Lady Sparrow

by Barbara Metzger

  Mina did not think so, or Roderick would not have brought him. In fact, she had her doubts the boy would live to see seven if he were a lawful heir. She went over the list in her mind. M.B. would be six, born during the interval between Sparrowdale’s legal marriages. “How are you so certain the child was born on the wrong side of the blanket?” she asked.

  “Because the brat’s records say so. The vicar who performed the marriage was a hired actor. The wedding was a sham, another of Uncle’s little pranks.”

  Pranks? Mina would not have termed them such. They were cruel hoaxes, the product of a depraved, deranged mind. An innocent babe in a foundling home was no joke. “What is his name?”

  “Martin something. Browne or Boone or Bowen. Something like that. No matter. When the money stopped coming, the board of directors decided to drop the brat on my doorstep. I cannot afford to send him back, nor pay for his upkeep at Sparr House.”

  Mina knew almost to the shilling how much Sparrow Nest brought in. If Roderick returned there, husbanded the estate to keep it profitable, and did not spend all his blunt on his London wardrobe and impressing dukes—or on hiring bullies—he could afford any number of boys’ tuitions and expenses.

  Mina was glad Roderick was such a squeezecrab, though, for now she could claim another boy. “I will take him, and gladly.”

  “You will have to sign over legal guardianship of the child first,” Lowell told Roderick, not mentioning that he would also be named as trustee. He had no doubt that, without a court decree, sometime in the future when Sparrowdale was short of funds, he would demand the return of Martin Whomever, unless he were paid. Softhearted Minerva would pay anything, Lowell knew, rather than part with the child she already thought of as hers.

  Roderick took out his quizzing glass again and inspected Lord Lowell’s somewhat imperfectly tied neckcloth, which he had not had opportunity to retie since the disastrous trip to the park. Roderick might have surveyed a dead moth that floated in his water glass with the same look. “I cannot see that this is any of your affair, Merrison. But I shall sign whatever papers your man draws up, Minerva, if this sees an end to your airing the family’s dirty linen. That goes for you too, sirrah. Stay out of my affairs.”

  Roderick meant Martin as a trade, Mina understood. She could have the boy, without fearing he’d be stolen away from her later, if she stopped trying to find any of the others. How could she promise any such thing, while one of them was her own son? She looked toward Lowell for an answer.

  “I think—” He thought the ceiling-high bookcases must have toppled to the ground, from the noise coming from the library, his favorite room in the house. He started to run down the hall, Mina following.

  “That is one of the reasons I could not afford to keep the brat at Sparr House,” Roderick called after them. “The bastard is blind.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Mina did not care that Martin could not see. Love was blind, too. She could see him, a thin, frightened little boy, cowering amid a pile of books, and that was enough.

  “I . . . I was trying to find the door.” Martin spoke in their direction when he heard them come in, a quaver in his voice. “I thought everyone forgot me.”

  Lowell cursed to see his favorite books, which had once been arranged in a freestanding case, all in a heap. Martin cowered amid the splintered shelves.

  Mina glared at Lowell, then walked closer to the child, telling him that hardly any books had fallen, and none of them were harmed. He couldn’t see the dismay on Lord Lowell’s face, thank goodness. She told him that no one was angry and that she was sorry he’d been left alone, with no refreshments and no company. She glared at Ochs, too, who came to see what the commotion was. “It will never happen again, will it, Mr. Ochs?” she asked in her most lady-of-the-manor tone, although this was not her home. “Harkness would never have forgotten his duties to a guest in the house this way.”

  Since she put it that way, Ochs apologized—to a six-year-old with two missing teeth. He glared at Mina behind her back.

  Lowell glared at the butler.

  Neither Mina nor Martin noticed the dark looks. She had knelt down in front of the little boy—doing more damage to the leather-bound volumes—and reached for his hand. “I am Lady Sparrowdale, dearest, and I will make certain you never feel abandoned again. We will fix the nursery so nothing can topple over on you, and you will know where everything is in no time at all, I am sure.” She could feel his cold hand trembling, so she rubbed it between hers. “Your brothers will help.”

