling on a coat when a footman scratched at the door. After a whispered exchange, his valet came back and said, “Mr. Fowle is very sorry to disturb you, Your Grace, but the Honorable Howard Cheever-Chittlesford is waiting below.”
“Oh Christ,” Elijah said. “Sent by Pitt?”
“He didn’t say, Your Grace.” Vickery handed him his wig. “He is accompanied by another gentleman, Lord Stibblestich.”
Elijah groaned inwardly. Cheever-Chittlesford was a petty bureaucrat who prided himself on his eloquence, yet Elijah seemed to be the only one to notice that the man’s eloquence was always employed in the wrong tactics. Cheever-Chittlesford was the sort who would comment, for example, that the slave trade had its place, and that Pitt shouldn’t push too aggressively to abolish it.
Blackguard or no, Cheever-Chittlesford was a close advisor to Pitt, and Stibblestich was the liaison to the chief magistrate, so Elijah straightened his wig and prepared to go downstairs. Thankfully, his heart had settled down and was now dancing to a milder, if irregular, beat: not exactly steady, but not frightening either.
Cheever-Chittlesford was standing at the window; Stibblestich had accepted a glass of brandy. In the morning.
Elijah strode into his library. When he was one of Pitt’s advisors, he felt divided between himself and his rank. In the presence of Pitt, he was more an advisor than a duke.
Now he felt every inch the duke. And Cheever-Chittlesford, wily statesman that he was, realized it immediately. His bow was lower and more respectful than it was when they met in the House.
“Mr. Cheever-Chittlesford,” Elijah said briskly.
“Lord Stibblestich. What can I do for you?”
Cheever-Chittlesford was not a man to rush into speech; Elijah had seen him allow others to instigate conversations thousands of times. Even better, he would provoke a flagrant battle, during which both sides would pour out their best arguments. He would listen silently, saying nothing, and then decide precisely when to seize control of the subject.
Stibblestich, on the other hand, was the perfect man to launch an argument. He rarely thought before he spoke, and therefore his words were invariably insulting. “It’s the hulks,” he said importantly. “We’ve been tasked by the king himself with coming up with a solution to those floating monstrosities.”
Elijah kept his expression pleasant and uninterested. “A difficult problem, as we’ve already admitted,” he murmured.
“I’ve suggested that we fire them,” Stibblestich said.
“That’s the best solution. Fire ’em!” He gave a couple of vigorous nods. “There’s none but bloody-minded criminals aboard. They’re a floating pestilence for the city, like rats…like—like—like rats,” he finished, apparently unable to think of another word.
Elijah turned to Cheever-Chittlesford. “Of course, removing the warships from their current use as prison barges is an excellent idea.”
Cheever-Chittlesford looked discomfited, which was unusual. Elijah’s eyes narrowed. “Precisely what do you mean by ‘fire them’?” he asked, turning back to Stibblestich.
“Burn them down,” he said promptly. “It’ll take care of all our problems. We’ll start over with the same problem, of course, but we can find somewhere else to house the new ones. The king himself was in danger during the riots!” He opened his eyes so wide that his whole face seemed to stretch.
Elijah’s heart gave a great thump. “Do I take you to mean that you are considering burning the ships with prisoners inside?” He could hear the pendulum clock behind him ticking very hard, as hard as his heart was beating. It was inconceivable…it was barbaric. He could feel, deep in his body, the frown that had formed on his face, the fury that was making his back rigid.
Stibblestich started to bluster, something about pestilence. Elijah turned to Cheever-Chittlesford, who looked at him with the shadow of an apology in his eyes, so Elijah knew that indeed the government was entertaining that thought. Something in him raged and despaired at once. They were so stupid, so stupid and violent.
With an effort, he summoned up the logical, calm voice that he used to show madmen the error of their ways. “You intend to burn the hulks.”
“That’s right,” Stibblestich said. Satisfaction reeked in his voice.
“Burning them where they are currently anchored?”
“That’s the whole point! We need to make a lesson out of this uprising. We can’t just let it pass: the king’s own yacht was violated by dirty, criminal hands. The king’s noble subjects were fired upon. But that was not the worst.”
Elijah frowned. “What was the worst?”
“The Duchess of Cosway was on that yacht! She was caught by those criminals, manhandled, perhaps violated—”
Cheever-Chittlesford interrupted. “They held her briefly; she was rescued by her husband.”
“They pushed the Duke of Cosway into the water!” Stibblestich said, his voice rising even higher. “The duke and duchess had to swim to shore.”
“Dear me,” Elijah said, wondering if his wife knew that her friend Isidore had taken an impromptu bath in the Thames.
“We’ve had uprisings on the hulks in the past,” Stibblestich said, “but as I’ve told you before, this time they’ve gone too far! We must make an example of them! They touched—nay, they assaulted—a peer. Two peers!”
Cheever-Chittlesford cleared his throat again. “Of course, the duke and duchess do appear to be unharmed.”
“By the grace of God, who looks out for the just and innocent,” Stibblestich said. His breath smelled like brandy and pickled eggs, and Elijah’s stomach lurched.
“And also because the Duke of Cosway was able to knock those holding his wife to the ground,” Cheever-Chittlesford added.
“If we don’t make an example of this,” Stibblestich said, “there’ll be no end to it. People will be free to assault the highest in the country, to molest those of the highest blood. We cannot allow such an abomination!”
“The argument is that firing the one boat involved in the uprising would serve as a warning to other prisoners,” Cheever-Chittlesford said, rocking back on his heels.
He wasn’t a bad man. But he was a pr
agmatic man, and Elijah surmised that he was facing considerable pressure. Nothing else could explain Cheever-Chittlesford’s appearance at his house. Nothing other than the fact that Elijah had served as something of a conscience for Pitt, the one man who wasn’t motivated enough by money or power to lay aside all sense of principle.
“It is wrong to burn those men inside the boat,” Elijah stated. There, the decent truth of it was on the table. “It’s against God’s law and ours.”
“The Parliament makes the laws,” Stibblestich argued. “Together with the king. And sometimes the harshest remedies must be chosen for the good of all. Of course, each man would be allowed to make his last confession. We are not barbarians.”
But of course they were barbarians. The appeal to decency had to be made, as Elijah saw it. Cheever-Chittlesford knew. He knew it was wrong. But that wasn’t the argument that would sway them.
“You intend to burn the ship with the men manacled inside,” Elijah said. “There, in the presence of all London. Will you advertise this fact?”
“Certainly,” Stibblestich said promptly. “How else can we ensure that the criminal element understands the serious consequences of laying hands on a peer? Of rebelling against the punishment meted out to them by a thoughtful and understanding judiciary? It will serve as a lesson to all restless criminal minds who plan such riots.”
“Most of those prisoners, as you know, served in the Royal Navy,” Elijah said. He let that comment hang in the air for a moment. “There are former sailors in the hulks who stole as little as a loaf of bread because they were starving.”
Even Stibblestich knew that returning soldiers were a vast problem in England. “Their home counties should care for them,” he said lamely. But the counties from which these men came could not afford to feed and clothe a man on crutches, or a man with only one eye and one hand.
“Let’s just imagine,” Elijah said, “what the citizens of London will think and feel as they watch the boat burn.”
Stibblestich seized that, of course. “Londoners love a good execution! We’ve had hundreds watching around Tyburn when a murderer is being hanged—or better yet, drawn and quartered.”