Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage 05] (7 page)

“Yes, well…Carlton certainly complicated things.” His face was unreadable. Abigail probably should be counting her lucky stars that the man wasn’t insulted.

She cleared her throat, trying to move past the embarrassing faux pas. “Ah, Carlton…he may not be so pleased to have me stay on.”

“As I mentioned, I think I’m going to find him another post. But that is my concern. You just worry about keeping those boys safe.”

“Safe?”

“Their parents’ deaths have left them shaken, and I’ve promised Benbrook that I won’t let anything happen to them. So I’m going to take extra pains where they’re concerned.”

“That rule about the two adults accompanying them when they leave the house?”

“Exactly. I want them watched and attended at all times by at least two adults. For the first few months that we’re together, I want to ensure that not a scratch touches them.”

“But they’re boys…”

“I know, but I insist on this arrangement.” He extended his hand. “So do we have an agreement? You
help me with the boys and I take care of everything else.”

She stared at the graceful masculine fingers stretching toward her, appreciating how kind he was being about the whole misunderstanding business.

Yet there was something that made her hesitate, a tiny ring of alarm. It wasn’t fear, more like…agitation. Lord Steele made her belly tingle. If that wasn’t bad enough, he seemed to further incite the passions the masked rescuer had recently ignited in her. She didn’t quite trust him, either. He was disarming, far too handsome for her peace of mind, and there was something unsettling about him that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

But that was ridiculous. She desperately needed this job and was fond of Seth and Felix already. What was there to possibly be concerned about? She dismissed the warnings in her mind as the silly remnants of her appalling embarrassment.

Nodding, she slipped her small hand into his.

His fingers held her firmly, yet were gentler than she’d imagined. And his skin was surprisingly smooth and very, very warm. Heat seeped from his palm to hers with such intensity that she felt a tingle race up her arm and rush into her chest. Looking down, she stared at their joined hands, realizing that she could hardly tell where his flesh ended and hers began.

Their eyes met. A strange panic licked at her middle, and she quickly slipped her hand from his and stepped back. “Agreed.” She hoped he didn’t notice how breathless she sounded.

He shook himself, as if startled. “Yes, well. I’m glad that’s settled.” Distractedly he motioned toward
the house. “If you will. I’m sure the boys must be ready for dinner.”

She stepped alongside him. “Ah, will you be joining us?”

“Regrettably, no. Lord Benbrook and I have some matters to discuss.”

“Of course.” Somehow she felt rejected. But that was ludicrous.

At the foot of the stairs to his house, he stopped and turned to her, as if wanting to say something. His mouth opened and then closed.

She stared up at him, realizing once more how elegantly handsome he was and how insane she’d been to have thought that he might want to bed her.

The footman opened the door, spilling light down the steps like a golden path.

Still Lord Steele hesitated, and she waited expectantly for his words.

“I…well…I suppose you’ve never quite had a first day like this one.”

“No.” Ruefully she shook her head. “Today certainly was unique. I’m sure that none of us will be quick to forget it, although I’d certainly like to try.”

“Not me. I found it quite…refreshing.”

Refreshing
. An unexpected little thrill flashed inside her chest, but she dampened it, not understanding why it would matter.

Together they walked inside.

F
or the next week Abigail tried not to think about how intimately her and Lord Steele’s hands had fit together after their stroll in the park. She attempted not to recall the astonishing thrill that had rocketed up her arm and into her chest when they’d touched. She tried exceedingly hard not to analyze the exhilarating flash in her middle when their eyes had met. She did her best not to dwell on Steele’s stonily handsome features and how they softened when he’d laughed. But most importantly, she’d done
everything in her power
not to think about the mortifying fact that she’d boldly declared that she would not sleep with him.

As if bedding him were even an option!

But this afternoon as she sat idly watching the boys as they attempted to fly a kite across the grassy knoll of Coleridge Square Park, it was very hard not to think upon such things.