  Martin’s head tilted to the side in disbelief, but he left his hand in hers. “I have brothers?”

  “Half brothers, but they are your family nonetheless, and mine now. George is eight and Homer is nineteen. Perry is thirteen, but he lives with his grandmother.”

  “I know a Perry, but he never said he was my brother.”

  “He is, dear. You look just like him.” Poor child.

  Martin’s dark brows were furrowed. “Will they steal my food like the big boys at the home do?”

  “No one will ever steal your food again,” Mina promised, although she was not sure about George Hawkins, or the dog, for that matter. Merlin was sniffing at the newcomer, who was closer to his size. The boy took his hand from Mina’s and reached out tentatively to stroke the shaggy mutt, getting his fingers licked in return.

  “That’s Merlin, Perry’s dog.”

  Martin put his face down for another lick, and smiled at last. “They did not let dogs in the school. I never touched one before.”

  “Merlin is the best of dogs, and will let you pet him endlessly. He might even sleep on your bed at night.” Currently, the dog was sleeping in her room, to Mina’s dissatisfaction. He snored.

  “Then I am to stay here?” Martin asked.

  “Until we find a place of our own, perhaps in the country, where we can have any number of dogs or cats or rabbits as pets. We’ll find someone to teach you to ride, too. Would you like that, Martin?”

  He brought his hand—damp from the mongrel’s affections—up to touch her face, her lips, her hair. “You smell nice, ma’am. And you have a dog.”

  Mina took that as a yes, and hugged the slender boy to her, lifting him out of the pile of Plato and Plutarch. She set him down near the desk, but he started when Roderick called out from the doorway. “So is it a deal, Minerva?”

  When Martin jumped back, his hand struck the inkwell, which Mina managed to right before it spilled onto the Aubusson carpet.

  “No harm done,” Mina declared, but Martin was afraid of being punished. This time the punishment would see him sent back to the boys’ home. He spun around in dismay and bumped into a delicate cherrywood tiered table. Lowell dove for the vase, the Ming Dynasty one, on the middle shelf, and the fern on the top. As he lunged, his spectacles fell to the floor, along with himself, and the box containing his brother’s prized butterfly collection that was on the bottom level. Merlin came to investigate the inanimate insects—and Martin tripped over him, falling flat on top of Lord Lowell’s glasses.

  The dog cried. The boy cried. Lowell cursed. Roderick laughed.

  Mina pointed at the door. “Get out. My solicitor will contact you.” Then she knelt on the floor and asked, “Are you all right, dearest?”

  Martin crawled into her arms, shivering. Merlin climbed onto her lap, trembling. Lowell clambered to his feet, cursing. He brushed dead butterflies out of his hair. He could barely see Minerva’s expression—but he knew she did not mean him.

  “Don’t you think it is time we talked, Minerva?” Lowell asked later. Martin was settled in the nursery, all small objects moved out of his path, and at lessons. Hawk was reading aloud from a storybook, while Homer corrected his pronunciation and helped with unknown words. Both of his brothers would learn that way, Homer felt. Hawk felt his new little brother would rather learn how to swim or ride or row. A fellow did not need to see to pull the oars, as long as he had a good coxswain. They would have a capital time,
Hawk assured the younger boy, switching his lemon tart for Martin’s raspberry one.

  Lord Lowell’s old nanny would arrive in the morning. She was nearly deaf, so Lowell had already promoted one of the maids to attend the nursery. Lucy said she had two younger brothers at home and made Hawk return the tart. She would do for now. His lordship was not so sure about Ochs, who was spending more time in the wine cellars than seemed strictly necessary. Lowell did not know what to do about Roderick, either. He was having the muckworm watched, to see if he met with his hireling. If Lowell could identify the thug, he could threaten him or bribe him into confessing, naming Roderick Sparr, Lord Sparrowdale, as his employer. Meanwhile, Lowell could not very well call Sparrowdale out, blast his poor eyesight, for the bounder was bound to choose swords. Besides, then Minerva’s name would be bandied about. Botheration.

