The winning boy lowered his hand. “Jacob, ma’am.”
“Congratulations, Jacob,” she said, with a clap of her hands. “Step forward and receive your reward.”
He skidded to a halt in front of Lord Danforth and wrapped his fingers around the bandilore.
“Jacob.” Mrs. Drummond’s commanding voice boomed out.
The boy froze. So did Sydney.
“Manners, Mr. Buckley,” Mrs. Kingston said, her tone gentle but firm.
Jacob’s hand fell and he swallowed hard. “Thank you, m’lord.”
“You’re welcome, young man. But I’m not the one to thank.” Lord Danforth nodded toward Sydney. “I’m only Mrs. Henshaw’s humble assistant.”
The boy’s gaze slashed to Sydney. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Unexpected pinpricks stung the back of Sydney’s eyes. “Enjoy, Jacob.”
He dashed back in line, a look of wonder on his youthful face as he stared at his new treasure.
Sydney glanced down the line of boys and wondered how long each of them had been here. How long had they been deprived of such simple pleasures?
“Who’s next?” Lord Danforth asked, pulling Sydney from her unpleasant musings.
More hands this time.
Somehow Sydney managed to slip back into her lighthearted persona. She smiled at a boy who had more freckles than a strawberry. “Your name?”
“A-arthur, ma’am.”
She waved her hand toward the bulging bag. “You may select your own prize.”
“Truly?”
The boy’s eyes rounded so wide, Sydney feared they might actually pop out of his head. “Truly. Go on.”
Unlike Jacob, Arthur strode up to his lordship with careful, slow steps. He held his right elbow with his left hand, almost as if he were hugging himself. Halting, he peered up at Lord Danforth.
“Nothing in there will bite you, lad,” Lord Danforth said so low that Sydney barely caught his words.
Arthur took in a heaping lungful of air before thrusting his hand inside the bag—and immediately yanked it out. Clutched between his bony fingers was a linen bag, cinched at the top. “Can I open it, sir?”
Again, Lord Danforth deferred to Sydney. Given what she knew of his background, his consideration of her role in their charade surprised her. She had always assumed he cared little for women, in general. He used their bodies until he pulled every morsel of intelligence from their minds. Then he moved on to the next bountiful bed.
Red satin sheets. A masculine calf entwined with a sleek feminine one. The image came to her with such force and heat that her heart bounded into her throat. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see beyond the fading shadow of the erotic image. Whose calves had she just witnessed in such a compromising position? His lordship’s? Hers?
“Mrs. Henshaw,” Arthur said. “Can I open the bag now?”
Once more, she had to dig deep into her acting repertoire. She wiggled a finger at him. “I will be quite cross if you don’t, Arthur.”
She was rewarded with his big, toothy smile. “Thank you.” He pulled the top open and let out a whoop. Glancing behind him, he said to his friends, “Marbles.” His fingers dug inside until he retrieved a piece. “Look at how white this alley is.” He rolled the large alabaster marble between his fingers. “I can barely see the pink streaks.”
“Back in line,” Mrs. Drummond barked out as if he were a soldier.
Arthur’s joy dimmed but did not disappear. Pivoting, he returned to his position, examining each precious sphere.
“You did well,” Lord Danforth murmured near Sydney’s ear. “In case you couldn’t tell by his reaction, the whiter the marble, the better.”
Before he moved away, Sydney caught a whiff of his warm, musky scent. She drew in a long, deep breath. “I’m glad.” To the boys, she asked, “Who would like to try their hand next?”
Arms razored into the air. This time, with no hesitancy. They spent the next hour learning names and giving away gifts. For Sydney, it was one of the best hours of her life. The boys were sparkling with enthusiasm, and she and Lord Danforth worked in perfect accord. Every so often, his arm would brush up against hers, sending waves of awareness tingling through her body. The idyllic setting would not have been complete, however, without Mrs. Drummond making her presence known on occasion. But Sydney did not allow the nurse’s black mood to ruin the moment.
