“Yes.” She coughed slightly. “I do not mean to interrupt your reflections, Captain, but I must be on my way or Betsy will scold me.”
“Of course, of course.” He held out his arm to indicate she could begin walking and followed behind her. The cakie uniform was relatively shapeless, but the way she’d wrapped her shawl caused her skirt to bellow out over what seemed like a most shapely bottom, particularly the way she used it. How had he never noticed her long, pavement-eating glide of leg, or the way her hips rotated so smoothly under the skirt?
His erection was not subsiding at all and he found it hard to keep up his usual pace. “I had a thought, Miss Cross.”
She peered at him as they moved across the street. “Are you well? Your face is a bit pale.”
“Very fine, absolutely. My thought was that you should not walk to work unescorted if criminals are actively working on your route.”
“Surely that was an isolated occurrence.”
“We know it was not. First we were pushed into the doorway by the policeman escorting his prisoner, and then your reticule was taken.”
“My brother is too busy to take me. I cannot afford a cab and we have no available servants for escort.”
“I was volunteering myself, not the members of your overworked household, Miss Cross. I propose we meet by Eddy Jackson each morning.”
“But you do not need to be in as early as I do.”
“Why not? I am the manager.”
“It will not be pleasant in another month,” she worried.
“Then we shall share an umbrella.”
“I just mean you could afford to take a cab from your house. Or even hire your own carriage.”
“I am a soldier and like the outdoors and exercise,” he proclaimed. “I am tough.”
“You will eat those words, sir, when you are shivering under a London fog. You have never lived here. It’s all been sunny Sussex or broiling India.”
His eyes went to slits as he cast her a glance. The corners of her lips were uptilted. The chit was teasing him.
“I shall prove you wrong.” He took her arm and steered her away from a fresh pile of manure.
“Very well. I shall meet you at Nelson’s Column each morning.”
“And take a cab home, paid for by Redcake’s.”
“Now, Captain,” she said sharply, “I will not have you wasting your sister-in-law’s money that way.”
“Out of my personal income then. As you say, I can afford it.”
“No,” she said, lifting her chin. “At least, not unless I see more evidence of crime on these streets in broad daylight. You know I leave at one.”
“Very well. But the offer stands.” He stepped aside once again so she could enter the alley that led to the loading dock. They walked single file to avoid the carts.
Betsy waved from the other direction, meeting them at the employee door. “I was just thinking about you, Captain, and wondering how you were settling in.” She blinked.
Magdalene noticed how long and sooty her eyelashes were, considering her hair was chestnut brown. The girl had blackened them with something, but it had the effect of making her eyes large and mysterious. The captain smiled instantly and she growled to herself.
“It has been one of the most fascinating months of my life,” said he. “I hope Miss Cross has been a smart choice of employee?”
As Magdalene stared her down, the girl smiled sweetly. “She is learning, sir. A bit old to be starting, but I will get her there.”
Magdalene balled her hands into fists. Her cousin, Lady Bricker, would have pulled Betsy’s hair from her head for a smaller insult than this. But she would not behave like a hoyden.
“If you’d seen her artwork, you would understand why I chose her,” Captain Shield said. “I hope she will be decorating cakes very soon?”
He’d turned the statement into a question that sounded more like a command and Magdalene was delighted to see Betsy’s expression falter. Ha! He’d put the girl in her place.
“Of course, Captain, but she has no grasp of the basics. Alys always said to start at the beginning.”
“Her ladyship trusts my judgment,” he said. “After all, I am in charge.”
Magdalene put her hand to her mouth, hiding her grin as Betsy’s cheeks went red.
“I’ve always baked in the morning and decorated in the afternoon. Miss Cross only works in the morning.”
“Switch it around, Miss Popham. It gives the flavors time to develop overnight and the cakes will be cool and ready for frosting in the morning.” He nodded curtly and marched through the open door.
Magdalene was impressed by his exit and most effective end to the conversation.
“Well,” Betsy huffed. “What does he expect us to do this morning?”
“We can organize,” Magdalene said in her sweetest tone. “The cupboards are a bit cluttered, don’t you think?”
Betsy’s gaze could have been daggers slicing at her, so Magdalene nodded at the door. “After you, Miss Popham.”
The girl’s words came out staccato. “Thank you, Miss Cross. Thankfully Thursday is not so busy. I am sure the captain would not want us ruining our clients’ parties on his whim. Perhaps you should return home for the day. I don’t think I need you.”
Magdalene didn’t think whims came into the captain’s desires. He seemed much too forceful for mere whims. “Then I shall go to his office and see if he finds it acceptable for me to leave.”
“You report to me.” Betsy’s eyes were blazing now.
“He never told me so. I might report to Mr. Melville. I shall go and ask.” She smiled toothily and marched indoors, opening the door and starting up the stairs to the offices without looking back.
“Wait!” Betsy said. “I did think of one or two little things.”
