Page 40 of The Gentlewoman Companion (The Gentlewoman #4)

Voices and shuffling sounded from inside the abandoned warehouse.

Tom stepped out, grey light revealing a black eye and split lip, his eyes wary before The Warden.

He glanced at James and lurched into a run.

The Warden snatched the back of his shirt.

A sharp hush of tearing cloth cut through the air.

Tom ran down the street and ducked into another alley.

Divided between an impulse to chase after the boy and a desire to serve “The Warden” a lip and eye to match little Tom’s, James hesitated a moment before picking Sam up and running down the street after Tom.

The alley was empty. They shouted but received no reply.

“Let’s return and have a word with this Warden,” James said, putting Samuel back on his feet.

“He’ll take your money, sir, but won’t be of any help.”

“No need to call me ‘sir.’ I’m your brother. If the Warden isn’t reliable enough for our purposes, what should we do? We can’t very well wait by that hole in the wall for Tom to return.”

Samuel shrugged. “I heard the runners came after the Warden once. I don’t know that they got what they wanted, but I know he set up in a different place after.”

The Bow Street Runners. That was an idea.

James began walking in the direction of his carriage. A tiny warm hand slipped into his. James tensed, a sudden flux of energy quickening his step. He looked down at Samuel, who kicked a pebbled with studied nonchalance.

“I like your house,” the boy said. “I like that Meg is not so tired.”

A constricted throat prevented any reply beyond a nod.

Each person they passed reminded James of the woman who’d sold him violets.

He thought of her and those like her. He had seen her as a creature unknown and inexplicable, almost a different race.

With Samuel’s sweating palm in his, each breathing, striving individual who crossed his path became as warm and full of life and desires as the little boy next to him.

After taking a tired Samuel back to Grosvenor Square, James went directly to 4 Bow Street, where a disgruntled conglomeration of Londoners waited in the offices of the Bow Street Runners, established only five or six years prior. James stood behind an irritated man and woman.

“It’s like we’re waiting to see the king!” the woman said, her wilted hat bobbing emphatically.

“It’ll be sure to cost us a king’s ransom to get them to help us.”

“Not when the story’s told. It’s enough to boil the blood of anyone.”

James gathered from their continued bickering that, in the days after the couple’s cow had disappeared, their neighbor had begun peddling beef.

A line of similar figures waited in various states of impatience to mount a few stairs to the platform where it appeared three gentlemen were listening to cases, accepting or rejecting pleas for their detective and policing services.

Parliament allotted the runners a weak stipend, so they were dependent upon fees for solving cases.

A gentleman approached James. “You needn’t wait, my lord. Please, come with me.”

James did not know how he had identified as a member of the peerage but followed the man into an adjoining room, not unaware of what his privilege bought him.

“I am Mr. Fielding. Please, have a seat and tell me what I can do for you.”

Situated in an uncomfortable chair, in an uninviting room with high windows that shed dim light over Mr. Fielding’s shrewd face, James introduced himself and explained, “I am looking for a little boy named Tom.” He described the child and gave an account of what had happened with The Warden.

“What has the boy stolen from you?” Mr. Fielding asked.

“Nothing at all. I wish to reunite him with his younger sister.”

“A noble cause, but you have described every rag-clothed, flea-bitten child in London.”

“I understand, but it is imperative you do your utmost to find him.” Susan cried for her brother almost without ceasing and was not eating enough to sustain her. He feared she may become ill if Tom were not found. “He will not want to come, but tell him his sister, Susan, is sick without him.”

Mr. Fielding scrawled some information on a sheet of paper. “The fee is three guineas, more if it takes longer than a week.”

It was an exorbitant price, but behind his cunning eye James saw sharp intelligence and a touch of compassion. “I’ll pay, but you’ll take three cases gratis.”

A half-smile crept over Mr. Fielding’s lips. “An idealist. Well, then, Lord Halverton, I accept, but you will owe the money whether your Tom is found or not.”

“I will give you four if you find him within a week.”

“Consider it done.”

H ours later, after his mother and Louisa had gone and returned from a dinner party with Mrs. Beecham and Miss Fischer and wished him goodnight, James remained in his study, writing a petition to Chancery court to receive wardship for Margaret and Samuel, a missive he would not send until Margaret agreed to it.

Beside him were letters to schools written on behalf of Samuel, a stack of documents concerning the Foundling Hospital, and correspondence from his steward.

He rubbed his eyes and tried to think of a tactful way to explain his relationship with his half-siblings to the Court.

Soft footsteps on the stairs drew his attention. Louisa slipped into the room wearing a richly embroidered dressing gown that covered more of her than any dress. Somehow, without hoops or stays her form appeared even slighter, the movement of her slender legs visible beneath fine silk.

“Oh. You’re here. I thought perhaps someone had forgotten to bank the fire.

” She spoke in a rush, clutching the thick braid that trailed around her shoulder.