What did slowly extinguish Sydney’s good cheer was the fact they were running out of boys. With only two more left, she worried Giles Clarke might be the child in the infirmary. If that turned out to be the case, she had no brilliant plan of how to reach him.
She glanced at Lord Danforth and wondered if he had come to the same conclusion. The tight set to his jaw and the narrowing of his eyes told her he had. Of course, he had. He would never have survived this long in the Nexus without the ability to detect an oncoming disaster.
Her mission faced failure. Other than a perpetually unhappy nurse and a schoolmaster’s uncomfortable scrutiny, she had nothing to indicate inappropriate behavior within Abbingale Home or a link to Lord Latymer. Her last hope of finding something tangible died when she entered this secret chamber, which wasn’t secret at all, and gazed upon a room full of playing children.
She had, perhaps, one more means of uncovering a connection to the baron. But that would have to wait until tonight.
Fourteen
Giles Clarke was not here. Ethan’s frustration seethed beneath the surface of his pleasant facade. Had the intelligence the Nexus received been wrong? He doubted it. Ned Ashcroft had gone to great pains to relay the information to Somerton before he was murdered.
That left Ethan with two options to consider—one, the boy had been moved to a new location, or two, Giles was the sick one upstairs. Neither option improved his mood.
“Now that I know all your names,” Miss Hunt, or rather Mrs. Henshaw, said, “it’s time to share mine.”
“What about him, ma’am?” one of the boys—Noah—asked.
“The game was mine to play, Noah,” she said. “I did not ask Lord Danforth ahead of time if he’d like to participate.”
Ethan dropped the portmanteau on the floor, beside his feet. Wood clattered together. “What is a bit of familiarity among friends? I’m Ethan.”
“Thank you, sir,” Noah said, “but I was talking about him.” He pointed down the row.
After sharing a glance with Miss Hunt, Ethan strode down to where Noah was pointing. Every boy his gaze touched on held a toy to his chest, as if they were afraid Ethan would pluck them away. And then, he caught a glimpse of a head pressed close to the shoulder blades of one of the older residents.
Craning his neck, Ethan tried to see the boy’s face, but his protector shifted ever so slightly to block his line of sight. Not that it mattered, for Ethan had never seen Giles Clarke, nor did he have a description.
“Mark, right?”
Scars from a childhood illness marred the older boy’s face, giving his countenance a rough look. One only had to examine the innocence around his eyes to know the truth.
“Yes, sir. Mark Snell.”
“Who do you have back there?”
“He doesn’t wish to play, m’lord.”
In full ridiculous regalia, Ethan said, “Come now. What lad doesn’t want a ball or whip-top or water-cutter?”
“All the same, sir. He passes.”
Ethan heard the whoosh of skirts behind him but dared not disengage the boy’s protector to discern who approached. “Have you any notion why he has no wish to accept Mrs. Henshaw’s generosity?”
“He meant no disrespect.”
“That’s good to know. Excuse me, Mark.” Ethan reached around and tapped the boy on the shoulder. When the boy tilted his head back, Ethan experienced an instant of recognition, but nothing solidified in his mind
. He shook off the strange sensation that he knew this child. “Might I have a word with you, lad?”
A shudder tracked down the boy’s small frame before he gathered himself and stepped around Mark. Eyes downcast, he said nothing.
Ethan peered over his shoulder and found the nurse a few feet behind. He smiled his most dazzling smile. Then he caught Sydney’s eye. “Would you mind it very much if the lads made use of your presents?”
Sydney took in the scene, and he saw understanding light her beautiful face. And something else, something deeper. Something dangerous.
“Not at all.” Then the something dangerous shifted into a shallow veil of deception. “Brilliant suggestion, my lord. I’m anxious to see all their toys at work.”
The boys didn’t so much as move a toe over the invisible line on which they stood until Mrs. Kingston gave them a nod. Then the ensuing cacophony was nearly deafening.
