by Shana Galen
Walter stared for a long moment. “You cheated.”
Neil crossed his arms. “That’s a serious accusation. I’d think before making it if I were you.”
Walter opened his mouth as though to protest again, then closed it. He muttered something that sounded like You didn’t cheat, then lifted his face to glower at Neil. “How did you do that?”
“Maybe I’ll teach you some day. But right now, you owe me an answer.”
“I don’t have to tell you anything.” Walter crossed his arms over his chest.
“You gave me your word.”
Walter seemed to consider this. Neil waited. Neil felt a growing sense of anticipation. He didn’t know why he should care whether the boy honored his word or not, but he wanted Walter to do the noble thing.
Finally, Walter let out a huff of air. “You won. Fair and square. I’ll tell you that I was on my way to the Ox and Bull.”
Slag’s place. Neil tensed. Had Slag not only recruited Goring, but the children as well?
“Are you part of Slag’s gang?”
Walter shrugged.
“You want to be.”
Walter looked up at him. “People are afraid of Mr. Slag. If I work with him, he’ll keep me safe. I’ll be one of his boys.”
Neil nodded. He and Walter had more in common than Neil had expected. Both of them longed for family. Joining Slag’s gang of criminals wasn’t the way to find it.
“And what sort of work would you do for Slag? Pick pockets? Pilfer shops? I’m sure he has a dozen rackets for a boy of your age.”
“He can use me.”
“And that’s exactly what he’ll do. You steal for him, and if you’re caught, you suffer the consequences while he gets rich.”
“I’m young. The judges are lien…lenen… They go easy on you if you’re young.”
“They might not give you as much jail time, but you’ll find yourself in Newgate for a few months. Do you have any idea what happens to young boys like you in Newgate?”
Walter swallowed.
Neil nodded. “So you have an idea. It’s not a place you want to spend even one dark night, much less sixty of them.”
“Maybe I’m willing to take my chances. What have I got to lose?”
Those were words Neil knew well. How many times had he said them? Thought them? At his lowest, his most hate-filled, Neil hadn’t thought he had anything to lose. But that was before the nightmares and the skittishness every time someone shot a rifle. Neil hadn’t realized he’d lose the men he counted as close as brothers. He hadn’t counted on losing pieces of his heart, bloody shard by bloody shard, every time one of his men died.
“Look around you,” Neil said, his voice hoarse from emotion. Walter didn’t seem to notice. Neil put his arm around the boy’s shoulders, turning him so he could catch a glimpse of the orphanage. “This is what you have to lose.”
Walter snorted. “A leaky, old building filled with a bunch of smelly boys? I say good riddance.”
Neil held Walter in place when the boy would have shrugged him off. “You’re not looking hard enough, Walter.”
Walter stilled and looked around again. “I don’t see anything special.”
“I do. You are fortunate to have a roof over your head.”
“A leaky roof.”
“Not when I am through with it, but I promise you there were nights during the war I would have given all the coin in my pocket for a leaky roof or any sort of roof. You know what else?”
“What?”
“I would have given a month’s wages for a bed and a blanket and food in my belly. You have all that.”
“They give you some of that in the army, don’t they?”
“Of course, but I wasn’t in the regular army. I was part of a special troop, and we had to travel light. We slept under the stars or in the rain or in the cold. We didn’t have a supply cart to provide us provisions. We bought what we could, begged for some, and stole the rest.”
“You stole?”
Neil released Walter and sat on the second to bottom step. Walter sat next to him.
“I stole food, weapons, clothes—whatever I could from the enemy. War doesn’t feel quite so honorable when your belly is empty and your feet bare. But you know what got me through?”
“The battles? All the explosions?”
“No.” Neil gave him a long look. “My friends. There were thirty of us to start, but only twelve came back. A dozen men, just like you have here.”
“Aw, most of these orphans are crybabies. They aren’t men.”
“Then show them how to be strong. Be a leader. One day they will be men. One day you’ll be out of this place. You’ll want friends you can trust. Friends who will have your back no matter what happens.”
“Do you have friends like that?”
“Absolutely. You met Mr. Mostyn already. When I’m in a scrape, Mostyn and my other friends are the first to come to my aid.”
Walter seemed to consider this. “You were the leader? What did they call you? Major?”
Neil shook his head. What had ranks meant when the men died side by side? Neil might have given the final orders, but he dug the graves of the men they lost right beside the rest of the men. “They called me the Warrior.”
“Why?”
“Because I had been a soldier before and because…” He considered how to explain the lust for revenge he had felt when he’d first formed the troop. “I was the most devoted to war.”
“I could be a warrior,” Walter said. “I can fight.” He jumped up and moved his feet like a boxer, holding his fists up in front of his face.
“If you want to be a soldier, you’d better stay out of trouble and get an education. Lady Juliana will have a new tutor for you soon.”
“Reading and writing and numbers? I don’t need any of that.”
“Then how do you think to read your orders or write reports or plan troop movements?”
“I don’t want to do any of that. I just want to fight.”
