The Saint of St. Giles

by Millard, Nadine

  But none of it could come close to the elation of dancing with Lord Barnbury.

  Even now, after a restless night thinking of him and fitful sleep dreaming of him, Alison’s heart raced with excitement.

  The feeling of being in his arms, the strength of him even as he held her, as though she were made of the finest china. The scent of him, masculine and intoxicating surrounding her – and miraculously, the smile, brief though it was, making his navy-blue eyes brighter.

  All of it made Alison positively dizzy with excitement, and desire, and so many wonderful new emotions that she could barely keep control of them.

  And even though he’d ended their dance in his usual stoic fashion, even though he’d been once again subdued whilst they’d eaten supper with Abigail and Robert, it mattered not to Alison.

  She’d seen a brief, tantalising glimpse of a sense of humour beneath the serious exterior, and it made her determined to bring it out in him again.

  Feeling giddy with anticipation and something that it was far too soon to even be contemplating about the dutiful duke, Alison rang the bell for her maid.

  As soon as Eliza came in with a cup of chocolate, Alison leapt from the bed.

  She had no idea what Abigail had planned for today, but she dearly hoped it included seeing Lord Barnbury again.

  “What would you like to wear for afternoon calls, Miss Langton? The duchess is to host an At Home, so you’ll be wanting something to impress your suitors.”

  Alison grinned at the outspoken maid. Eliza had come over from the Americas with Alison, and she was so glad to have her own maid with her. She knew it had been a sacrifice for Eliza to leave behind her family to come here.

  More than it had been for Alison.

  She’d barely gotten a goodbye from anyone except Beth. And Beth was the only one she really, truly missed.

  “You assume that I’ll have suitors,” she laughed. “What if everyone hated me?”

  “Tosh,” her maid responded immediately. “They’ll be hammering the door down, Miss. Now, how about the blue?”

  She pulled out an exquisite day dress in the palest shade of sky-blue. When the mantua maker that Robert had summoned to Montvale Hall had delivered the dress before their journey to London, Alison had fallen in love with it.

  It was simple in its cut, unadorned save for white piping along the sweetheart neckline, but the colour made her eyes seem bluer and hair brighter.

  “It’s perfect.” She nodded her approval as she sipped her chocolate.

  “Well then, let’s get you ready for all those gentlemen coming to call,” Eliza said as she swept from the room to press the gown.

  Alison moved to the window of her bedchamber, looking out at the verdant grass and colourful flowerbeds of Abigail’s gardens.

  She didn’t know if there would be as many gentlemen calling as Eliza imagined, but it was of no matter. She was only interested in one.

  “Your grace, ’tis good to see you.”

  Nicholas was pulled from his distracted reverie by the sound of a voice calling to him, the distinctive Irish brogue filling his ears.

  He turned to smile at the plump, aproned woman bustling toward him.

  Mrs. Cafferty was a gem. Someone he trusted with his life and with this centre, which was so important to him.

  There wasn’t much to smile about in St. Giles, this part in particular, yet the middle-aged, portly housekeeper seemed perpetually cheery.

  “How do you do, Mrs. Cafferty?” Nic bowed to the woman as though she were a duchess.

  She might not have a title, but she most certainly had his respect.

  “I could complain, your grace, but sure who’d listen?” She smiled, her faded green eyes crinkling at the corners. “We weren’t expecting you till week’s end, your grace. I hope nothing is amiss?”

  “No, indeed. Everything is running smoothly as ever, I’m sure. I was just of a mind to drop in, if it’s not an imposition?”

  “Tsk. An imposition! How could you be imposing in your own building, your grace? Come along then.”

  Being a duke, only a step down from royalty, Nic wasn’t ordered about the place by anyone. Yet here in the Rookery, when Mrs. Cafferty told him to come along, he made haste to follow the redoubtable lady.

  Nic had first met the flame-haired woman ten years prior when he’d been searching like a man possessed for Ciara and their unborn babe.

