“Come on, you cowards,” Marshall was saying. “Three-on-one not good enough odds for you?” It was the first time that Robert had seen Marshall this close. His hair was a thin, light orange; his skin was pale and freckled. His eye was ringed with a virulent red bruise; it would be purple in the morning. He spat pink and turned lightly on his feet, facing his attackers. That was when the boy caught sight of Robert.
“Speaking of cowards,” he said.
“I’m no coward.” Robert rolled up his sleeves and stepped forward. “Call me a coward again—I dare you. Don’t you know who I am?”
Everyone else stepped back, giving the two of them a wide berth. Robert circled the other boy, holding his fists up. And that was when he noticed something curious. Marshall’s eyes were blue—an icy blue.
A familiar icy blue. Robert saw eyes like that in the mirror every day.
“I know who you are,” Marshall said with disdain. “You’re my brother.”
Robert had always thought it a ridiculous thing to say in stories—that someone’s world turned upside down. But there was no other way to describe what happened. The other boy’s words hit with the force of a cannonball, crashing through everything he’d known.
“You can’t be my brother.”
But he recalled too clearly the crash of china, his mother’s shouts. Philanderer! Whoreson!
Philanderer. Marshall had Robert’s eyes. He had his father’s eyes.
Marshall sniffed and wiped at his nose. “Don’t your parents tell you anything?”
“No!” He wasn’t sure if it was an answer or a denial. And the other boy said that with such a matter-of-fact air—as if his parents were a single unit, who might sit a boy down and have a conversation with him.
Robert’s head was whirling. “How can you be my brother if your father is Hugo Marshall?”
The other boy spat once again and didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to. Robert had only the faintest notion of what philandering entailed—gambling and drinking and getting wenches with child. He’d never given much thought to the possibility that wenches who were gotten with child ended up having them.
The other boy simply shrugged all this away.
Five hundred days playing alone in the paddock, and he had a brother? It was not just his mother and father who were broken to bits. He was, too. Robert thought of soap turned to mud, of fights, of Marshall’s eye—which would be black by morning.
He thought of the three boys who had been fighting him when Robert arrived. They’d done that ungentlemanly thing because Robert had encouraged it.
Even if this boy wasn’t his brother, Robert was the villain in this piece. And if what Marshall said was true…
Robert was the knave, the cur, the right bloody bastard. Nothing would ever end happily ever after again. Not unless—
Some decisions were not difficult at all. “Hit me,” he said urgently, low enough that the other boys couldn’t hear. “Hit me hard. Knock me down.”
Marshall didn’t even hesitate. He stepped forward and smashed his fist against Robert’s nose. Robert didn’t need to pretend to fall; his legs crumpled of their own accord. When he picked himself off the ground, his nose was running red. He swiped the blood away and pushed himself to his feet.
“Did you really not know?” Marshall asked him.
He’d hit with his left hand.
“Can you hit harder with your right?” Robert asked.
Marshall’s chin went up. “I can hit hard enough with both.”
“Because I’m left-handed, too. You’ve just knocked me down, and I’ve acknowledged it. They shouldn’t bother you anymore. Not after that.” He was babbling. He gingerly extended his hand—his left hand. “Pax?”
The other boy stared at him for a moment. Then, finally, he extended his own left hand. “Pax,” he agreed. “But you break the peace, and I’ll break you.”
“Well,” Sebastian said, coming up from behind them. “This is going to be interesting.”
Author’s Note
Thank you!
Thanks for reading The Governess Affair. I hope you enjoyed it!
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You’ve just read the prequel to the Brothers Sinister series. The other books in the series are The Duchess War, A Kiss for Midwinter, The Heiress Effect, The Countess Conspiracy, The Suffragette Scandal, and Talk Sweetly to Me. I hope you enjoy them all!
You can find all my books here: http://www.courtneymilan.com/byseries.php
TEMPTING JULIANA
by Lauren Royal
Author’s Cut Edition
Novelty Books
TEMPTING JULIANA by Lauren Royal - Author's Cut Edition
Published by Novelty Books, a division of Novelty Publishers, LLC
205 Avenida Del Mar #275, San Clemente, CA 92674
Originally published by Penguin Putnam Inc.
COPYRIGHT © Lauren Royal 2006, 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any manner whatsoever, electronically, in print, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of both Lauren Royal and Novelty Books, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Learn more about the author and her books at www.LaurenRoyal.com.
For my best friend and fellow author
Glynnis Campbell,
because she hates stories that include dancing at balls,
so I couldn't resist dedicating this one to her.
Thanks for your friendship—it means more than I can say.
Chapter One
The Foundling Hospital, London
Saturday, June 8, 1816
Lady Juliana Chase's family often accused her of looking for trouble. Of sticking her nose where it didn't belong. Of exaggerating—if not outright imagining—other people's problems and sorrows and miseries.
But she would swear she'd never seen anything quite so sad in her life.
