No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (13 page)

Lydia did not flinch. “My thoughts, precisely.”

Damn bills.

Damn bill collectors.

Damn her father for sending her into hiding.

Damn her brother for losing everything.

And damn Temple and his gaming hell for taking it.

“We’ve a houseful of boys bred from the richest men in England.” Lydia said, “Is there no one who can help us?”

“No one who would not expect our lists in return.” The lists of bloodlines, two dozen names that would scandalize London and in the process ruin the boys. Not to mention the reputation of the orphanage, which was of the utmost importance.

“What of the fathers themselves?”

Men who came in the dead of night to pass off their unwanted offspring. Men who made unthinkable threats to keep their identities secret. Men who Mara never wanted to see again. Who would not want to see her ever again. “They’ve washed their hands of the boys.” She shook her head. “I won’t go to them.”

There was a long pause. “And the duke?”

Mara did not pretend to misunderstand. The Duke of Lamont. Rich as Croesus and doubly powerful. And rightfully furious with Mara. “What of him?”

Lydia hesitated, and Mara knew her friend was searching for the right words. As though she hadn’t thought them herself. “If you told him the truth—that your brother’s funds were not his to gamble . . .”

Nothing you could say would make me forgive.

The words echoed, their dark promise sending a chill through her. He’d been so angry with her last night. And she’d brought it upon herself—telling him half tales, tempting him with partial truths, and then asking him to pay for his memories.

She sat.

No. The duke would not help. She was alone in this. The boys were her charges. Her responsibility.

It was she who must care for them.

She stood and moved to a nearby bookcase, extracting a fat volume. She held the book in her hands, her breath coming hard and fast, every inch of her resisting what she was about to do. The book was her safety. Her future. Her promise to herself that she would never go poor or hungry again. That she would never have to rely on the aid of others.

It was her protection, cobbled together with twelve years of work and saving.

Everything that would keep her from the streets.

Everything she’d planned to use once Temple ruined her.

But the boys were more important.

She set the book on the desk and opened it, revealing a large hollow space, filled with a cloth sack that jingled when she lifted it.

Lydia gasped. “Where did that come from?”

From years of work. Of saving. Of a shilling here and sixpence there.

Twelve pounds, four shillings, ten pence.

All she had.

Mara ignored the question, extracting coins. “Pay the coal, the dairy, and the butcher. Take your salary. And Alice’s. And Cook’s. And do what you can to put off the others—until the eldest require new shoes and clothes.”

Lydia considered the money, shook her head. “Even with that—”

She did not have to finish the sentence. The money wouldn’t be enough to carry them through winter. It would barely get them into the New Year.

There was only one way.

More time with the Duke of Lamont.

She stood, and headed for the foyer, now filled with boys. They were all at the two front windows of the house, teetering on chair arms and clinging to windowpanes, eyes riveted on the man across the street.

Lavender sat several feet away, watching them, and Mara lifted her to safety before the piglet could be crushed by a falling boy.

“He’s been there for an hour, at least!” Henry said.

“He doesn’t seem cold at all!”

“Impossible! It’s snowing!” Henry replied, as though the rest of them hadn’t eyes.

“He’s nearly as big as the man who came for Mrs. MacIntyre,” Daniel said, amazement in his tone.

He nearly was, but Temple was bigger.

“Aye! That one was big as a house!”

Bigger, and no doubt stronger. And handsomer. She stilled at the thought. She had no interest in his handsomeness. None whatsoever. She hadn’t even noticed it. Just as she hadn’t noticed the way his kisses made her weak.

He was infuriating. And impossible. And controlling in the very worst way.

And more handsome than the man across the street.

Not that she noticed.

“Do you think he’s here for one of us?”

The trepidation in little George’s voice brought her back to the matter at hand. “Gentlemen.”

The boys started, releasing curtains and unbalancing each other until their strangely crafted structure toppled, leaving half a dozen boys in a heap on the floor. Mara resisted the urge to laugh at the boys’ antics as they scurried to their feet, straightening sleeves and pushing hair from their eyes.

