by Lenora Bell
Grafton was the illegitimate son of an earl, who had financed Grafton’s schooling, but refused any other form of assistance or contact. Edgar had met Grafton during his first year at Cambridge.
“Better to have no father,” agreed Edgar.
“I met him once, your father,” Grafton said carefully. “You’re nothing like him. Nothing at all. For one thing, I know you to be a good man, who would never even look at an unwilling woman.”
Edgar grimaced. “No difference, don’t you see? Even willing, she’s my servant. It’s an unequal balance of power. Dallying with her makes me no better than the old duke.”
“You’re too hard on yourself. The lady was strong-minded and more than capable of fending for herself, from my observation of her.”
“It doesn’t matter if I have the best of intentions, if I mean to treat her with respect and keep her at a distance. If my actions speak differently than my words, I’m no better than he was.”
“Can you trust Miss Perkins to make decisions that are right for her?”
Edgar thought about that for a moment. “She may think they’re right for her, but she’s so young, Grafton. Remember when we were that young? The idiotic things we did?”
Grafton chuckled. “I remember waving our bare arses at a group of matrons while we were standing up in a donkey cart. Inebriated out of our minds. Utterly sotted.”
“Exactly. I made very, very poor decisions. I never touch brandy now. And I’m not about to begin indulging in governesses. The only sensible thing to do is avoid her. I hired a governess to restore peace and order and she’s producing the opposite effect. Consuming my thoughts. I need to redirect my attention where it needs to be—here, at the foundry.”
“With a bunch of sweaty, unwashed men? I’d rather think about pretty girls, myself.”
“You know what I mean,” Edgar said impatiently. “We’ve got to solve the problem of the boiler system. It’s still too heavy.”
Grafton nodded. “That we do. But sometimes if you try too hard at something, it will elude you, I’ve found. Maybe what you need is a bit of a holiday from all this.” He gestured around the office. “You’re wound up too tightly. You’re bound to snap, just like that poor pencil.”
Edgar glanced down. Another broken pencil in his palm. He added it to the pile of fragmented wood littering his desk.
A holiday. It wasn’t the worst idea. But not for Edgar, for Miss Perkins and the children.
She’d told him the twins missed the seaside. And he’d told her there was seashore in England.
His family used to holiday at Southend, less than a day’s journey from London.
“Grafton, you’re brilliant.”
“Clearly,” said Grafton. “So you’ll be leaving for a spell then?”
“I won’t be going anywhere.”
“But you just said—”
“I’m not going anywhere. But Miss Perkins and the children will be going to Southend. I’ll make all of the arrangements.” Edgar leapt up from his desk. “There’s no time like the present.”
Grafton gave him a skeptical look. “Sending her away won’t make your feelings for her disappear.”
“Who said anything about feelings? This is mere physical attraction. Out of sight, out of mind.”
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
Edgar groaned. “Grafton, are we spouting proverbs at each other?”
“It appears that way.”
“She leaves, Grafton.” Edgar swept a pile of shattered pencils into the bin. “The sooner the better.”
Chapter 14
Mari’s heart hammered as she read the sign.
Arthur Shadwell, Esquire. Engraved on an ordinary plate on an ordinary door on one of the endless rows of brick buildings in Cheapside.
This was her first off day, and she was going to make the most of it. The quest that had begun after Mrs. Crowley made her confession had led her here, to this door, this possibility. The knowledge she craved more than anything. The true reason she was here in London.
The tendrils of connection forming between her and the children were undeniable, and she very much hoped she would have the chance to nurture them into fruition.
But the connection she felt with the duke? An utter impossibility. She mustn’t go around thinking that she and Banksford shared anything other than his roof.
Yesterday, he’d made it very clear that he thought of her as an inconvenience.
All of these desires he evoked in her were dangerous in the extreme.
If visiting this lawyer became an opportunity for her, she must take it.