Magdalene turned. “Then I shall wait to speak to the captain.” Little did the girl know she’d be seeing him every morning from now on—plenty of opportunity to head off any petty malice. Or flirtation. She couldn’t help noticing the flirtation, and didn’t like it one bit.
Had Magdalene claimed ownership of the man in the depth of her own heart? No, she could never have him. A man like him needed a rich wife, or he could never take a place in the fashionable world, as a second son who her brother said had no private income or inheritance from relatives. As he well knew, she would never be rich. All she had to offer was her position and family.
Clearly, the kiss had been a mistake. She closed her eyes, stumbling on the basement stairs as she relived the moment where the captain’s warm, overpowering lips had met hers. That kiss had sunk into her bones, fanning her depths into flame. Her heated Cross blood might make her fall yet, despite her resolve to be different.
On Friday afternoon, Judah received a summons to Hatbrook House for dinner. He frowned at the note, wondering who was in Town.
The last he’d heard from his family was the weekly letter from Beth, which had arrived Wednesday. So, instead of walking home, he called for a cab, then bathed and changed into evening dress while it waited outside for the drive to Belgravia.
The season was descending into fall, as the streets were dark much earlier than they had been a month ago. He watched as gas lamps passed by, hoping everything was well with Alys. Surely they’d have sent specific word if anything was wrong. He’d have to make it clear to Hatbrook that he desired not to be spared any family details in future. Heathfield was not far away. The ever expanding railroad continued to compress travel times to almost nothing.
The hansom cab drove to the large white stucco mansion that was the Marquess of Hatbrook’s London home. Judah could not remember ever spending a night in the house. His parents had frequently been in residence, but he’d been left at the Farm with servants.
He paid the driver and told him not to wait, then went up the front steps. A footman opened the front door.
“I have a letter of invitation,” Judah said.
“Captain Shield,” said
the man smoothly. “I would recognize you as family anywhere.”
“I do look something like the marquess,” he said, stepping inside and taking off his hat. Hatbrook must have mentioned he preferred to be known by his military title.
“Your portrait is in the Grand Rose Salon,” said the footman. “Also a painting of you and the marquess as boys is in a place of honor in the ladies’ withdrawing room.”
He frowned. “I never sat for such a portrait.”
“I believe it is signed by Lady Elizabeth.”
Beth had painted him? “Must have been a schoolroom exercise.”
The footman inclined his head, then took his hat. “His lordship is in the library, Captain. If you would be so kind.”
Judah followed the footman across the diamond-paned white and tan marble floor, amazed by the perfection of the surroundings. The house didn’t look the least bit run down. He supposed Hatbrook had been quite honest about his success in restoring the family fortunes, even before he married into wealth.
Why was Hatbrook here? He wondered again about a family drama of some kind as the footman took him down a corridor illuminated by gaslit sconces. No money being spared on the gas bill here.
The footman knocked on a thick door and opened it a moment later, gesturing Judah inside. He stepped in, tugging at his collar. His evening suit was pre-army and much too tight now. He’d have to order something new when he was paid again.
Hatbrook turned, a book open in his hand. “Judah! You look nervous.”
Judah laughed. “Old clothes. My neck has grown.”
Hatbrook frowned. “I’d lend you something of mine, but you’re taller than me now.”
“And more muscular,” Judah pointed out.
His brother smirked. “That won’t last long, with you behind a desk. At least I can get out at the Farm sometimes. You should come down and muck out the stables on your days off. That will keep you fit.”
“I can hoist some flour sacks at Redcake’s. That will probably work.”
“No doubt. My wife has unusually shapely arms due to all her labors, not that she would thank me for saying so.”
“I can see from the gleam in your eye that you do not find this unattractive.”
Hatbrook set down his book. “This chat wasn’t why I invited you for dinner.”
“Are you here alone?”
“Yes, just a quick trip to meet with my man of business, and to give you these.” He went to the imposing desk in one corner and tapped his finger on a crate.
Judah peered in. Rose-colored notepaper in bundles, along with other letters, and a collection of blue notebooks. “You found Mother’s papers?”
Hatbrook nodded. “In the attics. Beth and I spent half a day looking. She couldn’t let it go.”
His stomach growled, reminding him that he’d come for a meal, but he pushed his hunger aside. “Did you read them?”
“No. I saved the honor for you. If there is some answer there, I wanted you to find it.”
Judah raised his eyebrows. “At least that way I won’t have to tell you if it’s bad.”
His brother chuckled. “If you tell me we’re related, at least that won’t pose a problem.”
“No, but would you feel the same about me if I was sired by a stable hand?”
“I’d be more concerned if you were sired by one of the Dickon-dells,” Hatbrook said, naming an extremely fertile local family in their circle. “But your looks do appear to come mostly from our mother. No one would think we weren’t full brothers, and I will never share your secret.”
“You do understand that I need to know the truth?”
“No, not really. To keep your position in Society, you can never have a relationship with that person, regardless of who it is.”
“I don’t want a position in Society.”