“Ah, so you want to be an infantry man. I always preferred the cavalry. I was in the Sixteenth Light Dragoons. They’re known as the Queen’s Lancers.” Neil scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “Nothing like riding a horse into the heat of battle and saving the day for the infantry. But you need some education to be a dragoon.” One needed money too, but if Walter ever made something of himself, Neil would make sure he was able to buy the commission of his choice. It was the least he could do for a child who understood what it was like to grow up without a family.
“I’ll think about it,” Walter said, apparently unwilling to commit verbally.
Neil knew the look in the boy’s eye. He was intrigued and won over by the image of himself on horseback, charging heroically into battle. “Then back to bed with you. You’ll need your rest, because tomorrow, we repair the roof.”
Walter pulled a face. “Aww.”
“And I’ll teach you and the other lads how to behave like soldiers—how to salute, stand at attention, how to march.”
“Really? I can’t wait!” Walter ran up two steps, then ran back down two and hugged Neil hard. Neil raised his arms but couldn’t quite make himself return the embrace. The boy didn’t notice. He scampered back up the steps and down the hallway.
Neil didn’t think he’d have any more trouble with Walter tonight, but he knew this was only the first sally. And there were more truculent foes to consider too. The tall, sullen boy, to begin with. Billy? Was that his name? He might not give Neil trouble outright, but that was because Billy was still sizing him up.
Neil was sizing him up as well. And Billy wouldn’t give up his knives so easily.
Eleven
Julia ducked into the shadows of the drawing room at the top of the stairs as Walter raced by her. The boy hadn’t even known she was there, and n
either had Wraxall. Or perhaps she should think of him as the Warrior. She’d gone back to her room after their kiss, and she hadn’t been able to calm herself enough to lie down.
No wonder, as she’d never been kissed like that in her life. None of the kisses she’d received previously could even compare, and she would have remembered. Her body still vibrated from the feel of his hands on her. Her lips still tingled. Her heart had continued thumping hard in her chest. No, she would not soon forget the Warrior’s kiss. She would still remember how it had made her feel when she was an old, old woman.
She wouldn’t have heard the noise if she hadn’t still been pacing her room. But she’d heard the voices and crept out, half-afraid Mr. Slag had returned. And despite all her protests about Wraxall’s presence here, she was certainly happy he was nearby in that moment.
Except, it hadn’t been Slag at all. It had been Wraxall and Walter. Julia had ducked into the drawing room so she wouldn’t be spotted. She’d almost revealed herself when Wraxall had challenged Walter to stab him, but she should have known a former soldier could handle a mere boy.
What she couldn’t have known was how the boy and the man would melt her heart. She’d never particularly liked Walter. He wasn’t sweet like James or adorable like Charlie. He wasn’t smart like Michael or helpful like Robbie. And he certainly didn’t want her love like Sean or Chester. Walter had always pushed her away. No matter which method she employed to get to know him, he’d wanted nothing to do with her.
But he’d embraced the Warrior. Julia wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t seen it. She almost hadn’t, as she should have been hiding and not sticking her head out to watch. What made it even worse was all the weeping. When Wraxall had talked about his friends, tears had streamed from her eyes. She could hear the sorrow in his voice and knew that though he made war sound heroic and glorious to Walter, the Warrior found it anything but.
And that could only mean one thing—Wraxall cared about these children. He might say he couldn’t look at them. He might dislike that the orphans reminded him of the circumstances of his own birth, but they were winning him over. Just as the boys had won her over—not that she had been a difficult case. She could grudgingly admit she had a soft heart.
Unfortunately, Wraxall was winning her over too. He’d touched her heart tonight when he’d told Walter to look around and to think what he had. The man really did see and understand what she was trying to do here and what she wanted to give these boys. And the way he’d put his arm about Walter, the way he’d spoken to him softly but firmly, the way he’d counseled him had melted her heart—Wraxall reminded her of her own father before her mother had died. Then he had been a different man, one who had always taken the time to listen to Julia’s stories and praise her childish drawings and encourage her in piano and singing, even though every instructor had declared she had no musical talent.
Not all men were kind like her father, though. She’d come to think of him as the exception, not the rule. Damien Holbrook, Viscount Lainesborough, had showed her what most men were truly like. And who was to say the Warrior was not the same as Lainesborough once the layers were peeled back? Hadn’t Damien been charming and kind when he’d courted Harriett? Hadn’t he been everything genteel and charming even after they married? Then he’d grown tired of his new wife and Harriett had come home, weeping and inconsolable because the man she’d fallen in love with was not the man she’d married. The man she’d married was selfish, callous, and lecherous. He’d gone to Town for the Season, leaving her at his country home because she had been too ill with the first symptoms of pregnancy to join him at routs and balls.
Instead, he’d found a mistress and all the papers had reported their great love affair, making Harriett look like a complete fool.
And yet, Julia might have forgiven him that behavior. She was not the sort of person to hold a grudge. But she could never, ever forgive what he’d done after Davy had been born.