This could change everything. Could she be an heiress? That wasn’t likely, but it did happen in novels, sometimes. But if she were an heiress, then the lawyer had been searching for her because someone had died.
She hoped that wasn’t the case, because what she longed for most of all was a connection with her past, someone who might be able to tell her the story of her birth, and why she had been left at the orphanage.
Yes, a person would be far preferable to a fortune.
She wouldn’t find out anything if she didn’t go inside.
Either she would find answers, or she wouldn’t. Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst; that way she wouldn’t be disappointed.
She adjusted Lady India’s blue velvet-lined bonnet so that the brim sat farther back on her head. She needed a full range of vision. Her life may be about to change forever.
A young man with a sloppy cravat and rumpled hair answered her ring. “Yes? May I help you?” he asked.
“Mr. Arthur Shadwell?”
“Yes.”
She’d expected someone older, she didn’t know why. Probably because the lawyer had visited the orphanage several years past and this fellow looked barely out of university, his face spotted with red blemishes.
“May I come in and speak with you for a moment, Mr. Shadwell?”
He eyed the gold buttons on her pelisse and seemed to make up his mind that she was well worth his time. His manner changed completely. “Miss . . . ?”
“Perkins.”
“Miss Perkins, do come in.” He bowed unsteadily, and for one panicked moment Mari thought she might have to catch him and help him regain his feet. But he righted himself and ushered her inside, hastily swiping away stacks of papers from a chair.
His desk was covered in drifts of papers and books lined every surface of the room.
She couldn’t help noticing the unwashed stoneware and the heavy smell of rat droppings and cheap gin.
Mr. Shadwell was perhaps not the most respectable of lawyers. Didn’t he have a clerk or a maid to assist him?
When she was settled, he took a seat across the desk from her. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you tea,” he said. “My maid chose a very inconvenient time to run off with my clerk.”
Well that answered her question. “Never mind,” she said, “I don’t want tea. I need information.”
“What sort of information? An investigation? I specialize in matters of the heart.” He leaned forward and the strong smell of gin intensified. “Is your sweetheart cuckolding you, Miss Perkins? I’ll catch him out, never fear.”
Mari blinked. “That’s not it at all. This is about a past investigation. One you conducted on behalf of a client I should very much like to know more about.”
“A past investigation. I see.” He steepled his fingers and attempted to place his chin upon them, but missed, catching his nose instead. His head jolted back upright.
That’s when Mari realized that Mr. Arthur Shadwell, Esquire, was completely and utterly foxed.
“Do you perhaps need a glass of water, Mr. Shadwell?” Dashed in your face, perhaps?
“Could use a little liquid refreshment, at that.” He opened his desk drawer and extracted a flask. Taking several long gulps, he held it out to her. “Care for a nip?”
“Humph,” she sniffed. This interview was not going according to plan. Could she trust
anything the man said? He was drinking in front of a woman wearing the clothing of a lady, and sitting slumped over as if his head might slam into the desk at any moment.
As much as it pained her, she may have to come back later. When the man was sober. “Should I come back later, Mr. Shadwell? You seem rather indisposed at the moment.”
“Indishposed,” he slurred. “Not a bit of it. Feeling fit as a fiddle and right as rain. Now tell me about the gentleman in question. Did he take your virtue and you want revenge? You can be frank with me.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Shadwell. I’m not here because of some love affair gone wrong. I’m here because you, or I believe it was you, visited the Underwood Orphanage and Charity School near the village of Hathersage, in Derbyshire, less than two years ago. You were inquiring about the whereabouts of a girl who had been left there as a babe, with a wooden toy rabbit and a prayer book.”
“Toy rabbit?” he scratched his head. “Can’t say as I ever investigated a toy rabbit.”
“Not the rabbit, the girl. The girl who was left at the orphanage.”
“Never been to an orphanage,” he said. “Horrible places, lousy with bedbugs and crying babes.”
“How long have you been a lawyer, sir?” Mari asked sternly.
