No Earls Allowed (The Survivors #2)(90)

Neil leaned back and crossed his arms, anger rising in his chest. “So this isn’t to be a lecture on love?”

“I’m getting to that, but you need this lecture too. We let you wallow—”

“You let me?”

“—because you were taxed with giving the orders—”

“And I don’t wallow.”

“—but we all volunteered to serve under Draven. We knew the risks, so stop blaming yourself for our losses. Blame Draven for giving the orders. Blame Napoleon for starting the war. Blame the dashed government for authorizing a suicide troop. Or”—he raised a hand—“here is an even better suggestion: forgive yourself and live your life.”

“And exactly how am I supposed to forgive myself?”

“Why don’t you begin by honoring our brothers’ memories?”

Neil reached across the table and grabbed Rafe by his perfectly tied cravat. “I honor their memories every day.”

“Of course you do,” Rafe wheezed out. “Sitting here drinking all night is quite a tribute.”

Neil let him go, none too gently.

Rafe smoothed his coat and slid a finger under his cravat. “Ask yourself what your men would have wanted. If I’d died on one of our missions, I’d sure as hell want you to be back in London doing all the things I loved doing.”

“There’s only one thing you love doing.”

“You should try it before you criticize.”

“I won’t honor anyone by fathering bastards.”

“Then marry the ch—lady in Spitalfields. I’ve always known you were the marrying sort, and you’re obviously besotted with her. What are you waiting for?”

Neil shook his head. It was one thing to talk about letting go of the past and quite another for his mind to release the memories and give him peace. “And what kind of husband would a bastard be for the daughter of an earl?”

“A damn fine one,” Rafe argued. “If I were a chit, I’d marry you.”

Neil closed his eyes. “Words I never thought I’d hear. But it’s not so sim—”

“Mr. Wraxall, sir!” Porter hobbled into the room as quickly as his wooden leg would allow him. For a moment Neil was shaken. The man always walked so smoothly, but then Neil had never seen him in this much of a frenzy.

Neil and Rafe both stood, legs braced for battle. “What is it?” Neil demanded.

“There’s a boy, sir. He’s outside the club. He said he must speak with you. It’s a matter of life and death. He looks a bit rough, and I started to turn him away, but he said something about Lady Juliana, and I thought—” His gaze slid to Rafe.

Neil didn’t wait for any further explanation. He took the steps of the main staircase two at a time and yanked the front door open.

Billy stood in the yellow lamplight.

“What happened?” Neil asked.

“It’s Slag, Major. He’s back.”





Twenty-two


Julia stood with her hands on her hips, her eyes narrowed at the line of boys in the older boys’ dormitory. “Tell me where he is or, so help me God, not a single one of you will have a bit of the black pudding.”

The seven boys looked to her and then at each other. A few looked at the floor, shuffling their feet. Billy was conspicuously absent, and Julia was furious. He’d promised to stay out of trouble. Hadn’t she made it clear he would have to leave if he did not follow the rules? Her belly felt sick inside, knowing he had snuck out of the orphanage and she would have to evict him for good.

But first she wanted to be certain he was safe.

“I don’t want any of that black pudding anyway,” Walter mumbled.

“What’s that?” Julia asked. “What is wrong with the black pudding?”

Walter’s expression turned mulish, and Julia advanced on him.

“Does Billy’s absence have something to do with that pudding arriving? What? Tell me.”

Walter pressed his lips together. Robbie, who stood on his left, elbowed him hard in the ribs. “Tell her, Walter. Tell her what you told us.”

Julia looked from Robbie to the other boys. She saw she’d mistaken their expressions for guilt. What she saw now that she looked closer was fear.

“It’s a sign,” Walter said, his voice low.

“What sort of sign?” Julia asked.

“From Slag. I seen him send it before. To his enemies.”

Julia pressed her fingers to her temples. Her head pounded relentlessly. “Slag is dead. It can’t be from him.”

“He ain’t dead,” Walter argued. “Not if he sent the black pudding. He’s still alive, and he wants revenge.”

“And you think he’s taken Billy?”

Walter shook his head. “Billy went to see if he could save you—save us.” He made a sour face. “He’s probably dead by now. Killed by Slag. And we’ll be joining him soon.”

His voice hitched at the end, reminding Julia that despite his awful words, he was still a boy.

“I have to go after him. And I won’t let Slag do anything to any of you.”

Suddenly she heard the thunder of running feet and pounding on the walls. “Fire!” Mrs. Koch yelled. “Help! Fire!”