Lord Steele had been quite nice about the whole bedding misunderstanding, actually. He hadn’t mentioned it once, since. He hadn’t said much of anything else, either. Abigail tried to pretend that she wasn’t disappointed.

He’d been closeted in his study for much of those seven days, and she’d hardly had a glimpse of him. The man seemed to live for work, not the other way around. He certainly wasn’t like the other gentlemen she’d known. But then again, he’d climbed so high because of his work. Now that he’d achieved so much, shouldn’t he enjoy the fruits of his labor?

Abigail sighed, chiding herself to count her lucky stars that she had an employer who knew how to leave her alone to do her job. Still, he should at least be spending some time with the lads. They needed to know him and love him—he was to be their closest family.

A familiar longing speared her gut. She sighed. “Where are you, Reggie?” she whispered to her wayward brother.

Was he involved with brigands? Deeply in debt? His letter had been so vague. Yet alarming in the extreme, begging her to come to London and bring any money she might have.

“If you ask me to come to London, you could at least have told me where you were,” she muttered, frustration and anger soothing her fears. Her brother was so inconsiderate at times. He’d told her to ask around Charing Cross,
covertly
, no less, to find him.

“Who does he think I am, a Bow Street Runner?”

But the day was too lovely to focus on such a frustrating state of affairs, she told herself. Abigail pushed it all from her mind, trying to force herself to enjoy the beauty around her and not allow herself to be haunted by fears that could not be assuaged.

Even though it was only spring, the afternoon air was thick with a heat that seemed to come down from the sun and swell up from the earth in a shimmer of humidity. Many of the governesses sitting on the benches lining the outskirts of the grasses fanned themselves with vigor. Abigail had given up on any attempt to waft the steamy air around her and had settled for simply sitting as still as possible. Sweat moistened her face, and her underarms had a very unladylike feeling of dampness. Still, the tree above her was heavy with green leaves and provided a welcome shade to relieve the worst of the heat.

The boys didn’t seem to mind the high temperature one bit as they raced and pranced. They were fully occupied with their new kite and wouldn’t have known if it was hotter than Hades. Felix was in the lead, holding the wooden spool, with Seth following after him whining for a turn.

The yellow kite had been a gift from Lord Steele, left for the lads to find after their studies. Lord Benbrook had departed that morning, and Abigail supposed that Steele had wanted to give the boys a distraction. It was a good thought, although he couldn’t have counted on such breezeless weather.

“Let go!” Felix screamed, yanking on the kite in Seth’s hands.

Seth gripped it harder. “I want to fly it!”

Abigail straightened, lifting her head.

Felix raised his hand as if to strike.

“No!” Abigail leaped from her seat and charged forward.

Felix looked up, his face twisted in anger. “He’s being an idiot!” But he lowered his hand.

“You’re the idiot!” Seth screamed, tears spilling out his red-rimmed eyes.

Abigail watched Felix carefully, but the taunt didn’t seem to trouble him.

Pointing a finger at Felix, Abigail charged, “Don’t you
ever
raise a hand to your brother! Do you hear me?”

“I wouldn’t have hit him.” Felix pouted, crossing his arms.

“Have you ever struck him?”

“Yes!” Seth cried. “He punched me!”

“When?”

Seth puffed out his chest in justified resentment. “On my birthday. He punched me in the arm for each year I was born.”

“That doesn’t count!” Felix exclaimed, flinging his arms in the air. “It’s a tradition.”

“One you relish hardily, I’m sure,” Abigail muttered with relief. It seemed that Felix might get irritated with his brother, but the anger didn’t propel him to real violence.

Abigail turned to Seth. “Do you get to punch Felix on his birthday?”

“Well…yes.”

“Then since he’s older, it would seem that you get to punch him three more times than he punches you.”

Seth blinked. “I…hadn’t ever thought of that.” He smirked, mollified.

“Now, about this kite.” Abigail crossed her arms. “Please don’t make me have to inform Lord Steele that you must return his gift.”

