by Shana Galen
Julia glanced at the stick now, leaning against the armchair Slag had occupied, and tried not to shudder. She pasted on a bright smile. “Mr. Slag, how lovely to see you this morning.” She set the box of rats on the table just inside the room and curtsied prettily. Her mother would have been proud.
Slag bowed with some style of his own. “Lady Juliana, how kind of you to take time from your busy morning to see me.”
He hadn’t given her much choice, but she merely smiled and took the seat across from the one he’d occupied. “I’m afraid I am not at leisure to chat this morning, sir. My cook has given her notice, and as you no doubt can hear, I have hungry boys to feed.”
“Ah. No wonder you look”—his eyes traveled down her dress, lingering a bit too long on her breasts, all but on display in the ball gown—“out of sorts. May I be of some assistance?”
“Do you cook?” she asked.
He gave her a look of appalled shock.
“Then I’m afraid not.”
“What I meant, my lady, is that maybe I could find you a new cook. I’m well connected, I am. Maybe I’ll hire a maid for you too.” He didn’t look at the dust covering the table near him, but Julia knew he’d seen it nevertheless.
“I thank you kindly, Mr. Slag, but I have a maid”—though she only came once a week—“and I already have another cook in mind.” This was a blatant lie, but she knew that without a doubt it would be a mistake to put herself in Mr. Slag’s debt. She’d made that mistake once before, and she would not repeat it.
“Then maybe I could make a donation to the orphanage. I know what hardships these boys face.”
Julia raised her hand. “That is far too generous of you, Mr. Slag. I couldn’t possibly accept any more of your charity.”
He moved closer. “Then maybe you’ve given some consideration to my other proposal?”
The other proposal.
The proposal of… It hadn’t exactly been marriage. Lord, she’d hoped he had forgotten about that. When he’d propositioned her last week, she’d pretended she hadn’t understood what he meant.
Perhaps that tactic would work again. “I cannot recall another proposal at the moment, Mr. Slag, but I am ever so distressed this morning.” She rose. “If you could call another time—”
His hand came down hard on her shoulder, and she flinched from the feel of his leather gloves on her bare skin. “Allow me to remind you, Lady Juliana. I offered you my protection.”
“Thank you very much.” She slid out of his grip. “Now, if you will excuse—”
“Stop playing games. I am a man of business, and you are not a stupid woman. There are dangerous men about, and you and the children who live here need a protector.”
Julia didn’t need to translate his words. He was the dangerous man.
“I am offering you my protection for a small fee.”
Small fee? “I do believe you mentioned one thousand pounds, Mr. Slag. That is no small fee.”
“Your father is an earl.”
“Yes, and most of his money is tied up in lands.”
“There is another option.” He moved closer, his round belly brushing against her dress. “You can pay the fee by offering me a place in your bed. You’re an attractive woman.” His gaze slid to her breasts, making her skin itch. “And even the gentry like a bit of slap and tickle. What do you say, Julia?”
Though abhorrent to her, he made the proposal in earnest. He probably thought it more than fair, and if she had been another woman, she might have agreed without blinking an eye. Her father had tried to marry her off to men ranging from elderly to lecherous. What did Slag propose but a similar arrangement without the permanence of the vows?
But Julia had not come to Spitalfields to end up some man’s plaything. She could have stayed home in Mayfair and become a kept woman. Which meant her answer to Slag was an unqualified Never. No! Not ever.
But one did not say such things to Mr. Slag and walk away with one’s brains intact. Julia liked her head round, not smashed flat on the carpet. And so she smiled and chose one of the many phrases she knew and had used in the past on the sons of dukes and viscounts and lowly barons. “Sir, you flatter me with your proposal, but this is all so sudden.”
“Then maybe you just need a bit of persuading.” He reached for her, and she took a step back. Dear God. She dearly hoped this would not turn into him chasing her about the parlor. And why hadn’t she seen this coming? The problem was that she spent only part of the week within the walls of the St. Dismas Home for Wayward Youth—er, rather Sunnybrooke Home for Boys, as she had renamed it. And during that time, she was so absorbed with the problems of the boys and running the orphanage, she had no time to consider how to deal with Mr. Slag. And when she might have snatched a moment to deal with the problem, she had to return to Mayfair to be thrust into the world of the ton, and then Slag and Sunnybrooke seemed so far away.
But Slag was not far away now. He was far too near and her strategy of ignoring him and hoping he’d go away would not work this time.
She took another step back, and he followed, but she was saved from running behind her desk when someone tapped on the parlor door.
“Come in!” she yelled. “Please!”
The door opened to reveal Mr. Goring.
“Sorry to interrupt, my lady.”
“Not at all, Mr. Goring. Come in.” She crossed to him and pulled him inside. “You should join us.”
He frowned at her as though the ways of the upper classes were foreign and mysterious to him. “You have another caller, my lady.”