Daniel spoke first. “Mrs. MacIntyre! You are back!”

She forced a smile. “Of course I am.”

“You were not at supper last evening. We thought you’d left,” Henry said.

“For good,” George added.

Mara’s heart constricted at the words. Though they played at being fearless, the boys at the MacIntyre Home were terrified of being left. It was a vestige of being marked as orphans, no doubt, and Mara spent much of her time convincing them that she would not leave them. Indeed—that they would be the ones to leave her, eventually.

Except it was a lie now.

She would leave them. She would write her letter to the newspapers, and show her face to London, and then she would have no choice but to leave them. It was how she would protect them. How she would keep their lives on track. How she would ensure that funds continued into the orphanage, and they were never marked by her scandal.

Deep sadness coursed through her, and she crouched low, Lavender struggling for freedom, and pressed a kiss to George’s blond head before smiling at Henry. “Never.”

The boys believed her lies.

“Where did you go, then?” Daniel asked, always one to get to the heart of the matter.

She hesitated, turning over the answer in her mind. She couldn’t, after all, tell the boys that she’d been traipsing about London in the dead of night being fitted for clothes worthy of a prostitute and chased by villains.
And kissed by them.
“I had a bit of . . . business . . . to tend to.”

Henry turned back to the window. “There are
two
men out there now! And with a great black carriage, too! Cor! We could all fit into it! With room to spare!”

The pronouncement drew the attention of the rest of the boys, and—despite her attempt to resist—of Mara. She knew before she looked out the window, through a web of young, spindly limbs, who would be in the snowy street beyond.

Of course it was he.

Without thinking, she headed for the door of the orphanage, tearing it open and heading straight for the carriage. Temple’s back was to her as he and his man-at-arms were deep in conversation, but Mara had taken no more than a half-dozen steps before he turned to look over his shoulder at her. “Get back inside. You’ll catch your death.”

She
would catch
her
death? She held her head high, not wavering. “What are you doing here?”

He looked back to his companion, saying something that made the other man smirk, then turned to face her. “This is a busy street, Mrs. MacIntyre,” he said. “I could have any number of reasons to be here.” He took a step toward her. “Now do as I tell you and get inside. Now.”

“I am quite warm,” she said, her gaze narrowing. “Unless you’re searching for a woman to warm your bed, Your Grace, you really couldn’t have any number of reasons to be here. And in your condition, I would think that effort would prove futile.”

He raised a brow. “Do you?”

“I stitched your arm closed not twelve hours ago.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I am quite well today. Well enough to carry you inside and stuff you into a cloak.”

She hesitated at the image that wrought, the way he simply oozed strength beneath his greatcoat, which made him look even wider and more unsettlingly large than ordinary.

He did look well. Wickedly, powerfully well.

She resisted the urge to identify the emotion that coursed through her at the look of him. Instead, she said, “You should not be cavorting about London with a fresh wound. It shall tear open.”

He tilted his head. “Is that concern you exhibit?”

“No,” she said quickly, the word coming on instinct.

“I think it is.”

“Perhaps the wound has addled your brain.” She huffed her irritation. “I simply don’t want to have to repeat my work.”

“Why not? You could fleece me out of another two pounds. I checked that price, by the way. Robbery. A surgeon would do it for a shilling, three.”

“A pity you didn’t have a surgeon nearby, then. I charged what the market would bear. And it shall cost you double if you tear it open and require me to do it again.”

He ignored the words. “If you won’t go inside for yourself, perhaps you will for the pig. She will catch a chill.”

She looked down at Lavender, asleep in the crook of her arm. “Yes, she looks quite uncomfortable.”

His gaze slid past her, over her shoulder, making her feel slight and small, even as she herself stood a half a head taller than most men she knew. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

She turned at the words to find the wide-eyed residents of the MacIntyre Home for Boys collected in the open door, edging out onto the snowy steps leading up to the orphanage. “Boys,” she said, putting on her very best governess voice. “Go inside and find your breakfast.”