  Lowell could not go to the magistrate or to Bow Street with his suspicions until he had proof, or a better understanding of the situation, so he had to ask the questions Lady Sparrow never wanted to answer. He was an investigator, after all.

  “Martin is obviously not the possible heir,” he began. “Roderick could have him declared incompetent to assume the earldom in a flash, anyway, by reason of his blindness. At the least, he would have had himself named guardian, and heaven help Martin then. If not Martin, or Hawk or Homer or Perry, we are running out of possibilities. I doubt the one listed first, the M.P. on the list, is the heir. He would be five and twenty, and would have come forth long ago to make his claim.”

  “If he knew of the connection,” Mina pointed out.

  “All of the others knew. Sparrowdale never tried to hide his paternity, it seems.” The countess was studying the tea leaves left in the bottom of her cup. She was not seeking answers there, Lowell knew. She already had them. What she was doing was avoiding his eyes, getting set to lie to him. Not this time. “Now,” he said, polishing his new spectacles, “now I have to know about the other boys on the list, and why you think one might be the true earl. No one is safe until I do, not you, not the missing children. That is, unless, of course, you still do not trust me.”

  Mina set aside her empty teacup and went back to helping restore the fallen books to the library shelf. The maids and footmen did not know their letters well enough to get the volumes in the correct order, and Homer’s time was better spent tutoring his brothers. Martin might never go to school, and he would obviously not learn to read, but there was no reason he could not learn from books, especially when Homer was so eager to teach him. So Mina had insisted on donning an apron and dusting the books before handing them to Lowell to place back on the repaired shelves.

  She carefully smoothed out a bent corner of a well-read Aeneid. The boys would like that, she thought. George ought to know his Latin. But what was she thinking? That they would be here forever? They would not be staying. There was no reason to, if she was going to honor Roderick’s terms: Martin in exchange for the end of her search. She had three boys now, and they should have been enough, especially with Martin needing extra care, extra affection They were not. She would acquiesce to Roderick’s demands—once the paper was in her hand, guaranteeing her guardianship of Martin. Until then, she intended to leave no stone unturned and no orphanage uninspected. After, when Martin could never be taken away again, she could have Lord Lowell pursue the inquiry while she was somewhere far away from London, where Roderick could not harm her or the children. A man who hired paid gunmen did not deserve honesty in return, she told herself. And she had to find her son. Only Roderick could think a mother would give up; he had never loved anything that much.

  If she was leaving, Mina thought, it did not matter what her paid investigator thought of her. That’s what she tried to convince herself of, at any rate. If he thought her no better than she ought to be . . . or foolish beyond permission, so be it. She did trust him. How could she not? He had never raised his voice to Martin, despite the disaster and its expense. He had never shouted at Merlin, who had left a damp spot on the rug in his distress at being stepped on. He had never even lifted a finger to George, except to turn him upside down occasionally to retrieve a snuffbox or an oyster fork. Lowell had accepted all of them into his home, turning it upside down, too. Of course she trusted him. She had let him kiss her, hadn’t she?

  She put down her dustcloth and spread her skirts around her on the floor. She looked up at him in his shirtsleeves, a book in his hand, and thought she did far more than trust him, and had more to lose than the chance of finding her son. She licked her dry lips and began. “I had a child once, a son.”

  Lowell sat beside her, taking her hand in his. “Yes, I know. He was premature and stillborn.”

  “No. He was not.”

  “Not premature? He was born seven months after your marriage to Sparrowdale. Everyone knew that.”

  “He was not born early,” she repeated. “Nor was he stillborn. I heard him cry.”

  Lowell chose to ignore the first statement for now. The thought of Lady Sparrow anticipating her vows to that old reprobate was enough to turn his stomach. “Very well, what happened to him?”

  “I think—no, I believe—that they took him away, my husband, my father, Viscount Sparling, perhaps Roderick. He was there. They told me my baby died. They held a funeral. They put a marker on his grave.”

  She drew the ever-present list out of her pocket. She’d looked at it so often, she’d had to make a fresh copy. “He would have been four,” she said, holding the page out to Lowell. “R.S., Robert Sparr. My Robin. I think he is still alive.”