“If you’ll excuse us for a moment,” Ethan said, “I’d like to have a chat with my new friend.”
Mrs. Drummond began, “Lord Danforth, I don’t think—”
Ignoring the nurse, he guided the boy to the far corner of the room and then knelt on one knee so they were eye to eye. “You’ve no cause to fear me. Anything you tell me, I’ll keep it in the strictest confidence. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why do you not wish to share your name with Mrs. Henshaw?”
“I promised I wouldn’t.”
“Did any of the other boys make the same promise?”
The boy nodded.
“Yet they told us their name.”
“Some made up names.”
Ethan stared at the boy. If many of the boys used false names during their game, he might never identify Giles Clarke and, therefore, never be able to fulfill the promise the Nexus made to the boy’s mother. “Why must you keep your identity a secret, lad?”
“Someone might get hurt.”
“Someone at Abbingale?”
He shook his head, then stopped to think. Finally, he shrugged. “Maybe.”
Ethan rubbed his forefinger and thumb together in quick succession. His thoughts traveled at the same speed, throwing one persuasive argument away after the other. Until— “What if I guessed your name? Would that allow you to keep your promise and ensure no one gets hurt?”
The boy’s forehead crinkled, weighing Ethan’s offer against whatever secret he held. After almost a full minute of consideration, he gave Ethan the signal he’d been waiting for—a slow nod.
Blurting out the name that burned the tip of his tongue was likely not the best approach. Ethan did not want to make the boy any more worried than he already was. Whatever his reason was for hiding his identity, Ethan knew the stakes had to be high. No boy his age could pass up a bag full of toys without an incredible incentive.
Rubbing his chin, Ethan ventured a few guesses. “Valentine?”
The boy shook his head.
“Isaac?”
Another shake.
“Cornelius?”
A shake followed by knitted brows.
“George? Stephen? Peter? Elijah?”
The shaking continued, though his lips began to curl.
“Augustine?”
“Giles?”
At the last name, the boy’s eyes rounded with a mixture of shock and terror.
As for Ethan, his elation made him light-headed. He’d found the missing boy. He’d found Giles Clarke. Tamping down his triumph, he probed a bit further. “Giles, is it?”
“Please don’t tell anyone, sir. My mama—” He dipped his head, sniffling.
Ethan hated being the cause of the boy’s distress, but he had to make sure he had the right Giles. “I met a woman recently who spoke fondly of her son, Giles. Her surname was Clarke.”
Huge, mournful eyes lifted to Ethan. “Mama.”
Clasping the back of the boy’s neck, he said, “You’re a brave lad, Giles Clarke. I will protect your secret.” And return this evening to retrieve you.
“Is s-she coming to get me now?”
A knot the size of a cannonball formed in the back of Ethan’s throat. He couldn’t tell the boy the truth—that his mama couldn’t save him because she’d been stabbed to death. So he settled with a poor version of the truth. “You’ll be out of here in no time, Giles. Stay strong a little while longer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now come. Let’s see what Mrs. Henshaw has for you.”
“Please, no. If I take a toy, they’ll know I told you my name.”
“Who is ‘they’? The lads or the staff present?”
“The—” His eyes widened.
“Are you gentlemen having a good chat?” Mrs. Kingston asked.
One more minute. That’s all he had needed to pry the last morsel of intelligence from the boy. Who at Abbingale was behind his silence? Mrs. Drummond? Kingston? One of the older boys? The schoolmaster? Who had placed Giles here to ensure his mother’s cooperation? Latymer—the man who betrayed his country and the Nexus and tried to kill Somerton, his friend? Or was it someone he hadn’t met yet?
“A one-way conversation, for the most part,” Ethan said. “No matter how hard I tried, the lad wouldn’t give me his name.”
Matron sighed. “It’s the same with us. We had to list him in our registry as Adam. Adam Smith.”
“How did he come to be at Abbingale?”
“The same as many others. Dropped off at our doorstep.”