  Though Mrs. Cafferty’s ginger curls were now streaked with grey, she was much the same as she had been back then; taking care of everyone around her, working her fingers to the bone to ensure those under her wing were as safe and well as they could be in the slums of St. Giles, and determined to make the world a better, safer place for the children she took care of in whatever way she could.

  He’d come across Mrs. Cafferty and her brood of unknown, unwanted children when he’d first entered the hell of the intricate, never-ending streets of Little Ireland.

  She had been suspicious of him at first, knowing first-hand just what it could mean when a Peer came searching for children on this side of London.

  Nicholas couldn’t even stomach the briefest thought on it.

  But she’d trusted him and thankfully believed that his intentions were good.

  More than that, Mrs. Cafferty had been the one to whom he’d turned for comfort when he’d finally discovered the truth about Ciara. Had been there with him the day he’d been forced to say goodbye to the dream of finding his babe forever.

  She had become something of a mother figure to Nic, since he never saw his own anymore.

  The occasional letter was all the correspondence he had with the duchess. And it was all he wanted. Even his sisters, both married with families of their own, were on the peripheral of Nic’s life.

  Though they’d been young when his father had acted so abominably, and held no blame for what had befallen Ciara and the baby, Nic still kept them at a distance. He’d seen them right, given them dowries and ensured they were were well taken care of during their respective Come Outs. But since they’d both made good matches and settled down, Nic had little to do with them. Not because he didn’t care. Because he didn’t know how to be close to them without being reminded of his parents.

  Whilst his mother hadn’t been quite as cruel as his father, she was cut from the same cloth and had been just as eager to get rid of Ciara as the old duke had.

  Nic and Mrs. Cafferty were now travelling down the hallway of one of the buildings Nic had procured on the outskirts of Little Ireland.

  After he’d learned of the fate of Ciara, Nic had dedicated his time to trying to win the unwinnable war against poverty, crime, and depravity in the streets of St. Giles.

  He never would. He knew that.

  But he would keep on trying.

  One of his first attempts at salving his conscience had been this building – a home of sorts for the children of the Rookery. Somewhere they would have full bellies and a clean place to sleep. Somewhere safe from the monsters that lurked on these streets. Monsters like the one who’d killed Ciara and his child.

  Before his mind could drag him down into his bleak memories, Mrs. Cafferty once more pulled him from his thoughts.

  “The children will be only delighted to see you again, your grace.” She was sounding a little breathless as they’d now begun the ascent to her office on the second floor of the three-storey building, but Nic knew better than to mention it. “Their letters and numbers are coming along wonderfully.”

  “And the new arrivals?” he asked quietly.

  Only two weeks ago, Nic had caught a brother and sister trying to steal his coin. A few questions answered not by the mutinous, hard-edged boy of ten but by his skinny, haunted-looking sister of only six told him what he’d already suspected. They were alone in this world. Their mother had died only two years before and since neither knew who their father was, or if they even had the same father, there was nobody to help them.

  It had taken some convinc
ing, but finally Nic managed to get them to come to Mrs. Cafferty’s, as the place was affectionately known.

  “John and his sister. She was never named,” Mrs. Cafferty said stoutly, but Nic knew that knowledge would hurt the woman as much as it hurt him to hear it. “We’ve taken to calling her Bonnie, since she’s such a pretty little thing. They’re settling in as well as can be expected,” the Irishwoman said now. “It’s a big adjustment, going from life on the streets to a home. They still have the look of children who are expecting the worst,” she said softly. “But sure, time will prove their safety like nothing else.”

  By now they had reached the corridor that housed Mrs. Cafferty’s modest rooms, along with a schoolroom, rooms kept for when the doctor visited, and a playroom. Above stairs was where the children and the rest of the staff slept.

  The door of the playroom was opened and as they passed, Nic caught sight of the new arrivals.

