Boundless (The Shaws)

by Lynne Connolly

  The duke did not appear to notice Livia’s momentary lapse of attention. What must he think of her, making such a fuss about a trinket? “The brooch is still beyond my reach, but I have taken steps to retrieve it. I know where it was, and I have a better idea of what happened to it. However, we must face the possibility that it has gone to a pawnshop, and in that case, I fear we may never get it back.”

  “Yes, of course. Please don’t concern yourself with it any longer. It’s a small matter. I allowed myself to become more upset than I should have done. Probably the result of the attack.”

  She didn’t want to arouse any more suspicions from this alarmingly perspicacious man. She had turned to him in her grief at losing her one link with her baby when she should never have done that. But it was time to let go. Somehow, she would do that.

  “Ah but then, sweet Livia, I would have no excuse to see you again. I take leave to tell you that you are enlivening my sojourn in London this season. I have rarely been so diverted as since I met you.”

  “We will meet, sir.” Her feathers ruffled at his casual use of her first name, she tried the tactic of standing on her dignity. “In ballrooms and the like.”

  “So we will.”

  Relieved at his agreement, she strolled on. But deep inside her, disappointment lowered her mood. He was giving up so easily. Of course, all he knew was that she had lost a sentimental memento. Why should he care? And he obviously did not want to pursue a connection with her, something else that should fill her with joy, but did not. She could never marry, so she should not lead him on.

  Glancing around, she saw Jeffrey bow to her mother and briskly head for the gates. At least he had gone. Preston followed her gaze and grinned. “He’s left the field to me.”

  “That makes me the field?”

  His grin broadened. When he did that, she warmed to him. He looked like a much younger version of himself, transformed into a carefree young man, instead of a cynical, worldly aristocrat. She wanted more smiles. “I would say you were a whole estate full of fields, Lady Livia.”

  “Oy, sir, marster—” The childish voice behind them broke off and recommenced with some very unchild-like cursing. “Sorry, your gracious, but Mr. ’Erring says the ’orses are getting restless and do you want them walked a bit more?”

  Brimful of laughter, Livia swung around to confront a child wearing an ill-fitting suit of clothes. The boy snatched his cocked hat off his head and bowed, his face and neck crimson. “Oh, ah, yes. Sorry, ma’am.”

  “Your ladyship,” Preston said from behind her, but laughter rang in his voice too. “I beg your pardon, Lady Livia. This is Mickey, my new page.”

  She turned her head to meet his eyes. “Truly? Where did you find him?”

  “At that benighted orphanage you were visiting. The boy did his best to help, although he could not say much.”

  He shot a glare at Mickey, now silently waiting, turning his hat around in his hands. His dark hair had obviously been shorn recently, a white line on his neck showing where the skin was usually hidden from the elements. “I beg your pardon for presenting him bare-headed, but his wig has not arrived yet.”

  The boy made a sound Livia could have sworn was a snort. “Never wore one of those fings before,” he muttered.

  “I daresay.” She did her best to sound stern. “But you must learn to do so now. Put your hat back on.”

  The boy settled the hat on his head and lifted his chin to stare at her. She met his blue eyes steadily.

  “You should not meet a lady’s eyes directly,” Preston told him. The boy grimaced but obeyed the duke and looked down. “You see how quick he is? I have expectations that he will make an excellent servant.”

  “You have set yourself a hard task, sir. You might prefer him to work in a position less public. Your stables, perhaps.”

  “Oh no. I am quite convinced he will make an excellent body servant if he works hard. Besides, I’m not sure I fully trust him, so keeping him close is the best way for now. He is my new page and he will remain so for the time being.”

  “And you are training him yourself? That’s very Christian of you.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  Whipping her head around, she caught an expression of unholy glee before he masked it with bland politeness. “You’re inflicting this child on society.”

  “I cannot deny that the training may not go completely unobserved. But I am doing my duty, don’t you agree?”