Julia frowned. Another caller? Who on earth would be calling on her here? Her friends had been forbidden to visit her here, and her father did not rise from his bed this early, and when she did see him, he preferred she go to him at their town house in Mayfair. It occurred to her that this caller might be one of Slag’s men. In which case, she would be in worse straits than at present. “Do you know the caller?”
“No, my lady. He says it’s a matter of—what was the word?—urgency.”
He? Then the thought struck her. It was a representative from the bank. Perhaps the board had made good on its threat not to pay the mortgage and the bank had come to close her down.
“Tell him to come back later,” Slag ordered.
“No!” Bank representative or no, whoever it was would be an improvement on Slag. “Show him in, Mr. Goring.”
Goring looked from her to Slag.
“Go on, Mr. Goring,” she said as forcefully as she could. “Show him in.”
“Maybe I should come back at a more opportune time,” Slag said.
“Please do, Mr. Slag. I am so sorry we were interrupted.”
“May I call on you tonight?”
“Tonight? No. I’m very, very busy tonight.”
He lifted his stick, then crossed to her and took her hand. At some point during their little dance, he’d removed his gloves, and as she’d removed hers in the kitchen, the press of his bare fingers on hers made her throat tighten.
“You can’t put me off forever, Lady Juliana,” he said softly. “Lest you forget, I’m a man who gets what I want. And the longer you make me wait, the more I want.”
With that, he strolled out of the room, jostling the man entering. The two stopped, looked each other up and down, and then with a warning glare, Slag went on his way.
The other man watched him, then strode into the room. “Friend of yours?” he asked.
Julia let out a breath, then caught it again. She blinked at the man before her, but she had not dreamed him. He was better than any dream her mind might have conjured. It was as though he had just stepped out of a painting depicting a god or an angel. He was tall but not so tall she had to crane her neck to look up at him, and he had olive skin with a touch of gold. His thickly lashed eyes were the most beautiful shade of blue s
he had ever seen. She had never been to the Mediterranean Sea, but this was what she imagined the waters would look like. His hair brushed his collar, the thick waves falling about his face. With a cupped hand, he brushed them back in what must have been a habitual gesture, then, seeming to remember his manners, bowed to her.
His bow and the attention it drew to his clothing told her everything she needed to know. This man was no crime lord. He was of her father’s ilk. Her ilk, when she was playing the part of Lady Juliana in Mayfair drawing rooms. His dark coat fit snugly over broad shoulders, his cravat was snowy white against bronze skin, and his breeches strained quite nicely over muscled thighs…
She tried to speak over the pounding of her heart. “You will forgive me, sir, if I do not recall having met you before.” She hadn’t met him. If she’d met him, she would not have forgotten.
“My lady,” he said in a deep voice, “it is you who must forgive me.” He had a cultured British accent with no hint of the Spanish or Italian that must run in his blood. “I’m sorry to call on you without notice. I do, however, have letters of introduction from your father and mine.” He reached in the pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew a small packet of papers. He handed them over smoothly, his hand gloved hand brushing hers. Her heart thudded again, and she looked up at his face. He was perfect, so handsome that he did not seem real. If he’d asked her to dance a waltz, she’d have said yes and suffered her father’s displeasure. What she wouldn’t give to press against his strong, muscled body.
The man cleared his throat and raised his brows. Julia realized she had been staring too long and hadn’t offered him a seat.
“Where are my manners?” she said, keeping her eyes down. He must think her a complete ninny. And she was! If she looked at him again, she’d probably start drooling. “Please sit. I should offer you tea, but my cook just—” Quite suddenly she remembered the bread and the oatmeal.
“Oh dear God.” Dropping the letters, she hurried toward the door. Why hadn’t she smelled the smoke earlier? Her bread was burning!
Unfortunately, her guest blocked the door, and she swerved to the side to avoid colliding with his shoulder. That sudden motion brought her hip in contact with the table near the door, which held the box of rats. She’d placed it precariously close to the edge—that was her fault—and at the collision, it tumbled toward the floor. Uttering a shriek, she bent and caught the box, but one of the rats—Mark, she thought—managed to catch his little paws on the edge and began to climb out. Julia shoved the box under her arm, caught the little creature before he could escape, tucked him in the small silk pocket tied under her gown, and raced for the kitchen.
Behind her, the visitor muttered, “What the hell?”
Julia didn’t have time for explanations. She spotted Robbie’s concerned face peering out of the dining room. At eleven, he was one of the older orphans and had stick-straight, brown hair framing a long, amply freckled face. The children’s din had quieted now, as they had probably smelled the smoke as well and realized their breakfast was in jeopardy.
“My lady! I smelled—” Robbie began.
She raised a hand. “I am on my way, Robbie.”
She burst through the door to the kitchen. Smoke filled the area near the oven, its acrid smell making her nostrils burn. She placed the box of rodents on a chair near the worktable and grabbed the first towel her hand landed on, a thin one for dish drying. Wrapping her hand, she used the towel to open the oven door. More black smoke poured out. Waving the towel to disperse the smoke and coughing so hard her lungs burned, Julia reached in and took hold of the bread. As soon as she had it free of the oven, she realized the towel was scant protection from the heat of the charred bread.