“No note?”
“No, my lord.”
“Well,” Ethan pressed his palms together, “the name Adam Smith will do. Let us reassemble the lads, so Adam can select his gift and everyone can find out Mrs. Henshaw’s name.”
Five minutes later, Giles lifted a cup and ball set from the bag. Quite a few jealous moans echoed down the line. Even the ever-serious Giles couldn’t keep the delight from his features. The cup consisted of a six-inch carved piece of wood, with a point on one end and a shallow cup on the other. A string attached the wooden handle to a bright red ball. The object of the game was to catch the ball in the cup. As the player’s skill progressed, the game’s goal changed to impaling the ball with the pointed end.
At first sight, many believed they could master the cup within seconds. A few humorous tries later, they would have to admit defeat. Ethan knew from experience the amount of dexterity one needed to catch—or impale—the ball. The trick was to balance the handle between the forefinger and thumb, rather than grip it like a bat.
Giles gave the toy a tentative try, but the ball dropped heavily to dangle from its string. A flush entered his cheeks, though he tried to cup the ball again—and got the same results.
“It takes a light touch, lad,” Ethan said. “And patience. A lot of patience.”
“Thank you, ma’am. M’lord,” Giles said, before resuming his place near Mark.
“Now that you have shared your names with me and Ethan, it’s time for me to share mine. I’m Sydney.”
Some of the younger boys giggled, no doubt loving the idea of being privy to such a vast secret. The middle boys stared at her with worshipful eyes, while the older boys tried to appear unaffected by the whole event.
As for Ethan, he stopped short of lifting a brow. Since she had devised a faux surname, he assumed she would don a false Christian name. He wondered if she would always keep him guessing. “Shall we release them?”
She nodded. “Thank you, gentlemen. Enjoy your gifts, and I’ll see you in a little while.”
After Mrs. Kingston’s nod, the boys tore away in all directions, eager to play with their games. Ethan took in the lively scene. It reminded him of his own youth, when he, Cora, and Guy would train and play together for long hours at a time. Although he would give anything to have his parents alive and happy, the chain of events that follo
wed their murders had prepared him for this never-ending war with France in ways he’d never imagined.
The realization was both enlightening and wrenching. Would God employ such a tragic bartering system? To obtain one’s dream, one must sacrifice something beloved? Rotating on his heel, he followed the women out. Why had he tainted such a pleasant moment with dreary speculation?
Mrs. Kingston and Miss Hunt awaited him in the corridor. “Well done, Mrs. Henshaw.” He rubbed his palms together. “That was a smashing hit.”
She smiled. “I haven’t had this much fun in ages.” She turned toward the matron. “Do you think Monsieur LaRouche has returned? Lord Danforth is so eager to meet Abbingale’s schoolmaster. Isn’t that right, my lord?”
“Indeed, I am.” Ethan’s mind reeled. How had he missed that the schoolmaster was French? Had she said his name before and he’d missed the implication? He didn’t think so, nor did he believe in coincidences. A French schoolmaster employed by an establishment holding a child that the Nexus believed might be linked to Latymer? “Anyone who can teach something to thirty boys in one room has my full and utter respect… and my curiosity.”
The matron’s gaze jumped between him and Miss Hunt. She seemed torn about something. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll check on Monsieur LaRouche’s whereabouts.”
When Mrs. Kingston turned the corner, Miss Hunt started to say something. He held up a staying finger and then counted to twenty for safe measure. “What is it?”
“Did you find him? The missing boy.”
“I did. He’s here under an assumed name. Not unlike someone else I know.”
She waved her hand in the air. “Adam Smith, I presume?”
“Yes.”
“I thought he might be the one, given your extended interest.”
“It took awhile to get him to confide in me. It’s as we suspected. He’s being held here to ensure his mother’s cooperation.”
“Only she’s not with us anymore.” Her voice was tinged with sadness. Sadness for a dead woman she never knew.
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