Ambersley (Lords of London)

by Amy Atwell

  “Johnny!” she called. Remain calm. She cannot be far. “Johnny!” The sound of crackling underbrush from behind made Martha turn with a start.

  A tall, round man dressed in riding clothes and long cape stepped from the trees, the little girl in his arms. The sight of a stranger come to Ambersley made a shiver course up her spine.

  “Johnny,” she huffed. “Give me my Johnny.”

  The man looked down his snub nose at her. “Is this your little boy, Madam? Perhaps before I hand him over, you can help me. You see, I’m searching for a little girl about this same age.”

  Martha felt lightheaded as she realized the man wore a red coat beneath his cape. A Bow Street Runner. It had to be. And he’d already guessed the truth.

  “Ah, you’ve gone pale. Don’t tell me you believe this nonsense of the little girl’s ghost? We have every hope that Miss Amber Vaughan is alive. Now tell me, do you know of any family in the area that may be harboring a little girl?”

  Martha couldn’t have answered his question had her life depended on it. But suddenly, Johnny, her eyes huge and round, reached out her arms. Her lips moved silently, and her throat bobbed until finally she managed to utter, “Ma!”

  Instinctively, Martha charged forward while Johnny continued to bleat, “MaMaMa!”

  The man surrendered the child to her. “Your boy seems to fear strangers.”

  “He’s not accustomed to them, is all,” she answered guardedly. The girl clung to her, and Martha, who had waited months to hold Johnny in her arms, wouldn’t let the Devil himself pry this child away without a fight.

  But the man seemed to believe the child was truly a boy. “I didn’t mean to frighten your son. Tell me your name, boy. My name’s Jackson,” he coaxed with a friendly wink.

  Slowly, the child smiled back. “Johnny.”

  Martha feared she might faint. While the child responded to the name, she’d never guessed the child thought of herself as Johnny.

  After answering questions about the tragic fire and discussing the Ambersley staff and tenants, Martha felt brave enough to invite Mr. Jackson to look in at the cottage whenever he was by. She even wished him well with his search. “Although, I doubt you’ll find Miss Amber living with anyone else around here.”

  “You may be right. Whoever set the fire, may have kidnapped her. If that be the case, I’ll wager they took her away from the area. Even so, we’ll find them, and if there’s foul play, we’ll send them to jail. Good day.” With that, Mr. Jackson melted back into the trees.

  Martha hugged the child closely to her bosom before setting her on the ground. “Johnny, let’s go home. Quick, fetch the chestnuts.”

  The child ran to the pail, but it took both her arms and all her strength to heft it up and carry it to Martha.

  “Good boy,” she said, consciously training herself. Their very lives depended on everyone believing that she and Tom had taken in a little boy. Mr. Jackson might share this information with anyone—and everyone—he met. Her pulse steadying, Martha accepted that she and Tom would have to lay careful plans.

  She led the way home. While they walked, Johnny tugged on her hand.

  “I love you, Martha.”

  “I love you, too, Johnny.” Thankfully, the path to the cottage was well-marked, because her eyes were clouded with tears the remainder of the way.

  While the child slept that night, Martha poured forth her story of the Bow Street Runner to Tom. Though knowing they should hand the child over to the law, they worried for her safety. If someone had meant the Vaughan family harm, announcing the child’s miraculous survival could endanger her. And so, Martha contrived a distant cousin who’d passed away, leaving a young son. She embellished the story by making her cousin unwed, so when she died, none of her immediate family wanted the child.

  “Everyone knows you’ve wanted a lad to apprentice with you and learn the gardens, so they won’t be surprised that we took in a little boy. We’ll tell them he’s been living with us since spring, but he was so sad about losing his mum, we didn’t want to draw attention to him.”

  Tom watched her, sympathy tingeing his eyes. “You cannot grow too fond of the child. Remember, we must restore her to her family.”

  “To her family, yes, but we cannot let anyone else take her.”

  “Agreed.” Tom took her hand in both his own. Long into the night, they sat awake in bed but spoke not another word on the painful topic.

  And thus, Amber Johanna Vaughan disappeared, and Johnny became the foster son of a gardener.

  ~

  Johnny blossomed during her first year with Tom and Martha. The nightmares were forgotten, and the bright, happy child was accepted by all at Ambersley. One evening, after receiving the child’s token of battered daffodils, Martha asked Tom if he thought Johnny would ever remember her past and tragic loss. Tom shrugged and lit his pipe. They both tried to remain detached, but as another spring progressed to summer and the second anniversary of the fire passed with no sign of the Ambersley heir, they realized Johnny had become an integral part of their family. They loved her as their own, and she loved them as any child would her parents.

  Johnny adored the gardens and the conservatory that were Tom’s domain, especially the rose garden. He let her play in the churned up dirt, only warning her to mind the precious roses and their protective thorns. Her other favorite spot was the stables—it was a special treat when Tom would suggest they pluck some clover for the coach horses.

