Barbara Metzger (3 page)

Take this Mrs. Henning now. The devil could take her to perdition, with Rockford’s blessings, but he had to consider the wily widow before their encounter.

Henning, he recalled, was the family name of the Duke of Hysmith, so she had definitely married up, as they said. What she must not have considered before entrapping some green lad into leg shackles was that Hysmith had a clutch of sons, so disowning one would be no hardship. Now she was forced to live off Sir George Ganyon’s generosity, which was another miscalculation on her part. The baronet had always been tightfisted, leaving his tenants’ roofs leaking while he purchased another high-bred hunter. He had to be fifty by now, and still lusting after anything in skirts, if Fred Nivens could be believed. But no, the clever Mrs. Henning had chosen to take up kidnapping to make her fortune, instead of the uncertain future of a miser’s mistress. Well, she would not see one more groat of Rothmore money, he swore. Not that she would have any use for it in jail. He adjusted the pistol at his waist. He’d never aimed a weapon at a female yet, but this conniving shrew deserved whatever justice he chose to mete out.

For now, Rockford’s stomach roiled at the movement of the badly sprung carriage and the unaired, stale-smelling interior. No, he was queasy at the thought of poor William, he told himself. Heaven knew what the boy was suffering. Stolen from the only home he had ever known, torn from Nanny Dee’s comforting bosom, abandoned by his aunt, and thrust among a female Captain Sharp, he must be wretched and afraid. Poor little tyke.

*

The poor little tyke was raking wet leaves in the fenced-in yard of a poorly thatched cottage. Lud, the woman had Rockford’s son forced into manual labor! Things were worse than he’d supposed.

They’d driven past Sir George Ganyon’s Fairmont, and Rockford had almost paused there, if only to get out of the cold, confining carriage for a bit. The baronet’s home was made of the same stone and slate as Rock Hill, but appeared puny by comparison. Hell, Kensington Palace seemed puny by comparison to Rock Hill, but Ganyon’s place looked dark and ill-kempt, with ivy growing over the windows and a shutter missing from one window. Rockford signaled Fred to drive on. Later he’d have words with his neighbor about harboring criminals, but now he wanted to get the boy and get out of the damned rocking coach.

Two boys were working in the widow’s yard, he noted as he started to step down from the carriage, eager to put his chilled feet on solid ground. The one not raking was gathering acorns into a bushel—Zeus, had they taken to eating mashed acorns? He appeared taller and older, though, perhaps ten, Rockford thought, but what did he know of youngsters? Still, that must be William with the rake and the ugly brown knit cap over his ears. Rockford recalled the pristine white lace bonnet his infant son had worn, and felt another pang of remorse. Or else his stomach was giving one last protest to the coach’s swaying as he got down.

The older boy told the younger, “Go tell Mother we have company, Willy,” so there was no mistake. The dirty-faced urchin was Rockford’s son, and they were calling him Willy, by George! The son of an earl was
not
called Willy.

The little boy ran into the house, but the older stood his ground, despite Rockford’s glare. He glanced from the frowning stranger to the grinning Fred, and picked up the fallen rake, as if to defend his family from marauders.

“I mean you no harm, boy,” the earl said, taking a tentative step toward the gate. “I am Rockford.”

“No, the Earl of Rockford is handsome as the devil and dresses better than the prince himself. Everyone knows that.”

Lud, Rockford hoped he dressed better than the corpulent regent! He reached up to adjust the loose knot at his neck, but the boy was going on: “And he rides like the wind. The Earl of Rockford would not be caught dead in that old rig where the pigeons used to roost.”

So
that
was the noxious smell. Rockford cast a reproachful eye toward Fred, who was snickering. The earl wondered how long the groom would laugh when he was out of a job. He turned back toward the half-size gatekeeper. “I assure you, my boy, that I am indeed Rockford. I have come for my son.”

“But you don’t want—” the lad started, only to be interrupted by a woman’s voice from the cottage doorway.

“That is enough, Kendall. You are being impolite to our guest.”