  The boy, John, looked briefly up at Nic but dropped his gaze almost immediately, staring defiantly at the toy soldiers in front of him.

  Whilst he was wondering if he should try to speak to the child, he felt a tug on his fawn breeches.

  Looking down, Nic felt his heart slam nearly out of his chest as he looked into the face of the little girl he’d saved.

  Mrs. Cafferty was right. She was a bonnie little thing. Her name suited her.

  But it wasn’t that which had Nic’s heart hammering.

  It was the golden curls. The huge blue eyes. The shy but impish smile.

  She looked like Poppy, he thought. But more than that – she looked like Alison Langton.

  And just like that, all his best laid plans – to come here and distract himself with the work he loved to do, with the people he needed to help – went completely awry.

  Alison Langton had been lurking on the periphery of his thoughts, just waiting for him to slip up so she could fill every part of his mind.

  Now, as he stood there looking at the beautiful child, shying from the images and possibilities she presented him with, he couldn’t help but think of Alison.

  Outwardly he was his usual self, and he bent to speak softly to the child, conscious of her brother watching closely from the corner.

  But inside, a veritable storm was rattling around inside him.

  A golden-haired, blue-eyed storm. One he wasn’t sure he’d survive.

  Chapter Nine

  “Of all the jewels London may have to offer, Miss Langton, you are truly the best of them.”

  Alison gritted her teeth as Lord Fulham ran a somewhat insolent gaze over her.

  When the butler had announced Lord Fulham, Alison had half expected Robert to refuse the man entry. However, a hastily whispered warning from Abigail not to create a scene in front of their other visitors meant Robert had allowed it, albeit reluctantly.

  He was handsome, of that there was no doubt. Tall and slim, his blonde hair was styled in the Brutus cut that was all the rage.

  Lord Barnbury’s hair was chestnut, she thought, and longer than the severity of Fulham’s.

  Lord Fulham’s eyes were a pale, icy blue. Nicholas’s were a deep, warm navy.

  Get a hold of yourself, Alison, she scolded herself. But it was no use.

  Yes, he was handsome, if a little slimy. And he was being almost obscenely attentive. Yet she couldn’t stop her mind from wandering to her disinterested duke.

  It had been a week since she had danced with the duke at the ball. The man had since disappeared. All afternoon she’d watched the door. As she had done every afternoon.

  Abigail had declared Alison a sensation, and it had been necessary for them to be “at home” for the entire week in order for Alison to be available to speak to her many admirers.

  She was more than a little flattered that so many people had taken an interest in her.

  Yet every time the butler knocked, with yet another card upon a silver platter, her heart raced then sank to her toes.

  It was never the Duke of Barnbury. No matter how much she wished it to be.

  Eliza had been right, in any case, when she’d predicted that Alison would be in demand.

  At any given moment the drawing room, which was by no means small, was full to the brim with people.

  Though there were a smattering of ladies present, there was an abundance of men. Men who brought posies of beautiful flowers and lavished her with attention and compliments.

  It was far less enjoyable than she would have imagined.

  Yet every time she looked over at Abigail, her sister smiled broadly, like a proud mama. And it reminded Alison of the effort and money Abigail and Robert were expending to give her this Season.

  So, she decided she needed to get her mind away from apathetic duke and focus on one of the many gentlemen here who wanted her company. Even sought her company, as opposed to it being forced upon them.

  She looked briefly to her brother-in-law, who was standing by the fireplace, a scowl upon his face.

  Nobody in the room seemed brave enough to go near him, and he didn’t seem to mind.

  That was another thing – if she hurried up and chose a husband, Robert would get his life of solitude back.

  He could take Lottie and Abby back to Northumberland where he was happy and comfortable.

  Alison’s stomach twisted painfully as she thought of marrying and moving away from Abigail and Robert.

  But that’s what she’d come here for.

  If she could leave an ocean between herself and her parents and younger sister, she could leave a few counties between herself and her older sister, surely.