  One day, after they’d fed and petted the nose of one of the dappled grays, Rory the groom asked Tom if Johnny wanted to see a litter of kittens only two weeks old. The kittens were soft mewling balls of orange striped fur, and the mother watched with tail twitching as Johnny stroked them. Rory showed her the difference between the little boys and girls, let her touch their tiny but sharp claws and explained that their uniform blue eyes had only opened two days before.

  As they walked back to the cottage, Johnny asked, “Tom, am I boy or a girl?”

  Tom longed for his pipe as he sought an answer. He looked down into Johnny’s troubled face with its firm chin and trusting blue-green eyes. He’d grown accustomed to her wavy chestnut curls pulled back into a shoulder-length queue, and it no longer seemed odd to him that she dressed in boys’ clothes.

  “You’re a girl, Johnny.” He said it gently, as if somehow he had to soften the blow.

  She looked at him earnestly. “But I’m dressed as a boy. You always call me your foster son.”

  “I know. ’Tis the only way you can stay with Martha and me. Come home, and I’ll explain everything.” Tom offered his hand and Johnny grasped two of his fingers.

  Tom explained the situation to Martha as soon as they arrived. She pulled the stewpot away from the fire and went to Johnny seated on the table’s bench.

  “Johnny?” Martha’s voice was little more than a whisper. When the girl looked up, Martha recognized fear in her eyes—fear like she hadn’t seen since the first few weeks the child had come to live with them. Not but six years old, how could they make her understand?

  With great care, Tom started to explain. “You know we’re not your true parents.”

  Johnny nodded slowly.

  “You were not meant to live with us. But something happened to your family, and I found you. Do you remember the morning I found you?”

  Johnny shook her head.

  Tom and Martha exchanged a look. Tom added, “I found you, and we’ve kept you with us, but someday you must return to your family.”

  “No. I don’t want to leave you. Don’t send me away.” Her wide eyes pleaded for mercy.

  “We’ll never send you away, sweetheart.” Martha wiped her sweaty palms on her apron. “We want you to stay with us always, but you should be with your family. If they return, we’ll have to give you up.”

  “Even if I don’t want to go? Even if my parents left me?” Johnny’s voice cracked.

  Tom cleared his throat. “I’m sure your parents didn’t wan
t to leave you. Someday, I hope you’ll understand, but for now, we can’t tell anyone who your parents are until your family is found.” Tom leaned forward for emphasis. “’Tis not a good thing to lie, Johnny, but in this case, we chose to do what we did to keep you with us and to keep you safe.”

  Martha nodded in agreement. “Do you remember the Bow Street Runner we met in the chestnut grove? He was looking for a little girl just your age.” She watched the child for any flicker of recognition.

  “But he was looking for Miss Amber.” Johnny’s brows knit together, and she touched her head as if it ached. But within moments, her brow cleared again, and she added blithely, “Rory once told me he saw Miss Amber’s ghost fly by him on the night of the fire.”

  Tom opened his mouth then shut it again. With a shake of his head, he walked to the fireplace for his pipe.

  Martha sat next to Johnny. “We believe Miss Amber is still alive. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She studied the child for some moments. “If the Bow Street Runner had discovered you were a little girl, I feared he’d take you from us. That’s why I told him you were a boy. Now, if we told everyone you’re a girl, there could be trouble. Someone might decide we were wrong to lie and take you in. They might take you away from us and send us to jail.”

  “Don’t frighten the child,” Tom said from the fireplace.

  Martha took Johnny’s hand. “You must understand ’tis no game we play pretending you’re a boy. Our lives depend on it now. All of our lives.”

  “If I pretend I’m a boy, can I stay with you and Tom?” Desperation tinged the childish voice. “Please?”

  Martha nodded, tears in her eyes.

  Tom set his pipe on the table and scooped Johnny into his arms for a tight hug. “Aye, lad. You can stay with us forever. That’s what we want.”

  Chapter 2

  London, May 1804

  Nigel Minton tried to appreciate the irony that his search for the Ambersley heir had led him, after three years of traversing the length of the country, to a man owning a London house that stood not more than a mile from his own solicitor’s office. Tracing the late duke’s lineage had proven more difficult than Minton had anticipated, but he’d finally revealed a seventh cousin who was a direct descendent of Ambersley’s original Vaughan male line.

  “And, God willing, may this be the end,” he said as he opened the wrought iron gate.

  A gloomy dusk did little to enhance the townhouse’s features, its marble grimy and chipped. The backlit windows with curtains drawn reminded him of the awkwardness of the hour, but like any good hound, he was eager to tree his quarry. Perhaps he could leave his card and arrange to call properly the next morning. He knocked and waited, anticipation growing.

  The door opened to reveal a lad with black hair and icy blue eyes that quickly narrowed in scrutiny. Minton pegged the lad at perhaps a dozen years, clearly too young to be the butler or even a footman.

  “Do you have business with us, sir?” The boy marred his neutral tone by jutting out his chin in an obstinate manner.

  Minton cleared his throat. “Indeed. I wish to speak with Reginald Vaughan.”