Both boys started. “What?”

“I’ll be forced to do so if you two can’t figure out a way to play together.” Unwinding her arms, Abigail held open her hands. “Do you want to fly the kite?”

“Yes!” the boys cried in unison.

“Then you must find a way to work together.” She looked each boy in the eye. “Agreed?”

Sighing, Felix nodded. “Agreed.”

“Yes.” Seth rubbed his eyes.

Abigail waved them off. “Go on now.”

The boys traipsed off.

“Here, let me show you the best way to hold it.” Felix leaned toward his brother.

“Thanks,” Seth replied.

A new air of camaraderie enveloped their play.

Satisfied, Abigail returned to her seat in the shade and sighed. But she could not seem to quiet the thread of anxiety woven in her heart. The altercation between the boys had brought her fears about how so many conflicts seemed to come to blows. She’d certainly had enough experience with lightning tempers. Her brother had been the worst offender.

It had happened again and again when he was a child. Reggie was easily affronted, and no matter how much Abigail had worked with him on trying not to take life too seriously, he always seemed to wind up in nasty confrontations. If a boy had pushed him in jest, he’d slammed him back at full force. If a girl had teased him, he’d barked out the nastiest retort. Heaven forbid someone said a cross word to Abigail, Reggie would make him pay, usually in resourceful ways that struck far deeper than any slight Abigail might have suffered.

Reggie used to say that he was the only one allowed to be cross with Abigail. And when he was feeling anxious, she bore the brunt of that favored treatment. His tongue-lashings could be quite scathing, but Abigail had never taken them to heart. Not the times he’d told her that if only she’d been born a boy, they could have earned a decent wage and not been homeless for a time before they’d made it to Andersen Hall Orphanage.

Abigail had ignored the instances when he’d retorted that if she’d only been smarter, they wouldn’t have lost their home when their parents had died. Or her favorite, the times he’d charged that if only she’d have been kinder to the neighbor, Mr. Wormier, they would’ve had a home and never would have had to leave Bury St. Edmunds.

Abigail bit her tongue at those times, having given up on reminding Reggie that she couldn’t help being born a girl, she’d done as well as she could as a grieving thirteen-year-old child, and marriage to Mr. Wormier wasn’t ever an option. Not that she could have stomached such a lecherous husband.

After each tirade had lost its steam, Reggie would be completely repentant and good sense would reassert itself. And it was hard for Abigail to hold her anger for him. Reggie was such a lost soul, and she couldn’t bear the pain of his knowing that she was angry with him. When it came to his sister, Reggie always made peace. With others, he wasn’t quite so redeemable.

When Abigail had lost her position in the Byrnwyck household, she’d intended to keep the information
from her brother. What sane woman would want her little brother knowing that she’d lost her heart, her good sense, and her virtue in one feel swoop?

But events conspired to intensify her ruin.

Since she’d been tossed from the house with a swiftness that had left her reeling, Abigail had had to rely on her friendship with Warren and Jan, the innkeeper and his wife, to keep a roof over her head. For almost three weeks Abigail had hardly left her small room at the top of the rickety stairs. She’d been in a state, barely eating or drinking. All she could do was cry until she passed out in a fit of exhaustion, then wake up and cry some more. Her heart had ached so sorely, she’d thought she might die from heartbreak. But that was clearly an escape Abigail was not meant to have.

Instead, her dear friend Jan had thought that Abigail needed family support and hence wrote to Reggie, seeking his help.

Reggie had found Abigail suffering in her tiny room and kicked up a riot. He’d demanded the whole sordid tale, dragging it out of Abigail one shameful detail after the next. He’d ruthlessly questioned her on Phineas’s part, Lord Byrnwyck’s role, and the interference of Lord Byrnwyck’s nasty nephew, Silas.

Abigail had attempted to paint the picture a little sunnier, but Reggie would have none of it. Ranting and raving, he’d screamed about beating Phineas, skewering Byrnwyck, and trampling Silas beneath his horse’s hooves.