Upstairs in the Foundling Hospital's picture gallery, she stared through the window down into the courtyard. There, arranged in six neat, regimented lines, a hundred or more young girls performed calisthenics, resignation written on their faces. In all of her twenty-two years, Juliana couldn't remember ever feeling that grim.
"William Hogarth was a genius."
Sighing, she turned from the window to see her younger sister scrutinizing the art on the gallery's pale green walls. "I thought you preferred the Dutch masters."
"I do," Corinna said. "But look at the characters in this painting."
The work was titled The March of the Guards to Finchley, and the people depicted were, indeed, characters. Humor, rowdiness, and disorder abounded. "The drummer looks quite amused," Juliana said, swiveling back to look out the window.
The painting seemed a complete contrast to the figures outside.
Miss Emily Neville, Juliana's eight-year-old next-door neighbor, stood gazing through the glass beside her. "The girls don't appear to be ill. So why are they in hospital?"
"Hospital is an old word that originally meant 'guesthouse,'" Miss Strickland, the battle-axe of a woman assigned to shepherd visitors through the orphanage, explained in her no-nonsense way. "This is a charitable institution for children whose mothers couldn't keep them."
"My mother died." Still gazing outdoors, Emily absentmindedly raised a hand to stroke a slim, olive green snake that rest
Ranging in age from about five to perhaps fourteen, the children all had identical haircuts and wore aprons of stiff, unbleached linen over brown serge dresses. Juliana smoothed her palms over her own soft yellow skirts. "I'm afraid your snake might scare them."
"The girls aren't playing." Miss Strickland crossed her arms across her ample bosom. "They're exercising. Outdoor exercise is advocated for maximum health. And you couldn't play with them in any case, young lady, with or without that horrid creature."
"Herman isn't horrid," Emily said, slipping her hand into Juliana's. "He's just a common grass snake. Can't you tell by the black bars along his sides and the yellow collar behind his head? He's absolutely harmless, I assure you."
Juliana hid a smile. My, such a vocabulary for a girl of eight. Emily certainly was articulate.
But carrying a snake around was just not done.
Emily was Juliana's latest project, and Juliana was sure—positively sure—that with a bit of patience she could turn the girl into a perfect little lady. A few more outings with Herman ought to convince the child that the creature wasn't welcome in public.
She squeezed Emily's hand and turned back to Miss Strickland. "Do the girls ever play?"
"Of course they do," Miss Strickland said. "For an hour every Sunday." As though suddenly remembering her duty—principally to encourage donations—she stretched her lips in a smile that appeared rather forced. "Are you ladies enjoying your visit to the gallery?"
"Very much." Corinna moved to view the next painting. "George Lambert," she breathed. An artist herself, she'd suggested this day's outing to the Foundling Hospital's gallery. "What a lovely scene."
Mr. Lambert's picture was lovely, but Juliana couldn't peruse the painted people for long. Not when there were real people—disadvantaged children—to consider.
"What do the foundlings do all day?" she asked. "If they don't play?"
Miss Strickland squared her shoulders and began reciting by rote. "They rise at six and prepare for the day, the older girls dressing the younger children, the boys pumping water and such. At half past seven they breakfast, and at half past eight they begin school. At one o'clock they dine and return to school from two until dusk." She paused for a much-needed breath. "After supper, those not employed about the buildings are instructed in singing the Foundling Hymns and anthems, and in their catechism. At eight they go to bed."
What a life. Thinking about her own days and nights filled with parties and shopping and dancing, Juliana swallowed a lump in her throat. Still, the children looked healthy, warmly clothed, and well fed—which she supposed was more than could be said for much of London's youth.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" she asked.
"Certainly, my lady. We are always pleased to accept monetary donations."
Juliana knew that was one of the purposes of the gallery. Popular artists donated paintings and sculpture, a scheme that not only gave the artists a chance to cement their social positions through well-publicized acts of charity, but also ensured that their work would be seen by those most wealthy and aristocratic—exactly the sort of people who might commission works of art for themselves and be persuaded to become patrons of the Hospital.
It was a most satisfactory arrangement for all concerned. But unfortunately Juliana hadn't the option to become a patroness at present. While it was true that her late father had provided a substantial dowry, and she wasn't in any way deprived—quite the opposite, in fact—as an unmarried woman she had no money of her own, other than a small allowance granted by her brother, Griffin. "I cannot donate significant funds," she said apologetically.
Miss Strickland aimed a rather disbelieving look down her knife-edged nose, pointedly skimming her gaze over Juliana's fashionable dress.
"I cannot," Juliana repeated. "But I should like to do something." She could ask Griffin to donate, of course—and she would. But she wanted to do something herself. "Perhaps I could make clothing for the children." Surely her allowance would cover the fabric.
"The children have no need of clothing. They wear uniforms, as you've seen."