  He whistled. “Those are grave charges indeed. But why—”

  Mina interrupted. “Sparrowdale acknowledged him. He had them carve his own family name on the headstone.”

  “What he did was acknowledge a dead baby, not a live heir. Yet if your child is indeed alive, he would be earl.”

  “Yes, and Roderick knows it.”

  Lowell had to think about that a moment, idly stroking her hand while he did so. He would have to consult a barrister, the College of Arms, his mother, who knew that kind of thing.

  Minerva interrupted his thoughts. “I do not mean to claim the earldom in Robin’s name. Roderick would challenge me with a long, sordid court case to prove him illegitimate. I would not subject my son to that.”

  “He is most likely subjected to the taint of bastardy right now, wherever he is. You would be denying him what is rightfully his.”

  “Not rightfully.” Mina swallowed around the dryness in her mouth. “He is not Sparrowdale’s son.”

  “Ah,” was all Lowell said.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  So that was Lady Sparrow’s secret. Lowell had deduced as much. He was a detective, after all. Surprisingly, he thought none the less of Minerva, only that the poor girl must have led a wretched life, finding herself shackled to Sparrowdale, then having her own infant wrenched from her. It was no wonder she wore a somber mien along with her blacks, for he doubted if the countess had known much joy in her childhood or in her marriage. It was also no wonder that she was so eager to find the other children, too, to replace the one she had lost. Most of all, it was no wonder that Roderick sought to stop her. Lowell shoved a stack of books aside so he could move closer to her, as if his nearness could keep her safe. It was a comfort to him, anyway. So was the idea that he had to get Roderick to call off his dogs: “If you can convince Roderick that you do not covet his title for your son, perhaps he will tell us what became of the boy.”

  “How could he, without admitting he had helped kidnap my baby and that he gave false witness for the funeral? He was right there in the house. He had to have heard the baby’s cry. He knew Robin was alive.” Mina deplored the catch she heard in her voice, but Lowell did not seem to mind, merely handing over his monogrammed handkerchief, in case she needed it.

  “We cannot be so certain he knew where the child was taken, though,” he argued. “If he saw your baby as a menace to his ambitions, Roderick would have removed
the danger years ago, or as soon as Viscount Sparling died—or was murdered—and Roderick was in line for the succession. Then he would not have you to plague him now. No, I do not think Sparrowdale trusted him with that information. Perhaps the late earl even used the child’s existence to keep Roderick dancing to his tune.”

  “That sounds like Sparrowdale. Roderick swears he knows of no other children, but I doubt he would tell me if he did know, out of sheer cruelty.”

  Lowell could see that. He had seen the maggot kick at a little mongrel, make a blind child cringe at the sound of his voice, and manhandle Minerva. No, Roderick would not prove cooperative. His glass of the milk of human kindness had obviously gone sour through lack of use. On the other hand, things were not altogether bleak. “Your son was a newborn, so maybe Sparrowdale found a kind family to adopt the infant.”

  “I pray that is so. Since the earl’s payments continued until recently, I doubt he placed him in some filthy orphanage or charity home, where infants die so frequently. Now that Sparrowdale is not paying his way, I pray even harder that my Robin is with loving parents who will not abandon him for lack of funds.”

  “What will you do if he has been adopted into a family as their beloved son? Would you take him from them?”

  Mina shook her head no. “I could not claim him, not to be another bastard here, or wherever I settle with the other boys. It might kill me to leave him, but I would, if he is happy.”

  “Even if the foster parents are farmers or shopkeepers? What then?”

  “You forget I am a merchant’s daughter. I would not hold a man’s trade against him if it is honest labor and feeds his family. I have to know, though. I have to know that Robin is well, and well cared for. Then I can walk away, I hope. Can you understand that?”

  He could understand the gut-wrenching sacrifice she was willing to make for the boy’s happiness. “Of course,” he said. “He is your son.” Lowell let his fingers trace the gold ring she still wore. “And he is his father’s son, too. Is that man waiting for your mourning period to end, to marry you and claim his child?”