“I can’t sleep and thought you wouldn’t mind if I perused your books.

You do have such good taste.” Her eyes darted to the shelf of books.

“What do you recommend?” She fingered a green leather volume whose gold embossed letters were too far away for James to read.

Not that he tried; he was preoccupied with contemplating the shining softness of her hair.

“I scarcely know what’s on the shelves.” His voice cracked.

“But you love books.” She did not face him.

“Those were collected jointly by my parents. Until recently, I’ve not spent much time here.”

She touched the spine of one book, then the next. He saw himself kissing her fingertips and shook the thought away.

She pulled a thick volume from the shelf. “Goodnight.”

“Wait.” He had not had a chance to speak with her since she’d broken decorum and raced through Hyde Park. “How did you enjoy the dinner tonight?”

“You want to know how much ridicule I’m receiving?” She collapsed in the settee across from him and clutched the book to her chest. “Just enough to regret it.”

He waited for her to say more. The silence stretched until she shifted, suggesting she might leave.

Before she could stand, he said, “I’m looking for Susan’s brother.

” He told her about The Warden and his visit to Bow Street.

He described how his mother had revealed her knowledge of Margaret and Samuel’s identity as his half-siblings.

He explained his desire to send Samuel to school and Margaret’s reluctance.

Louisa accepted all his news with equanimity, exclaiming at the right moments, expressing sympathy and understanding where required.

She appeared to intuit that he was not looking for advice, so she did not offer any.

The warmth that blanketed him seemed to originate with her rather than the fire.

He eventually asked, “Why do you suppose Margaret wants to return to her old life in poverty?”

“It’s where she is comfortable, what she knows.

She is fortunate to have you but doesn’t know it yet.

What will you do with all these children you’re collecting?

” Her eyes shone in the firelight, liquid and full of something poignant, almost sentimental.

Was it a mirror of his own longing? Could she share his feelings?

His eyes strayed to her lips, but he caught himself.

Whatever her inner turmoil was, it would keep them apart until it was dealt with.

“Perhaps one of the tenants at Lundbrooke will take them.”

She nodded. They sat comfortably in silence until she broached a new subject. “I apologize for riding so recklessly yesterday. Did it frighten you?”

“Not quite. You are a whip. Those horses were handled with an expert touch.”

“Do you think Mr. Morden is meeting the same criticism I am?”

“Unlikely. If you were not there to take the crown, I am certain he would have drawn more consternation.”

“Hmm.” She bit her lips, then pursed them, frowned, wrinkled her brow.

“What’s going on in there?”

“Where?”

“Your head.”

“Well, I am thinking about the way men and women are judged differently. And…wondering if I sabotaged myself. Did I race through Hyde Park because I am uncomfortable with the small accolades I received at the salon?”

“Did you?”

“In part, I think I did.”

She was so achingly soft, so vulnerable. Could he ask why, press her to tell him more?

“Why are you uncomfortable with praise?” he asked.

She laughed with honest mirth. “I’m not. Tell me all day long that I am beautiful,” she tossed her head, mocking herself, “that my gown is just the color to highlight my eyes, and that my hair shines. But say I am clever or good, and I panic.”

“You are beautiful.” As he spoke, he stood and then moved to sit beside her.

“Your gown does emphasize your blue eyes, and your hair is shiny.” A blush rose to her cheeks.

Could he, should he continue? “Your smile is a flash of light in a dark room. Your laughter is music I never tire of . ” I want to know the softness of your lips, the sweetness of your embrace .

He fell into silence, unable to say all he wished.

“I wasn’t begging for a compliment.”

“I wasn’t giving one. I am merely stating facts, none of which account for my admiration of you.

While it is true that my eyes adore the spark in your eyes and your mischievous smile, my heart and my mind have an affection for your courage, your intellect, your kindness.

Were you merely fair, I would have noticed, but it’s your character that makes it impossible for me to look away. ”

Her fingers twisted into the fabric covering her knee. “Almost, I believe it when you say it.”

“Believe it, for it is true.”

Rather than running from the room or berating him as he’d half expected she would, Louisa became very still. He had confessed more than he’d intended, but it was not enough. With each word uttered, the stronger his attraction pulled.

“Thank you,” she said, lifting her face to meet his gaze. That tenacious, impish gleam he recognized as preceding a rash decision danced in her eyes.

“ You are good,” she said. “You are thoughtful. You are generous. I feel safe with you, and I cannot say that about many men I have known. I think I know the outline of your profile, your handsome face, your strong jaw, better than my own features. Why?” She shook her head.

“How is it you are as comfortable and familiar to me—nay, more—than my own self?”

His heart thudded with a fervor that increased with each of her words. Perhaps she was more disposed to his affection than he had dared believe. Perhaps she returned his regard. But would her feelings allow her to confess whatever secret she kept locked away in her heart?