  She could hardly say no. Anyone taken out of that appalling place would have a better life. When the duke had told her the orphanage was little better than a thieves’ kitchen, she could not be surprised, and not only because of her reaction to the children there. “I had thought to send money to help them. But that would not have helped, would it?”

  “No. The supervisor, who my new servant informs me goes by the name of Ole Smiffy, would have pocketed it. I will inform the authorities of the use the orphanage is put to. Since the place is in the City, the magistrates at Bow Street might be interested.”

  “Thank you.” She swallowed, aware her response still did not explain why she had abandoned the building so fast. Nor could she explain it, not without giving her real reason for doing so, and that, of course, was out of the question.

  “I may need some help schooling this reprobate.” His smile took some of the sting out of his words. But not all. “May I call on you, Lady Livia, to help me in this endeavor? After all, with the good example you set, I could hardly do less.”

  Her mother had joined them. “I’m glad my daughter has had some ameliorating effect on you, duke. However, I fear we must be on our way. Good day, sir.”

  Summarily dismissed, the duke bowed and moved away, beckoning to the boy, who scuttled behind him.

  “Does he know he is making a laughing stock of himself?” Lady Strenshall asked her daughter.

  “I think he is relishing it,” she said, staring after his retreating form.

  Chapter 5

  “Try to keep up, boy,” Adrian told Mickey. The boy scurried to catch him, but Adrian gave no quarter, striding ahead along the broad, smooth pavement. He’d seen Mickey move, and he knew the boy was trying to elicit sympathy. He refused to give it. If Adrian, in his privileged world, could learn to live without sympathy, so could this boy.

  “You’re a shameless child,” Adrian added, as he paused outside the imposing entrance of White’s Club. “Be at your most endearing, otherwise they won’t let you in. You know where you are?”

  The boy nodded. “Never bin inside, though.”

  “You surprise me,” he drawled, before switching to more incisive and lower tones. “I want you to listen and tell me what you hear. Clear?”

  The boy nodded. “I do that sometimes. Surprise people. What do you want to know?”

  He raised a brow. “Your accent is markedly better.”

  “I listen and learn.”

  Adrian was sure of the boy’s native intelligence. Equally sure that he would surprise a few more people before he was done. One thing he knew for sure—Mickey wasn’t going back to the place he’d come from. He was far too good for that.

  “Come on, then. Behave yourself in here.”

  “Your grace.”

  No errors with his title now. Adrian led the way up the steps, threw his hat and gloves on the counter to the usher on duty, handed over his sword and led the way up the broad staircase to the club rooms. Nobody questioned him about Mickey, which would have been a bore.

  While Adrian chose not to attend most social events where he could expect to meet hopeful brides-to-be, they knew him well in this exclusively male preserve. As an unmarried duke he bore a target on his back for young, unmarried women, and until now he hadn’t been ready to accept that challenge. But now, here he was, working hard on behalf of a young woman.

  Had he been caught? If he h
ad, he doubted Livia realized or wanted it. That would be the ultimate irony, to be caught on a hook that wasn’t dangling for him. But he liked her independent spirit, her ability to fight back. She would not cling to him, or demand things he had no ability to give. For the first time since his wife died, he was considering the prospect of remarrying. He could hardly believe it himself.

  Only considering it, though.

  With a careless shrug, he strolled into the main club room.

  Essentially masculine, the room was filled with comfortable seats, arranged in informal groups, and small tables, with a few shelves and sideboards holding decanters and journals. Men sat around, chatting, the hum of conversation a buzz in the air. A significant pause occurred when he entered, and a few heads turned his way. Most glanced away again, but a few watched him curiously as he sauntered around the tables until someone hailed him. “Preston, would you care to join us?”

  He deigned to notice the Marquess of Strenshall and his eldest son, Lord Malton, sitting with the youngest of the male set of twins, Lord Darius Shaw, who watched him from under heavy lids, his gray eyes shrewd. Adrian had clashed with him before, an enjoyable discussion on a point of law. He regarded the whole family as intelligent, but Darius had a particularly fine mind.