Juliana had seen the boys eating luncheon in their dining room, all wearing white linen shirts with military-style suits made of the same brown serge as the girls' dresses. "But someone has to make the uniforms."
"The girls make and repair them during their sewing lessons."
"Then perhaps I can make treats," she suggested. "The ladies in my family are rather renowned for our sweets."
"The children are all fed a plain, wholesome diet. Sweets aren't allowed except on very special occasions. However, food does account for a large proportion of the Hospital's budget, so your monetary donation would be much appreciated." Before Juliana could repeat that she had no money to give, Miss Strickland continued. "This is a reception day. Perhaps seeing some infants might change your mind."
Though Juliana knew nothing could change her mind, she loved babies and could scarcely wait to have one of her own. "We should very much like to see the infants," she said, drawing Emily toward the door.
"I'm not finished looking," Corinna said, finally moving to view the next painting.
The battle-axe cast her a speculative glance. "Well, then, the horrid snake can stay with you."
"Herman isn't horrid!" Emily said, pulling her hand from Juliana's. "If Herman stays, I shall stay." She marched over to take Corinna's hand instead. "There's an infant right here in this picture."
Corinna nodded her dark head. "It's Andrea Casali's Adoration of the Magi."
Juliana would never understand how anyone could stare at a single painting for so long. Two minutes with any painting, and she was finished. But then, she'd never been as interested in things as she'd been in people. "What's a reception day?" she asked, following the battle-axe from the room.
Miss Strickland led her down a corridor. "On the second Saturday of every month, mothers are invited to bring their babies for possible admission."
"Possible?"
"They must meet specific criteria. An acceptable candidate must be under twelve months of age, the mother's first child, and healthy, so as not to risk infecting other children. In addition, although only illegitimate offspring are admitted, the mother must establish her good character. A secondary purpose of the Hospital, you see, is the restoration of the mother to work and a life of virtue. Some children are the result of rape, but most petitions come from women who claim to have been seduced with promises of marriage and then deserted when they became pregnant. In such cases, many mothers can avoid disgrace and find employment only if they don't have to care for their children."
"A sad truth," Juliana said, her heart hurting at the thought of women being forced to give up their babies.
Miss Strickland opened a door. "The Committee Room," she whispered.
And Juliana's hurting heart broke clear in two.
Inside the elegant chamber, a queue of young mothers clutched their infants tightly, the expressions on their faces a mixture of anguish and hope. Their simple cloaks and aprons were a poignant contrast to the silk gowns of a few fashionable lady patronesses who'd come to observe the spectacle.
And what a spectacle it was.
As Juliana watched, a young woman was invited to the front, where a well-dressed man held out a cloth bag. Shifting her whimpering baby, the woman reached a trembling hand into the bag and pulled out a little red ball. She swallowed hard and, gripping the ball in her white-knuckled fist, stepped off to join a small group of mothers and babies huddled at one side.
Abandoning the battle-axe, Juliana walked over to join the other spectators. "What does the ball mean?" she asked in a whisper.
A tall, middle-aged woman answered in kindly tones. "The system is called balloting. These mothers have already been screened and deemed acceptable. But the Governors can accept only ten infants at a time, and many more qualified mothers wish placement for their children. Balloting is the fairest method of allocating places."
As she finished her explanation, another young woman drew a ball—a black one—and dropped it to the floor, sudden tears spilling down her cheeks as she ran from the room, taking her baby with her.
"Black is bad?" Juliana asked.
"Mothers who draw black balls are immediately turned out of the Hospital. A white ball means the baby will be examined and admitted if it is healthy. Mothers who draw red balls are invited to wait to see whether any babies are refused admittance, in which case they are given a second chance to enter the lottery."
An agonizing lottery. Juliana watched as two more mothers drew black balls and one lucky woman nabbed a white one. "How many mothers are hoping for placement today?"
"About a hundred, which is typical."
And only ten would see their babies admitted. The fortunate woman with the white ball was ushered toward a corner, where a doctor waited to evaluate her child—a girl, if Juliana could judge by the scrap of ribbon crookedly tied in the baby's sparse, downy hair.
During the short examination, a dozen more mothers drew balls—nine chose black, one red, and two jubilant women got white. When the first baby was declared healthy, the mothers waiting with red balls visibly drooped, gripping their infants more tightly. The lucky mother—if one could call her that—was given a numbered document that certified the Hospital's acceptance of her baby, and a lead tag with a corresponding number was threaded on a necklace and placed around the child's neck.
A tightness squeezed Juliana's chest as she watched the tearful parting, the mother kissing her baby girl over and over before regretfully surrendering her to a Hospital employee. "Is she given that paper so she can reclaim her child?"
"Partly. The babies are baptized with Hospital names—the child is never told the identity of the mother, and the mother won't know her child's new name. But if at a later date she can convince the Governors of her reformed character and improved circumstances, the paper and matching necklace number will prove they restore the right child to her."
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