“Long enough,” he said belligerently. “Long enough to know that I charge by the minute. And you’ve been here . . .” He lifted his pocket watch from his waistcoat with unsteady fingers. “Ten minutes, Miss Perkins. Ten minutes of my time. That’s—”
“Are you certain you never visited an orphanage in Derbyshire?” she persisted.
“Why would I?” He took another slug from his flask. “Not much action in Derbyshire. No, the love scandals are all in London, Miss Perkins. Your cheating husbands, crimes of passion, courtesans on the side, illegitimate children . . . that’s my bread and butter.”
“You’re the only Arthur Shadwell listed in Johnstone’s London Commercial Guide.”
“Am I? Sometimes I do see double when I look in the glass.” He laughed. Then hiccupped.
The man was impossible. Mari had had enough.
“Well this has been extremely disappointing.” She rose. “You do know it’s only half ten of the morning. Shameful,” she said. “Most shameful.”
“Half ten?” He leapt from his desk. “Half ten? Why didn’t you say so? I’m late for court. Where’s my wig?” He searched the room.
She pointed to the ceiling. There was a white wig dangling from the light fixture.
“How did it get up there? Did you put it there?”
“If you have a sudden memory of visiting the Underwood Orphanage, Mr. Shadwell, you may find me at Number Seventeen, Grosvenor Square. I’m in the employ of the Duke of Banksford. Good day, sir.” She stormed out of his office and back to the street.
Mari gulped a breath of air to clear her head and watering eyes after the close confines of Mr. Shadwell’s disreputable office. It didn’t seem possible that her search could have ended so abruptly and in such drunken ignominy. Arthur Shadwell. That was the name Mrs. Crowley had told her, she was sure of it.
Could it be Shadewell, perhaps? Arturio, or Arlin, instead of Arthur? She would try every variation, because that drunken man inside that squalid office was definitely not the man she was searching for.
Disappointed and a little disheartened, Mari trudged toward High Holborn Street. She would visit Lumley’s Toy Shop and ask about P.L. Rabbit.
The duke had said the toy shop was a magical place.
And she needed a little magic right now.
Visiting lawyers and kissing dukes were not so dissimilar, she reflected. Both of them made her pulse race with anticipation . . . and both ended in frustration.
Edgar could never kiss Miss Perkins again. Never. And that meant never, ever, not in a thousand years. He could never kiss her again, but he could follow her instructions.
She’d told him to take the twins to Lumley’s Toy Shop. Therefore here he was, outside the toy shop, with a child on either side of him.
“Why isn’t Miss Perkins with us?” asked Adele, for the third time.
“It’s her off day,” Edgar said patiently, for the third time.
“What’s she doing?” asked Michel.
“She’s off . . .” What was she doing? She’d gone out early, Mrs. Fairfield had told him. Did she have friends in London? Family?
“She’s off having tea with the bishop, for all I know,” he said.
She’d avoided his questions about her family. She’d said her father was a vicar, hadn’t she?
He didn’t know much about her background, really.
He only knew that Mari Perkins, superior governess, drove him to distraction with her insightful conversation and her passionate kisses. And he was sending her and the children to the seaside. All of the arrangements had been made. He’d rented the entire top floor of the Royal Hotel in Seaside. Today, he would purchase the twins everything they required for a seaside holiday.
His footman, Carl, opened the door for them and a bell tinkled deep inside the shop, setting off a long-buried memory.
Nine years old, entering the doors of paradise, where kind, jolly Mr. Lumley was sure to make him laugh, and give him some boiled sweets from his candy jar.
The shop had been a special place for Edgar. He’d even pretended Mr. Lumley was his father, instead of the cold, bitter man who lived at Edgar’s home, but whom he saw only on rare occasions.
And on those rare occasions when the duke was home, they’d walked on eggshells, he and India, and their mother.
They’d never known what might set him off. A wrong word. A toy left in a hallway.
