No Earls Allowed (The Survivors #2)(2)

“I almost forgot, sir. This note came for you a few hours ago.”

Neil lifted it and nodded to the silver-haired Master of the House, who departed quite gracefully, considering he had but one leg. It didn’t surprise Neil that correspondence meant for him had been sent here. He was here more than anywhere else, and anyone who knew him knew that. He broke the seal and opened the paper, recognizing the hand immediately. It was from the Marquess of Kensington. It said simply:

Call on me at the town house at your earliest convenience. I have need of you.

—Kensington

Neil folded the letter and put it in his pocket. It was not unusual for his father to request Neil’s assistance with various tasks, from inspecting an investment opportunity to traveling to one of the marquess’s many estates and assisting the steward with a duty or question. As a bastard, Neil had no social commitments and no obligations to the Kensington title as his elder brothers did. In Neil’s opinion, acting in his father’s stead was the least he could do, considering his father had claimed him, seen that he had been educated, and now granted him an allowance of sorts. The marquess would never have called it payment for Neil’s services, but that was what it amounted to.

Neil bore his legitimate brothers no ill will, and they had always been civil to him. Especially Christopher. Neil and Christopher had been friends as well as brothers. The marquess’s wife had always been coolly polite to him, though it must have chafed every time she encountered him. No doubt she wished Neil, not Christopher, had died in Portugal.

Neil was the product of Kensington’s liaison with a beautiful Italian woman he’d been introduced to in London shortly after the birth of his second son. He’d been instantly smitten, and what ensued was a brief and passionate affair. The marchioness had looked the other way, suffering in silence as other women of her class had before her. The relationship might have gone on indefinitely if Neil’s mother had not conceived a child and, after a difficult pregnancy, died of complications.

Neil had never known his mother. Instead, he’d been raised by a farmer and his wife who lived on Kensington’s Lancashire estate. He’d been a small, dark child with startlingly blue eyes and a fondness for woodcarving, like his foster father, and horses, like his real father. Neil had always known the marquess was his real father. The giant of a man had come to visit him without fail once a month unless he was in Town for the Season.

At eight, Neil had gone to school—not Eton like his brothers, but a good school for middle-class children—and he’d learned reading and writing and arithmetic. He’d left school and his father had bought him a commission in the cavalry. On his own merits, he’d earned a position in the Sixteenth Light Dragoons, also known as the Queen’s Lancers. He’d always been proud of his service as a member of the Sixteenth.

He was not so proud of the service he’d done afterward.

But his father did not want to speak to him about the war or how Neil had sold his soul to Lieutenant Colonel Draven on the same day Christopher had been killed. The marquess didn’t blame Neil for Christopher’s death.

Neil still blamed himself—for that death and those that followed—and he would spend the rest of his days in atonement.

He looked down at the note once again. Cold seeped along his limbs as he reread it. Neil had a feeling he wouldn’t like what his father requested this time and not simply because he’d be expected to be sober when hearing it. With a sigh, Neil rose, threw the brandy in the fire, and prepared for the worst.





Two


Lady Juliana, only remaining daughter of the Earl St. Maur, could have screamed. She’d had a more abominable morning than usual, and that was saying something.

First, she’d been called away from the Duke of Devonshire’s ball by the appearance of Robbie, one of the orphans from the Sunnybrooke Home for Boys. He’d told her she must come immediately. There was an emergency at the orphanage, and she’d made her excuses and run out, much to her father’s annoyance. It probably hadn’t helped matters that she’d taken the family coach.

Then she’d arrived at the orphanage just as the sun was rising to find that her cook was packing her bags to leave. Julia had known it would happen sooner or later; she’d simply hoped it would be later. Mrs. Nesbit had been complaining for months about the state of the kitchen, claiming she could hardly be expected to work in such conditions. Julia had agreed. The ovens smoked, the roof leaked, and the boys had stolen all the decent knives. Lately, Mrs. Nesbit had also complained the staples she stocked had been steadily disappearing as well—flour, cornmeal, potatoes, and garlic. Julia wondered if perhaps Mrs. Nesbit was cheating her and selling the stock on the sides, but she had no proof and couldn’t afford to lose the cook. She’d begged Mrs. Nesbit to give her more time to ask the orphanage’s board for money and make the repairs.

She’d thought she’d succeeded at persuading the woman, until, of course, the boys had thought it amusing to loose three tame rats in the kitchen as Mrs. Nesbit prepared breakfast. When Charlie had shown her the rats again, just to prove they were harmless, the poor cook had shrieked loud enough to wake the dead—or at least the dead tired, as Juliana thought of herself—and resigned effective immediately.

Which meant Julia had to cook the boys breakfast. One could not simply allow a dozen boys to go hungry, and she did not have the funds to buy them all pies from the hawkers’ carts. Not when each boy ate as much as a horse.