  “Father’s dead,” the boy answered flatly. “Been dead nigh three months now. Did he owe you money, too?”

  Disappointment struck Minton, but he rallied with the hope that before him stood a male heir. Much too young to take active control of the dukedom, but given time—

  “Curtis, whatever are you doing?” From the shadows, an elegant woman clothed in mourning approached to stand behind the lad, her hands on his shoulders. The two shared a striking resemblance, not the least of which was the unfriendly look mirrored in both their eyes.

  Minton smiled. “Lady Vaughan? Forgive my intrusion at this hour. My name is Nigel Minton. I’m a solicitor, and I have business to discuss with the heirs of Reginald Vaughan.”

  “He wants money just like all the rest,” Curtis said, clearly bored by Minton’s brief speech.

  “Hush,” his mother hissed. She took hold of the lad’s ear and pulled him backward. “Return to the schoolroom, and if you run off on Miss Trent again, I will be very displeased.” She released him, and the boy fled deeper into the house, swallowed up by the dark interior until only his footsteps could be heard clomping up the stairs.

  Lady Vaughan turned back to Minton. She was a tall, handsome woman, mature but not old. He estimated her age to be ten years shy of his own five-and-forty. Unpowdered raven curls haloed her face in the latest style while the dark clothing she wore accentuated her pale face and angular features. A half-smile curved her lips, but her pale blue eyes remained aloof. “Forgive the boy. He’s still distraught from Reginald’s death.”

  She tossed off the comment as though her son’s emotions were an unpleasant weakness. If he were to hazard a guess, Minton would say the lady before him had never been distraught about anything in her life.

  “It’s understandable.”

  She inclined her head briefly. “Do come in.” The black bombazine of her gown rustled as she bade him follow her into a spacious and well-lit parlor.

  “I am sorry to hear of Lord Vaughan’s death.” Taking the chair she offered, he laid his hat atop the cherry side table.

  Lady Vaughan seated herself on the divan. “Yes, everyone is sorry, yet they all want their due.” Meeting his gaze, she became suddenly businesslike. “Tell me, Mr. Minton, what it is you want from us.”

  Her demeanor encouraged him to exercise caution with his information. “Reginald Vaughan was bequeathed something from a client of mine.”

  Her brow furrowed. “He never mentioned a bequest.”

  “I doubt he knew of it. Nevertheless, with Lord Vaughan’s death, this bequest would pass to his eldest son. Would that be Master Curtis?”

  Lady Vaughan leaned forward in her chair. Minton may have imagined the predatory gleam that flickered in her eyes, but couldn’t deny the uneasiness that washed over him. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but instead released an audible sigh.

  “No.” She gave the single word emphasis by rising, agitation clear in the twitch of her skirts.

  He started to stand, but she stopped him with a gesture. “Curtis is the second son, though, I must say we have every reason to believe his elder half brother is dead.”

  Her words dashed Minton’s hopes. “Dead?”

  “Ha!” Lady Vaughan’s bark of bitter laughter caught him off-guard. “If we are lucky. Derek is the offspring of Reggie’s first wife—Alicia Coatsworth Vaughan. I’m sure you know her notorious story.”

  Though Minton didn’t often follow gossip of the ton, he remembered the scandal surrounding Alicia Vaughan thirteen years before. The woman had murdered her lover during a secluded tryst. Arrested, she’d accused her husband of the murder, but he’d never been charged. During her trial in the House of Lords, the young baroness had named many of her lovers, thereby besmirching the reputations of many top families and making her husband an infamous cuckold. The most notorious murderess all London could recall, her life had ended tragically by a public hanging.

  Clearly, the current Lady Vaughan held little affection for her predecessor. But her acidity toward her stepson puzzled him. Best to know the worst. “I’m sure her death affected this young man.”

  With raised chin she peered down her nose at him. “I cannot say, for his mother was dead a year before I married his father and moved into this house. Not that Derek ever spared her a tear. The boy has no feelings for anyone. He abandoned his father, left home and we’ve neither seen nor heard from him since. I honestly believe he’s dead.” She sank gracefully back onto the divan, withdrew a handkerchief from her cuff and dabbed at her eyes, though they still appeared dry to Minton.

  But now he understood. She resented the prodigal who, even absent, prevented her own son from inheriting anything from Reginald Vaughan. “Have you any notion where I might find Derek Vaughan?”

  “India,” she said with a
sniff. “At least, that was his intended destination when he left here seven years ago.”

  Exercising great control, Minton pinched the bridge of his nose and readjusted his spectacles. It would take months to send a message across the world. But at least he had a name, and with luck, his task of finding the rightful Ambersley heir would end soon.

  ~

  Ambersley, May 1804

  A fortnight later, Rosalie Vaughan reclined against the plush squabs of the ducal coach and barely repressed a satisfied purr. All her toil, her infinite patience, was to be rewarded, and by the Duke of Ambersley, no less. If only Reggie had lived to see this day and make her a duchess.