Adele tugged on his hand. “May we have a sweet?”
“I’m sure Mr. Lumley will give you one,” he replied.
The candy dish was still there on the oaken counter with the glass top. Everything was exactly the same.
“That’s a lot of toys,” said Michel in an awed tone of voice, his gaze darting around the shop.
Edgar could tell he was trying to sound unimpressed, but his eyes were lively, jumping over the display shelves filled with toys and games.
“I loved coming here when I was your age,” said Edgar.
Two pairs of dark eyes stared up at him.
“It’s been open that long?” asked Adele.
Edgar laughed. “I’m not that old, young miss.”
“Can I help you find something, sir?” asked a young shop clerk in the same coat of blue and silver the shop clerks had been garbed in when Edgar had visited as a boy.
“Is Mr. Lumley here?” Edgar asked.
“He is, sir. In the back rooms.”
“Inform him the Duke of Banksford is here,” said Carl, with a self-important shifting of his large shoulders.
The clerk snapped to attention. “Your Grace,” he bowed to Edgar. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir,” he said to Carl.
“Oh look,” cried Adele. “There’s P.L. Rabbit!” She pointed to a high shelf over the counter where a row of wooden rabbits, ducks, and dolls sat in a row.
“That’s not P.L.” Michel studied the rabbit. “He’s wearing trousers.”
“Well then it’s P.L.’s long lost brother, P.S.”
“P.S.?” asked Edgar.
“Pin Shin, of course,” said Adele.
“Of course,” Edgar replied.
“We’ll have to tell Miss Perkins that we found P.L.’s brother at a toy shop,” said Adele.
Mr. Lumley entered the room, his hair gone silver, but the same kindly smile upon his face. He wore thick spectacles and carried a cane, tapping it in front of him.
“Can it be young Master Edgar?” he asked.
Edgar laughed. “Not so young anymore.” He strode to the counter and shook Lumley’s hand warmly. “It’s good to see you, Lumley.”
“Well I don’t see so well, these days, Your Grace,” said Lumley, “but it’s very good to hear your voice. And who are these
small shapes?” he asked, turning his milky gaze toward the twins.
“My two children, Adele and Michel.”
“We’re twins,” said Michel.
“We’re precocious,” said Adele.
“Oh my,” said Lumley. “Is that contagious?”
“No.” Adele laughed. “It means we’re intelligent.”
“Then I know exactly what you need.” Lumley reached behind him. The shop clerk hovered nearby but the shopkeeper knew the location of everything.
“Here you are, young master.” He handed Michel a wooden chess board, and he gave the pieces to Adele. “Have you ever played chess before?”
“Never,” said Michel.
“My clerk will explain the rules,” said Lumley.
The clerk took the children to a low table by the window, the perfect height for the children.
“I used to love to play chess,” said Edgar.
“I remember. You would always tell me how many times you’d won against your friends,” said Lumley.
“I see you still have kites.”
“Kites will never go out of fashion. Always going to be wind to lift them, you know. Tell me, Your Grace, are you well? How is Lady India? Has she married? Does she have children of her own, now?”
“My sister’s not the marrying kind, Lumley. She’s always off digging up antiquities.”
“She always did like the trowels.”
“And the curiosities. Remember when she convinced one of your customers that a small thumb vial contained the actual tears of Cleopatra?”
Lumley laughed. “She was quite good at spinning tales.”
“Still is. And she’s still placing outrageous wagers. She bet one hundred pounds that I would marry before her.”
Lumley frowned. “You never . . . married?”
“I didn’t know about the twins until a few months ago, actually,” said Edgar. “Or I would have brought them to meet you earlier.”
“It’s been a very long time. I’m an old man now. Old and alone. Don’t end up like me, Your Grace, with no heir or family.”
“Can’t think about marriage right now. Too busy with my foundry.”
“Your foundry?”
“The Vulcan Foundry. We’re producing steam engines.”