“Ow!” She tossed the bread in the air, catching it again so it would not land on the floor, just in case it was salvageable. She quickly dumped it on the worktable and frowned at the charred loaf.
“May I be of some assistance?” her too-handsome guest asked, stepping gingerly into the kitchen.
Julia refrained from moaning. She had no time to mourn the loss of the bread. She might still save the oats. A quick glance at the hearth showed the oats bubbling over the big black pot. Mindful of her raw hand, she took a moment to locate the thick, quilted mitten, slip it on her hand, and pull the pot away from the fire. She lifted the large spoon hanging nearby and stirred the oatmeal. The top layer of mush ceased bubbling onto the floor, but the oats at the bottom stuck fast to the pot. Breakfast had been burned.
Tears stung her eyes.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” the visitor asked from the door.
She heaved out a sigh. “Not unless you can repair burnt oatmeal or bake bread.”
“I confess I have no talent in either arena. Was that the children’s breakfast?” Abruptly, the man took a step back. “Uh, I don’t mean to alarm you, but you have a mouse in your pocket.”
She looked down to where Mark’s head poked out. “It’s a rat,” she said. Think, Juliana. There must be something else you can prepare.
If only she had restocked the larder, but the shelves were all but bare.
“My mistake.”
Mark had wriggled to the edge of her pocket, and she caught him before he could make a bid for freedom. There had to be more oats, and she knew there were potatoes. Potatoes took so long to cook, though…
“Here.” She held the rat out to her visitor absently. He took a large step back, his gaze telling her exactly how daft he thought her.
“Will you hold him for a moment?” she asked in exasperation. “I need to search for something to cook.”
“No, I will not.”
“Oh, don’t be missish. He’s harmless.”
“Missish?” His blue eyes narrowed.
She shoved Mark into the visitor’s hands. The visitor made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a curse, but he held the animal securely while she searched cabinets and shelves.
“If that was breakfast,” the visitor said, “perhaps you could have the cook start on the noon meal. It’s nigh eleven.”
“I don’t have a cook,” she said, the feeling of hopelessness growing as she found nothing but empty drawers and bins. “She quit this morning.”
Silence.
“Then perhaps your lady’s maid—”
“She quit last week.”
“Your manservant then. Allow me to send the man to fetch bread or pies from one of the street vendors.”
She rose, wishing she could disappear, just for an hour, back to her Mayfair life, with its scones and drinking chocolate. “I would,” she said with a sigh, “but I don’t have the coin to spare.”
“Then allow me.”
She whirled to face him. “I cannot do that, sir.”
“I would gladly pay the price if it meant I could relinquish my role as rat holder.”
She almost laughed. “I do apologize.” She took Mark from him and placed him in the box that served as the rats’ cage. “My manners are sorely lacking this morning.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.” His gaze met hers, and she found it hard to breathe with those Mediterranean Sea eyes so focused on her. Had she ever known a man this handsome? She didn’t think so, and she had known many handsome men. She’d had her share of Seasons and beaux over the years. She realized she’d once again stared at him too long when he lifted a brow.
“How many more of those are you wearing?” he asked with a nod at the box of rats.
“Just the one. There are three in total.” She lifted the box so he could see, but he didn’t even lean forward to catch a glimpse. “Their names are Matthew, Mark, and Luke,” she said, knowing she was babbling now and wishing she would simply shut up.
“What happened to John?”
“We don’t discuss John.”
His eyes almost smiled at her then, though his mouth rema
ined tight. “I understand. Give me a quarter hour, and I’ll return with warm food.”
“Really, Mr…sir. I cannot allow you to do that.”
“Lady Juliana,” he said, already starting for the door. “You cannot stop me.” He paused and looked back at her. “And you look like you need all the help you can muster.”
With that, he was gone. She sank into the chair and would have cried, except that she did need help and just the knowledge this man would take care of breakfast was one small weight off her shoulders. But that weight was quickly replaced by a glance at the state of the kitchen. It was in shambles, and without the cook here, she would be the one to clean it.
“My lady?” Robbie stood in the doorway.
“Yes, Robbie?”
“Who was that man?”
“I…” Good question. She’d never had a chance to look at the letters of introduction. “I don’t know yet, but he’s gone to fetch you and the other boys something to eat.”
A roar sounded from the hallway, and she realized the other boys must have been standing behind Robbie.
“Before he comes back, will you please take your pets up to your room? They’ve caused enough trouble for one day.”
Robbie looked chastened. Almost. “Sorry, my lady.”
“I’m sure you are.” The boys were always sorry after they’d done something wrong. For the life of her, she could not seem to teach them to think of the consequences before they acted.
Robbie took the box and, with a quick smile she could not quite resist, ran off. The other boys followed, all but James, who was about five and as blond as a Dutchman. “Is the man coming back?” James asked in his sweet, high voice.