Abigail had tried to calm him down, but her heart hadn’t been in it. Secretly she’d longed for such revenge, although she’d never truly wished them ill.
Not without them recovering…
ultimately
…after a long and painful convalescence.

That rainy night, Reggie had stormed from the inn intent on avenging his sister. He’d taken rocks and smashed the prized hundred-year-old stained glass windows adorning Byrnwyck Manor’s library. Then when chased, he’d run into the barn and set all the horses free from their stalls. When confusion had overcome the manor, he’d sneaked into Byrnwyck’s private study and stolen the Byrnwyck family crest.

It was silver inlaid with mother-of-pearl and the family motto etched in gold. It was worth a few pounds for its weight alone, but it was even more valuable since it was Lord Byrnwyck’s most prized possession.

If there was one thing about Reggie, he knew how to strike someone where it hurt.

When Abigail realized what her brother had done, she’d begged him to return the crest and make away, fearful of what Lord Byrnwyck would do to him. She knew that if it weren’t for her foolish mistake with Phineas, Reggie would never have gotten so angry and dug himself a hole so deep. She needed to get Reggie out of trouble.

But Reggie wasn’t ready to make amends. Instead he’d drawn a picture of the crest burning in a raging fire and had it delivered to Byrnwyck Manor, signature and all.

In that single irrational act of revenge, Reggie had become a fugitive from the law. And he’d been one ever since.

Lord Byrnwyck had had a warrant issued for Reggie’s arrest and had set the constable on him.
Reggie ran off in the middle of the night, leaving Abigail frantic with anxiety.

Thwarted, Lord Byrnwyck had set a price on Reggie’s head. He’d hired Bow Street Runners to track Reggie down. He even tried to throw Abigail in jail as an accomplice. It was only Jan and Warren’s staunch intervention, swearing oaths that Abigail had been with them all along and had no notion of her brother’s activities, that had saved her. That, and the fact that they’d told the magistrate that they’d never serve him dinner at their inn again if he didn’t do what was right.

Throughout this whole ordeal, Abigail never heard a word from Phineas. She’d wondered what he knew, but like so many other questions in life, that one would have to go unanswered.

Still, Phineas’s betrayal haunted her. How could she have loved someone so unworthy? How could she have been such a fool? How could she trust a man not to dupe her or hurt her when her judgment of character was so clearly wrong?

So she’d allowed her girlhood dreams of love and marriage and a family to dissolve into mist, to reside with the unicorns and dragons and fairy godmothers that she no longer believed in. And so her heart had grown harder, and her nights lonelier.

Images of the masked rescuer rose in her mind’s eye.

Could he be a kindred spirit? Lonely, searching for…what? What could drive a man to roam the streets of London at night in a mask?

“Where are you?” she whispered, wondering if he had a home, a wife…

Nay, something about the man screamed
solitude
. Besides, he made for a much more appealing hero if he was tormented and lonely and…

Abigail straightened. Perhaps he was disfigured and that’s why he covered his face. Was he burned in a fire? Wounded by some terrible tragedy? Born with a horrible birthmark?

Her heart went out to him. The poor man! No wonder he refused to show his face. He probably had a fascinating story of pain and redemption. Her imagination painted a dark and brooding picture. Very romantic.

She would never know, though. He certainly wasn’t about to share his life. She’d probably never see him again. So where was the harm in thinking about him? In dreaming about him? In having a little fun to pass the time?

Leaning back into the bench, Abigail allowed her mind to drift, creating a hero from the masked rescuer, one who won her love through his bravery, integrity, and selfless sacrifice in the protection of others. Woven in with those traits, he had to have the most important quality of all—he had to love her unconditionally and forever.

She sighed, watching the boys. “I swear if a man like this exists I’ll eat my own stockings with nary any salt or pepper.” She chuckled to herself, knowing that that day would never come.