“But he says he’s—”

The woman noted what her son did not: the finely tailored coat, the rich leather boots, the arrogantly raised eyebrow, and the confident tilt to the chin. “Make your bows, Ken, and show the earl in.”

“Yes’m,” the boy answered, making a creditable bow and politely holding the gate for Rockford to pass through. “This way, my lord.”

Rockford was surprised, and not just by the boy’s good manners. The widow seemed younger than he’d thought, barely thirty, he’d guess. She was not as flamboyantly beautiful or full-breasted as he’d expected from an ambitious highflier, either. In fact, she seemed almost demure in her plain high-necked gray gown with the barest hint of ribbon for trim. Gray was not the color he would pick for mistress material, nor did it suit Mrs. Henning’s pale coloring and neatly coiled light brown hair. She ought to be wearing green, to match her truly fine eyes, or scarlet, to proclaim her profession.

Trying to keep his rekindled anger in check, Rockford gestured for Fred to walk the horses while he followed the widow through the doorway of her cottage. The first thing he noticed was the welcome warmth, then the smell of baking gingerbread. The small parlor was simply furnished but tidy, except for some piles of books. At least William was not being held prisoner in some foul hovel. In fact, he seemed fond of the woman, clinging to her skirts while he peered up at Rockford. The earl tried to smile for the boy’s sake, as if to say, “I am here. You are safe. All will be well.” William shyly smiled back, showing a gap where his front teeth should be. Rockford hoped that was normal.

“Will you be seated, my lord? Perhaps you would like some tea to take the chill from the day?” Mrs. Henning asked in carefully modulated tones, with no hint of an accent. But then Fred had said she was well educated.

“No, thank you,” he replied, amazed that he could hold polite conversation with this vulture in dove’s clothing. “I will not be staying and do not want to track mud onto your floor.”

She smiled, making her seem even younger and prettier. Now Rockford could see how Hysmith’s son had been caught, and why that old goat Ganyon was so moonstruck. “With boys and bad weather,” she said, “a little dirt is inevitable. I do not mind, truly, if you make yourself comfortable.”

Rockford had been around far too long to fall into that trap. He stayed by the door. She took up a stance by the mantel, tousling William’s fair curls to dry them by the warmth of the fire. If he was jealous, Rockford told himself, it was for the fire’s heat, not her gentle, seemingly loving touch. “My business will not take long,” he said, more gruffly than he intended. “I want my son back.”

“Of course you do. He is a fine boy. But are you sure…? That is, have you made the proper arrangements? You do realize a boy cannot simply be left with servants, my lord. He needs—”

“I assure you, I am fully aware of what the son of an earl requires for a proper upbringing.” He raised his eyebrow at the tiny cottage. “I assure you, this is not it.”

She gasped at his plain speaking. “I have done the best I could, my lord.”

“Aye, the best you could to feather your own nest, I’ll warrant.”

She gasped again, and the older boy, Kendall, started forward, his small hands clenched into fists at his side. William cowered behind Mrs. Henning. She started to protest, to claim her innocence, Rockford supposed, despite all the evidence, but he held up his hand. “Enough. I want my boy, and I want him now. If you cause any trouble, I am prepared to go to the magistrate, or worse.” He let his hand rest on the grip of his pistol at his waist, so she could not mistake his intentions.

Deathly pale now, she gathered both boys closer to her side, as if to protect them from a madman with a gun. “You may take your son, of course, because that is your right, no matter how bad a parent you might be. As soon as he is finished—”

“Now!” Rockford commanded. “I have been patient enough. I shall not negotiate for what is mine.” Two long strides took him across the narrow room. He grabbed William’s shoulder and pulled the boy to him, then took those same two strides back to the door, despite the child’s objections. He ignored the shouts and the cries. He ignored everything until he heard the unmistakable sound of a hammer being cocked. That he could not ignore. He turned.