The boys did not move.

“Is every male of the species utterly infuriating?” she muttered.

“It would seem so,” Temple replied.

“The question was rhetorical,” she snapped.

“I see you making eyes at the carriage, boys. Have at it if you like.”

The words unlocked the children, who tumbled down the stairs as though a tide were pushing them toward the great black conveyance. Temple nodded to the coachman, who climbed down from his perch and opened the door, lowering the steps to allow the boys access to the interior of the coach.

Mara was distracted by the exclamations of excitement and amazement and glee that came from the dozen or so boys who were now clamoring about the carriage. She turned to Temple. “You didn’t have to do that.”

She did not want him to be kind to them. She did not want them trusting him—not when he held the keys to their full bellies and warm beds.

He gave a little shrug, watching the boys intently. “I’m happy to. They don’t get much chance to ride in carriages, I’m guessing.”

“They don’t. They don’t see much beyond Holborn, I’m afraid.”

“I understand.”

Except he didn’t. Not really. He’d grown up in one of the wealthiest families in England, heir to one of the largest dukedoms in Britain. He’d had the world at his fingertips—clubs and schools and culture and politics—and a half-dozen carriages. More.

But still, she heard the truth in the words as he watched the boys explore. He did understand what it was to be alone. To be limited by circumstances beyond one’s control.

She let out a long breath. There, at least, they were similar.

“Your Grace—”

“Temple,” he corrected her. “No one else uses the title.”

“But they will,” she said, recalling their deal. Her debt. “Soon.”

Something lit in his black gaze. “Yes. They will.”

The words came threaded with pleasure and something more. Something colder. More frightening. Something that reminded her of the promise he’d made the night they had agreed on their arrangement. When he’d told her that she would be the last woman he paid for companionship.

And perhaps it was the cold or lack of sleep, but her question was out before she knew it. “What then?”

She wished she could take it back when he turned surprised eyes on her. Wished she hadn’t shown him just how interested she was in his world.

He waited a long moment, and she thought perhaps he would not answer. But he did, in his own, quiet way. With the truth. As ever. “Then it will be different.”

His attention returned to the boys, and he pointed to Daniel. “How old is he?”

She followed his attention to the dark-haired boy leading the pack that now clamored over the carriage. “Eleven,” she said.

Temple’s serious gaze found hers. “How long has he been with you?”

She watched the boy. “From the beginning.”

Black eyes turned blacker. “Tell me,” he said, and she heard the bitterness in his voice. “Did you always have plans to hold that night over my head? Did you come back knowing you’d use it to get your brother’s money? Did you sew me up knowing it would soften me? Did you kiss me for it? Was this your grand plan the moment he lost it all?”

Cacophonous laughter saved her from answering—gave her a moment to collect herself at the thought that he might believe such things of her. At the instant desire to defend herself. To tell him everything.

Nothing you could say would make me forgive.

She looked away as the words echoed through her, to the coach, where nearly a score of boys were attempting to fit themselves.

“Sixteen!” someone called out, as Henry headed into the crush, hands first, Daniel pushing him from behind.

Mara moved to stop them.

Temple stayed her movement with a hand. “Leave them. They deserve some play.”

She turned back to him. “They shall ruin your upholstery.”

“It can be repaired.”

Of course it could. He was rich beyond measure. She returned to the conversation. “I didn’t plan it.”

He looked up into the grey sky, his breath coming in little clouds. “And yet you offer a trade instead of the truth.”

She hadn’t a choice.

But he didn’t see that.

A frigid wind ripped down Cursitor Street and she turned to brace herself from it, her wool walking dress no match for the cold. Lavender woke, giving a little snuffle of protest before Temple captured Mara in his strong grip, moving her to one side, shielding her with his enormous body.

She resisted the urge to lean into him. How was he so warm?