And now, Julia was tempted to trust this Warrior, this Mr. Wraxall. Though she feared she would be making the same mistake Harriett had made. The sisters had grown up in the ton. They had been weaned on scandal, raised on gossip, and educated early as to the differences between rumor and innuendo. That men—and women—were often unfaithful in their marriages was no surprise. Their father had not been quite as censorious with the papers as he ought to have been, and so Julia and Harriett always knew when the Duke (or Earl or Marquess) of Somewhere and the new actress from Drury Lane (or the new opera singer or the new viscountess) took up together, leaving their respective spouses to hold their heads high and ignore the liaison.
It was simply that Julia and Harriett had always considered that sort of behavior to belong to other people. Never in their wildest imaginings did they suppose the men they married would be the one to flaunt his paramour. And when Harriett came home in just such a situation, Julia was not as shocked as her sister, but it didn’t make the blow any less painful.
If only she’d known that wasn’t the worst outrage her brother-in-law would perpetrate on the family.
Wraxall might not look as though he was made from the same cloth as Viscount Lainesborough, but how could she be certain? She’d known him but two days, and she could not allow one dizzying kiss to completely addle her brain and weaken her resolve.
With that thought in mind, she retired to bed. Unfortunately, she did not sleep well, and she was still rather groggy the next morning when Mr. Wraxall knocked on her bedroom door at barely half past seven.
She’d been finishing dressing her hair and thought it must be Charlie, as he was always awake first. “Charlie?” she asked through the door.
“It’s Wraxall.”
Julia closed her mouth. She’d been about to invite Charlie in, but she could not extend the same invitation to Wraxall. “One moment.” She gave her image reflected in the cheval glass an annoyed frown, then hurried to the door, her hair pinned on one side and loose on the other. “Yes?”
Wraxall stared at her. “Is that a new style?”
She blew out a breath. “You know very well it is not. I supposed you had come to my room with a matter of some urgency. If the matter can wait—”
He stuck his hand in the gap between the door and the casement, stopping her from closing the door. “It is a matter of concern. You have a line of women at the kitchen door. As the rain hasn’t slowed, I told one of the boys to let them in. They’re currently dripping on the kitchen floor.”
Julia stared at him. “A group of women in the kitchen?”
“Yes.”
“They stood outside in the rain?”
“That’s what I said. They’re here for the cook’s position. What do you want me to do with them?”
The cook’s position! Of course. The advertisement must have run in the Times. “Send them to the parlor.”
He frowned. “Then they’ll drip on the rug.”
She waved her hands. “Then keep them in the kitchen.”
“How do we prepare breakfast?”
Julia let out a huff. Men and their stomachs. But she could hardly be annoyed when Wraxall was apparently prepared—again—to cook the morning meal.
“Very well. What do you suggest we do with them?”
“Put them in the entryway. There aren’t any rugs, and they’ll be out of the way.”
“Fine.” She stepped out of her room and closed the door. “You send them to the entryway, and I’ll bring the first one to the parlor to interview.” She started down the stairs to the kitchen with Wraxall right beside her. Finally, they would have a cook. One of her problems would be solved. She would not think of the other half dozen she faced—namely, what she would do when Slag confronted her at the Darlington musicale.
They reached the bottom of the staircase, but before she could push the door open, Wraxall pulled her back against the wall. Julia caught her breath. She had neve
r thought about how narrow the servants’ staircase was or how enclosed and private. She could hear the prospective cooks’ voices on the other side of the door, but in the stairwell, she and Wraxall were quite alone.
“What are you doing?” she whispered. Did he think to kiss her again? Her heart clenched with hope while her belly fluttered with fear. She did not want him to kiss her again. Did she? Certainly not here and not now? But her gaze drifted to his mouth and her lips suddenly felt quite dry. She licked them, and Wraxall’s hand, which had been reaching for her, paused in midair.
“Don’t tempt me,” he murmured, low enough for her to hear but not loud enough to carry over the din in the kitchen. His voice slid over her like warm velvet.
“Tempt you?” she hissed. “If you think I want you to kiss me, you are sorely mistaken.”
“I don’t think you want me to kiss you,” he answered.
Well, that was good then. She had at least made one point clear to him the night before.
“I know you want me to kiss you.”
Julia sputtered, too shocked to form a coherent thought or sentence.
“But that is not my intent.” He reached for her again, but this time she caught his wrist.
“Do not touch me.”
He lowered his hand and shrugged. “Fine. Go in like that.”
“Fine.” She turned to the door, then looked back at him. “Like what?”
He twirled a finger, indicating her head. “With that new style in your hair.”
Julia gasped, her hands flying to her head. She’d completely forgotten her hair was only half-pinned. And she’d thought he wanted to kiss her. No doubt he wanted to laugh just looking at her in all her ridiculousness.
She moved back from the door, but he anticipated her. “There’s no time now,” he said and reached for her again. This time, she didn’t move quickly enough, and his hand slid into her hair. She stiffened, unable to move as his fingers searched deftly for the pins she’d slid into the mass to secure it. Her scalp tingled as, one by one, he removed the pins, dropping them into his hand. Her hair fell down about her shoulders. When she glanced at him again, she felt very young and somehow more vulnerable with her hair loose.