  Pulling back a chair, he seated himself and accepted a glass of wine, shaking his lace cuffs back before he took a sip of the ruby liquid. Although he didn’t look around, he felt the presence of Mickey just behind him, on the left side. Exactly where a servant should stand. “You have a new follower,” the marquess remarked.

  “A page.”

  “Appropriate,” Darius remarked.

  The air froze. The last time anyone in his family had a page, disaster had resulted. But that page had been black. Adrian gripped his glass, forcing himself to pause, not to throw the contents into the man’s face. “And your meaning, sir?”

  “Merely that a duke should have an attendant.” Darius raised his own glass. “Your health, sir.”

  He didn’t mean that in the least, but Adrian had no way of challenging him. He always faced direct accusations head-on. The heir to a powerful dukedom not descended from the male line, people said. An impostor, they claimed. He could do nothing to counter that argument, short of throwing himself in the river.

  Or perhaps…yes. Adrian nodded and raised his own glass. “Yours. The irony is not lost on me. I daresay many people will also note it. I found the lad in an orphanage close to the home of my last mistress.”

  He lifted a brow and allowed his lips to quirk. “Perhaps, sir, since I’ve done with her and she has a cozy house as a consequence, you would like to take her over. I believe she is still without a permanent protector. Just let me know and I’ll give you her direction.”

  Malton shouted with laughter. His jest had hit home. Darius glared at Adrian frigidly, before he gave a reluctant nod. “Touché, sir. I thank you for your consideration, but I believe I will reject your kind offer.”

  A hit on both sides and honor satisfied.

  Most of society knew Darius’s preferences did not lie in the direction of the female sex but chose to turn its collective blind eye to the fact. Darius belonged to the extended family known as the Emperors of London. Few people dared to cross them.

  Adrian would. Frankly he didn’t care. They could only hurt him if he cared about what they did to him and he’d lost that ability years ago. Caring would open him up to hurt. He’d had enough of that.

  Not a flinch marked Lord Darius’s easy demeanor and the surface of the wine in the glass he held wasn’t marked by even a quiver. “But thank you for the offer. Does the lady not have a say in her future admirers?”

  “This one does.” Adrian took a sip of his wine, quietly toasting Darius. “It’s Ophelia d’Arblay. Currently the toast of the Theatre Royal.”

  “But not for long,” Malton commented. “Her spectacular beauty is only surpassed by the woodenness of her acting.”

  “Indeed,” Adrian said. “It matches her prowess in other pursuits.” Not even a good actress in bed, she would have to learn better if she wanted to progress in the world of the demi-monde. “I found someone else in the district too,” he continued smoothly, “as well as my new page. Much prettier and far more ill-suited to the neighborhood.”

  Lord Malton’s fine lips firmed. “My sister.”

  Nobody could overhear them in this corner if they kept their voices down. “Indeed. She escaped the orphanage before the carriage arrived to take her home. I found her in King Street.”

  “We have to thank you for your help in that situation,” the marquess said smoothly. “Also for your discretion.”

  And taking her into the house of his mistress, but Adrian guessed Livia’s father didn’t know that part. Or preferred to skim over it. The kiss—he would know about that, but no significant scandal had ensued, so perhaps he was forgiven. “You’re welcome. If I had a sister, I’m sure you’d do the same favor for her.”

  “Lady Livia is my only unmarried daughter,” the marquess said steadily. He didn’t have to make the point quite so forcibly.

  “I am aware of that, sir,” Adrian answered gravely.

  “If you are seen in her company much more, society will expect tidings. Any failure in that direction will reflect on her rather than on you.”

  Adrian tilted his glass and examined the weak late autumn sunlight striking off the deeply cut facets. “I am aware.”