A lioness could not be more dangerous in defense of her cub. Mrs. Henning had taken a pearl-handled pistol from its pegs over the mantel and had it in her hand, aimed at his head. “I assure you, my husband’s gun is loaded and I do know how to fire it. I will not hesitate an instant, sir, if you drag my son one more step out the door.”

Her son?

“Your son?”

She nodded, but the barrel of the pistol did not waver from the center of his forehead, where she could not miss at this range and where she would not endanger the boy. William. Her son.

“Yours?” he repeated, as if, if he kept trying, he might get a more satisfactory answer.

“Mine. William Alexander Bourke Henning. Named after his father, William, and mine, Alexander Bourke. He has the same strawberry mark on his…posterior as his father and my other son, to prove it. Do you wish to see?”

“Mama!” both boys cried in protest.

Rockford looked down to see those same damnable green eyes. These were not spitting fire like the widow’s, nor were they aimed at relieving him of what little gray matter he had between his ears. The boy’s eyes were awash with tears, and his lower lip was trembling. “Yours,” he repeated once more, carefully taking his hand away from the child’s shoulder and gently brushing his fingers across the top of the lad’s head before nudging him back across the room toward his mother. For the first time in memory, Rockford found himself speechless, faced with such loathing and disdain. And that was his own opinion. Mrs. Henning must think worse, for she never lowered the barrel, even when the boy reached her side.

What could he say to make amends for frightening an infant, for threatening to steal a woman’s child? His mind could not think of the words, and his tongue could not have spoken them anyway. Blast, he was a diplomat. He was fluent in a score of languages. He was a first-class fool. “My…my son’s name is William,” was all he could stammer.

“So do you think you own the name, like you own half the county? The last I heard, not even earls had that right.”

“Of course not. I just meant… That is, I had heard…”

She took her eyes off his head for an instant, to glance out the window to where Fred Nivens was turning the coach. “I can well imagine what you heard.” Then she told her older son, “Go tell Billy to hurry with his bath, that his father is waiting.”

With one look over his shoulder to make sure that his mother was well defended, Kendall hurried down a narrow corridor.

“Billy?” Rockford echoed after the boy left. That was worse than Willy. He started to say something about the respect due to the son of an earl, but thought better of it, since the widow still held her weapon, although the barrel was lowered, as if her arm was growing weary from the weight. He did say, “His name is William, after his mother’s father.”

She must have heard a hint of censure he could not keep from his voice, for the gun barrel rose again. “We already had one William, and since Billy is a good enough pet name for one of the king’s own sons, we deemed it good enough for Billy.”

Another profligate, scandal-ridden royal, just what Rockford wished his son named for. But he let it pass. The sooner he had William out of here, the sooner he could forget his blunder, and forget the silly-billy name. “You say he is at his bath? In the middle of the day?”

The little boy spoke up, braver now that he was back at his mother’s side. “He fell in the mud when we were feeding Rosie.”

“And Rosie is…?”

“Our pig. We were bringing her acorns.”

His son was throwing slop to pigs? Deuce take it, the child should be at lessons, learning to be a gentleman, not a hog farmer. Wisely, Rockford held his tongue. All that mattered was getting William back, and getting Mrs. Henning to put down that blasted pistol. He gestured toward the weapon. “Do you always keep it loaded? It seems an odd way of greeting guests.”

She pointedly glanced toward the outline of the gun at his waist. “Do you? That seems an odd way to pay morning visits.”

“But I do not have children in the house.”

“And you might never have, if that pistol has a hair trigger.” Then, to Rockford’s amusement, Mrs. Henning blushed for speaking such warm thoughts out loud. He could not remember when he had last seen a mature woman—a widow, no less—color up. At his answering smile, she hurried on: “There is no danger anyway. The boys all know the rules, of course.”

Since when did little boys follow rules? Rockford might not recall much of his own childhood, but he knew enough to question Mrs. Henning’s confidence. Besides, the children were supposed to leave loaded weapons alone, but not stay away from ill-tempered and unpredictable swine? Her rules were absurd. Why, William could have been trampled or gored or—