  With a renewed sense of purpose, Alison turned her full attention to Lord Fulham.

  “Do you enjoy the theatre, Miss Langton?” he asked now, his eyes slowly perusing her body in a way that made her want to cover herself in a shawl.

  Her simple, lemon muslin was anything but vulgar, yet Lord Fulham made her feel as though she were some sort of lightskirt.

  But perhaps she had been focusing so much on disdainful, cold stares that she was misconstruing friendly appreciation.

  “I do, my lord.” She smiled. “In fact, I believe we are to attend this evening’s performance.”

  “Ah,” he smiled. “I had hoped to invite to you attend with me.”

  Alison froze, wondering what the etiquette was in this situation.

  Should she invite Lord Fulham to join them in Robert’s box? That didn’t seem proper, yet he wasn’t speaking, so she was under the distinct impression that he was expecting something.

  They had the room.

  Robert would be escorting both Abigail and herself that evening, so it wasn’t as though Lord Fulham wouldn’t have a space. And truth be told, she’d far rather be escorted by a gentleman of her own than be taken out by her brother-in-law.

  “W-well, my lord – if his grace doesn’t mind, I –”

  “His grace, the Duke of Barnbury, your grace.”

  Alison’s head whipped around at the sound of the butler’s sudden announcement, and there he was, filling the doorway looking almost absurdly handsome in a dark green superfine, fawn breeches, and shiny Hessians.

  His eyes travelled around the room and its occupants, all of them scrambling to bow and curtsey, before landing on Alison.

  Her breath caught at the brief flare of some intense emotion in his eyes before they became as impassive as always.

  He frowned as his gaze travelled from her to Lord Fulham and back again.

  Alison smiled tentatively.

  When he didn’t return the gesture, rather turned to speak to Robert, who had approached him, her temper and an imp of mischief awakened.

  “Lord Barnbury doesn’t look too pleased with what he sees,” Fulham said evenly. Alison noticed that he was watching her closely.

  “Is he ever?” she asked dryly, earning a laugh.

  “Touché, my dear. In all the years I’ve known him, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile.”

  Alison’s hea
rt twisted a little to be engaging in such vulgar conversation about the duke, but when she looked his way again, she saw he was managing to smile quite well at the few ladies in the room who had closed in on him.

  The jealousy she felt was surprising in its intensity.

  “I’d say that perhaps the bad moods come from losing at the tables in his favourite haunts, but the man is rich as Croesus, so it can’t be that.”

  This caught Alison’s attention when it had been once more wandering across the room, and she frowned in confusion at Lord Fulham.

  “Lord Barnbury is a gamer?” she asked.

  Alison was surprised to hear it. He didn’t seem the type.

  She knew he played cards at parties and with Robert, James, and Lord Dashford. But gambling in hells? It was surprising.

  “I assume so. He and I do not frequent the same places, but I see him around St. Giles all the time. There are only two reasons a man would be in that part of London, Miss Langton. And I won’t offend your sensibilities by telling you about the other one.”

  Alison felt a blush heat her cheeks at Lord Fulham’s outrageous comment. She knew exactly what he was implying and though she didn’t consider herself a prude, it made her feel vaguely uncomfortable.

  She wouldn’t, however, act like an unsophisticated little girl, so she laughed delicately.

  “I’m quite sure I understand your meaning, Lord Fulham. I’m surprised to hear that his grace is interested in either of those things, to be frank.”

  “He seems far too stuffy, I grant you.” Lord Fulham leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially. He smelt rather pleasant. “But I see him around St. Giles enough to know that he frequents the place. What other reason could there be?”

  That wasn’t at all in keeping with the impression Alison had formed of him.

  In truth, rather than finding it off-putting, she found this titbit of information rather exciting.

  She didn’t know St. Giles. Nor would she, if Robert and James had anything to do with it.

  According to her over-protective relatives, it wasn’t even safe to be near that part of London, let alone in it.