  He wasn’t here to make assurances. Much better was having people on edge around him. That gave him an advantage, especially if he knew what they were nervous about. “I will do as I see fit. You will have to trust me, gentlemen, will you not?”

  “Not at all,” Malton answered, cool as you please. “Merely that if you compromise my sister in any way, you will suffer for it. Or you will marry her.”

  “Surely that would be my decision. I take it, then, that you would welcome me into the family?”

  Strenshall looked uneasy. Adrian knew that expression—he’d seen it often enough. “We would prefer that matters did not progress so far.”

  “Why? What could conceivably deter your daughter from receiving my suit?” Gently, he placed the glass on the round table at his side. “Gentlemen, I give you good day. I do not expect you to answer that last question. I know the answer well enough. God knows I’ve heard it enough times.”

  Sick of this place, sick of being warned off, because this wasn’t the first father to issue a warning, sick of constantly fighting against something that was not his fault, Adrian got to his feet. Followed by a silent Mickey, he left the club, taking his time collecting his hat and gloves at the desk in the lobby. He had to give his temper time to dissipate before he punched the nearest wall and made a total fool of himself.

  Maybe smashing a room full of china knickknacks worked. It had certainly seemed to work for Ophelia.

  What had angered him the most was the notion of being compelled to marry Livia. No warning sounds, no prickling sensation up his spine accompanied that warning. Nothing. If he married her, he would do it on his own terms, not dictated to by anyone else.

  Adrian strode away, uncaring whether Mickey followed him or not. How could that happen? How could he not feel the warnings when marriage came anywhere near him? He couldn’t marry anyone. He was tainted, a byword for disreputable behavior. He couldn’t bring that to her. Neither could he give her his defiled blood. And by that he didn’t mean his father. Either of them.

  “Hey, sir, mister, your grace.” Muttered curses followed in his wake. “Hold up!”

  “What?” Exasperated, he swung around, the weighted skirts of his coat catching the boy around the shoulders and knocking him over. Undeterred, Mickey scrambled to his feet and stood, arms akimbo, glaring at Adrian.

  Adrian liked that. He wanted people who were prepared to face him. “What is it, boy?”

 
“That man. That cove ’oo paid us for the brooch. ’E passed us on the way out.”

  After a string of inventive curses, Adrian felt better. Marginally. “Did you recognize him?”

  The boy grunted. “Yes. It was him, I’m sure it was. But I don’t know who it was.” His h’s were the first thing to leave him and the first to return, Adrian noted with interest. Followed swiftly by the g’s.

  “Did he recognize you?” That might put Mickey in danger or warn said cove that someone was after him.

  “Naw. Didn’t bother to look. He was glaring at you. I’m surprised you don’t have a hole in your back.”

  That was nothing new to Adrian. “That could be any number of gentlemen.”

  “All the ones wiv wives you’ve tupped?”

  Adrian knew better than to reprimand the boy for knowing. For one thing, he was older than he appeared, and for another, a person could hardly live on the streets of London without knowing. “Among other things. Keep your eyes peeled.”

  He debated whether to leave Mickey behind to watch for the man. But he might not be as lucky twice. His quarry could recognize the boy and then the game would be up. And Mickey might be in danger. Adrian still didn’t know why this brooch was so important, but every time he made a move, something happened that convinced him there was more to it than a sentimental memento.

  “You, my boy, are with me until further notice.”

  Mickey eyed him suspiciously. “So what when the job’s done? You’ll pay me off and send me back?”

  “Is that what you want?”

  Someone passed by and sniffed in disdain. Adrian ignored him.

  “Maybe.” Mickey stared at the pavement at his feet.

  “I see. I can find you a position in my household, if you’d prefer that.”

  “Kitchen boy?”

  Somehow Adrian thought not. This child was too intelligent to waste. “Don’t worry. We’ll work out what is best for you. Be assured I won’t give you a few guineas and throw you back on the street. Not, at least, if you behave. Remember what I told you?”