No Earls Allowed (The Survivors #2)(42)

If Neil could just convince her to go home to her father, this would all be over. She felt some loyalty to the boys. That was understandable, but they could find another woman—or, better yet, a man—to run the orphanage. She could go back to…whatever it was she did before, and he could go back to…

What the hell did he have to go back to? Nightmares? Playing billiards with Rafe? Having the occasional meal with Ewan and telling war stories with Jasper? And what else was he supposed to do? He couldn’t go back to the army, and he wasn’t suited to the clergy. Besides, the allowance his father gave him was enough to support Neil twice over. As long as he didn’t see the need to become an icon of fashion or gamble excessively, Neil would never have to work again.

Which meant he was still thirty and completely without purpose.

He sat up straighter. But that did not mean this orphanage was his purpose. He’d rather face the French army again than spend the rest of his days tucking children in for naps and ensuring the pet rats were where they ought to be. And yet he couldn’t deny that in only two days, he’d stopped looking at the boys as a passel of bastards and saw them more as individuals. He no longer remembered his own shame growing up every time he looked at them, but neither did he want to adopt any of them.

Except possibly Charlie. He liked that boy. He’d never seen anyone able to do so many chores one handed, since his thumb was always in his mouth. Neil remembered sucking his thumb when he’d been young. But long before he was four, he’d had his knuckles bruised and cut every time his thumb snaked its way into his mouth. He remembered being woken in the middle of the night to have his knuckles rapped once because his thumb had sneaked into his mouth when he’d been asleep. It had all been done by his father’s order, and it certainly hadn’t made Neil love the man, who was a stranger at best and a tyrant at worst. He might have been raised in a home and given all the food, clothing, and education necessary for a boy, but Neil hadn’t grown up with any more of a family than these orphans.

His thoughts were interrupted by the squeak of one of the boards on the stairs. He’d been up and down those front stairs enough to know every sound the boards made. He’d repaired the rotting boards, but he hadn’t fixed any of the squeaks on the sound planks. One never knew when one might need advanced warning.

Rising silently, Neil moved out of the parlor and into the entryway. He kept to the shadows, his back against the wall as he watched the lone boy make his way down the steps. The boy was stealthy, no doubt about it. He’d made the error of stepping on one creaky stair, but he didn’t repeat his mistake. Neil watched as he carefully skipped or sidestepped other creaky stairs.

It was the shaggy mane of hair that finally identified Walter, even in the low light. Neil had known it wasn’t the tall boy—whatever his name was—but he thought it might be the helpful one. Except that one had straight hair that looked to have seen a barber at some point recently. Neil should have known it was Walter. The boy had been trouble from the first.

Walter jumped off the last stair, obviously elated that he’d made it, and made straight for the front door. Before he could reach for the new bolt, Neil cleared his throat.

Walter froze.

“Where do you think you are going?” Neil asked, moving into the entryway, which was periodically lit up from the bolts of lightning outside.

Walter spun around. “Nowhere.” He started back for the steps, obviously intending to pretend the whole incident hadn’t happened and he was going back to bed.

“Hold it.” Neil’s voice was all it took for the boy to freeze. “I asked you a question, and I want an answer.”

The boy stood in front of the stairs, head down and shoulders hunched.

Neil moved closer. “I’m interested in where a child of eight—”

“Nine,” Walter corrected.

“—nine then. Where a child of nine thinks to go in the middle of the night and during a rainstorm. Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“The thunder woke me.” The answer was given quickly. Too quickly.

“And so you decided to take a stroll in the storm?”

“I was…I was walking in my sleep.”

Neil nodded, coming to stand in front of Walter. “Amazing how you can avoid the stairs that creak even when you’re walking in your sleep.”

Walter’s head jerked up. “Fine. So you caught me. It’s not a crime to go for a walk.”

“No, but it seems to me you are asking for trouble if you go out in the middle of the night in London, especially in this area of London.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“And how will you do that?”

“I can fight.”

Neil nodded. “Let me see.”

Walter frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Imagine I walk up to you and threaten you. What do you do? Run?”

“I don’t need to run.” He pulled a knife from his pocket.

Neil eyed it, unimpressed. “So that’s where all the knives in the kitchen have gone.”

“I didn’t take them all!”

“Who else has one?”

Walter looked away. “I’m no snitch.”

“No, you’re a fighter. You know how to use that knife?”

“I can hold my own.”