Hatbrook pulled a card from a drawer and tossed it at Judah. He caught it in the air and turned it over. “This is an invitation to a musical evening with a family named Courtnay next week. He’s from Liverpool, made his money in manufacturing. Daughter is nineteen, I think, so they are entertaining in the hopes of marrying her off.”
“You’re trying to find me an heiress?”
“Why not? But my primary purpose in handing you that is to point out Society is useful in your search. This party will include Mother’s circle.” He hesitated. “Not the highest, of course. She wasn’t well liked for reasons I never really understood until this year. But, among her lifelong acquaintances is where you are likely to find answers, if they are not in that box.”
Judah glanced at the card. “You make an excellent point. Not about the heiress, but about my search. Hopefully I will find the answer before next Friday, but I shall accept the invitation.”
“Good.” Hatbrook clapped him on the shoulder. “Shall we dine?”
Chapter Six
Judah spent the next morning in his small study, drinking innumerable cups of tea while he poured over his mother’s elegant handwriting. He had sorted the contents of the crate, putting the newest material at the bottom and tossing the material before 1860 onto the table at his elbow. His mother could have had a longstanding amour, but since he was born in late July of 1863, the beginning of the Season in 1860 might have answers for him.
He poured through an appointment book and a series of letters from various ladies, relatives long dead, Aunt Mary, even one drunken scrawl from the late marquess. Nothing appeared immediately relevant and he took a break to eat, attempting to stave off the headache blossoming behind his eyes.
Fending off tribesmen with sharp weapons was one thing, but spending hours reading about the banalities of card parties and ancient gossip tortured him.
After lunch and a medicinal shot of brandy, he took up the rose papers, which seemed to be first drafts of his mother’s letters. Her love of that color must have started early. As he read her drafts, he remembered how young she had been then, about twenty-two when he was born. Surely her youth could provide the answer and excuse for her mistakes.
He found no mention of men, just amusements, tidbits about her baby son, much discussion about redecorating Hatbrook House in London. Then, part of a letter dated at the end of October intrigued him.
The P of W is lately returned from the United States and Canada, and he has such interesting things to say on the subject. Oh, I do wish I was a man and could have had such adventures, but instead I must dine on reflected glory. I had never been to Oxford before but the marquess’s particular friend invited us to a house party nearby and HRH, back at his studies, came to a dinner.
The Prince of Wales? Judah read the letter again, then set it aside and flipped through the rest of the drafts. Finding nothing more, he searched her appointment book. She had indeed been at a countess’s house party at the end of October, 1860. Had he been conceived during an Oxford liaison?
It seemed unlikely. After all, his father had been present. But he’d always heard much tiptoeing was done at night at these parties, as the men and women sought companionship outside the marriage bed. His father would probably have sat at cards day and night, gambling away his inheritance. In this early year of their lives, they had still been young, glittering and wealthy, prize guests for almost any hostess. The Prince of Wales might have been enticed. His mother hadn’t been so much older than him.
Was it possible? He laughed at himself. That would make him Queen Victoria’s bastard grandson. Not bloody likely.
But still. He read the letter again, and wondered. Particularly when he found another letter in the stack, to the same friend, one his mother called Sally.
I do love curly hair on men. And full lips. As you know, Hatbrook has neither attribute. But the P of W? Both in abundance!
This was dated a few days after the house party. Had she stayed in Oxford after her husband returned to London or Heathfield? A man might step out of the way if royalty wanted to woo his wife. Not that he would ever let that happen to himself. If he married he wouldn’t sha
re.
He read late into the evening, ruining the household candle budget as the gaslighting in the study was poor, but he found no more obvious comments about the prince, though there were a couple of veiled references to men who might have been him. By early the next year, her letters were taken up with news of her pregnancy. He did notice the volume of correspondence had diminished by half, or at least only that much had survived. Was she already in disgrace?
As the last candle guttered, he leaned into the headrest of the armchair. At the very least, the idea of him having a father was obtainable. The Prince of Wales was alive. Now, if he could only find this friend of his mother’s, Sally. She would know the truth.
He rubbed at his chest, feeling a knot of pain dissolving. He’d had trouble swallowing for months, ever since that strange deathbed confession had arrived at his station in India. But he’d found the key to his identity now. He simply needed to find the lock.
Hatbrook had insisted Judah call on his tailor, saying he must be kitted out properly for parties. Of course, his brother wanted him married off, his own happiness being so acute. He also worried about his younger brother’s finances, but his manager salary covered the small house with no problem. It was meant to be the salary of a family man, albeit one who didn’t need a current evening suit.
The next Friday night, his man, Lawrence, finished brushing down his new shawl-collared coat. Judah picked a thread from his low-cut, white piqué waistcoat. Neither had been in style when he went to India. He also had a new silk top hat, button shoes, and pale yellow gloves. Hatbrook had been right that he couldn’t wear his old suit to fashionable functions. It was much too out of date, not to mention ill fitting.
“You look the proper gentleman, Captain,” Lawrence said.
Judah nodded his thanks as he placed the new hat on his head. “Has the carriage arrived?”
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