Duchess 02 - Surprising Lord Jack (8 page)

The children called out other tricks, and Shakespeare could do them all—roll over, walk on his hind legs, talk, sing, and chase his tail. One of the older boys offered the final suggestion.

“Play dead, Shakespeare,” he said.

The dog’s ears pricked up, and he immediately collapsed. The children laughed and cheered.

A few minutes went by. Shakespeare continued to lie on the ground, apparently lifeless.

“How do you suppose we resurrect him?” Jack asked.

The children had started to whisper, and a few of the girls looked as if they might cry. Clearly something had to be done, but Jack did not appear to be the least concerned.

“Shakespeare,” Frances said. “Come here.”

Nothing.

“Do you want some ham, Shakespeare?” one of the older boys called.

Still nothing.

Little Eliza left her table to stand almost on poor Shakespeare’s tail. “Get
up
, doggie.”

Those were the magic words. Shakespeare jumped up so quickly, Eliza fell over onto her bottom. She looked as if she might cry—until the dog licked her face. Then she squealed with glee and wrapped her arms around Shakespeare’s neck, burying her face in his fur . . . briefly.

“Eew.” She wrinkled her nose. “Doggie smells.”

“I’m afraid poor Shakespeare is desperately in need of a bath, Eliza,” Jack said, standing. “He’s not fit company for a lady such as yourself.”

Frances got up, too. Thank God they were leaving.

Eliza scrambled to her feet and patted Shakespeare on the head. “Come back when you’re nice and clean, doggie.”

“Yes indeed.” A thin, gray-haired woman who’d been standing by the door for the last few minutes came over. “I do hope you’ll bring Shakespeare to visit again, my lord, but now the children must return to their lessons.”

The older boys groaned.

Jack laughed. “Indeed they must, Mrs. Understadt, and Francis and I must get back to London.” He paused, his brows raised, his face expressionless—except for his eyes. They gleamed with mischief. “I don’t suppose you’d like to have a dog?”

Mrs. Understadt smiled. “Thank you, my lord. You are very generous, but I’m afraid this particular animal would be too great a distraction for our students.”

The children, particularly the older boys, grumbled, but stopped the moment Mrs. Understadt held up her hand. “However, we look forward to seeing him again—after a bath, of course.”

Jack bowed. “Of course.”

Mrs. Understadt walked them to the door as the children filed out to class. Jack’s smile vanished with the last child.

“How’s the baby, Ursula? Did you find a wet nurse for him? What does the doctor say?”

Mrs. Understadt smiled. “He was able to nurse, so that’s a good sign. The doctor is cautiously hopeful. Where did you find the poor mite?”

“Leg Alley. If Shakespeare hadn’t kept him warm, I’m sure he would have died of the cold.”

Mrs. Understadt reached down to pat Shakespeare’s head. “That was by far your greatest trick, sir.”

Shakespeare barked and wagged his tail furiously.

“I think he likes you, Ursula. You’re sure you wouldn’t care to have a pet?”

“No, thank you, my lord. The children you bring me are enough for me to handle.” She turned to smile at Frances. “And who is this young man?”

Blast it! She’d hoped to make it out the door without drawing the woman’s attention.

“My lamentable manners!” Jack said. “Let me make known to you Master Francis Haddon. Master Haddon, Mrs. Understadt.”

Frances tried to execute a passable bow.

“I’m delivering the lad to his brother—or at least trying to do so,” Jack said. “The fellow moved without leaving his new direction.”

“Oh dear, how vexing. We’d be happy to keep Master Haddon with us until you locate his relative, my lord. Mr. Pedley won’t mind, and I’m sure the other boys would be delighted to welcome him.” Mrs. Understadt smiled at Frances again. “Would you like that, Master Haddon?”

Frances’s blood turned to ice. Live in a dormitory with a group of boys and a man close to her real age? There would be no hope of hiding her gender. “I-I r-really think . . . that is, thank you, but . . .” She looked at Jack, not caring that her eyes probably shone with panic. “I do think it’s best if I return with you to London, my lord.” She turned to Mrs. Understadt. “But I thank you very much for your kind offer.”

The ice in her veins traveled to her heart. If Lord Jack decided she should stay, he would leave her here. Mrs. Understadt would probably take her by the ear and drag her into class. In their eyes, she was a child. She had no say in what happened to her.

She had even less power than she had as a woman.

Well, she was not a child. If she had to, she’d reveal her identity. It would be terribly embarrassing, and Lord Jack would be furious at being hoodwinked. Perhaps she could wait to tell Mrs. Understadt in private . . .

No. The woman would be sure to send for Lord Jack the moment the words were out of Frances’s mouth, and he would come storming back to drag her home to Landsford. Unfortunately, he did not seem the sort to simply wash his hands of her.

And then, when the villagers and the gentry and Littleton and Aunt Viola saw him with her . . .

Her stomach tightened into a hard knot.

Everyone would whisper about how the scandalous Miss Hadley was in the company of the greatest rake in London—and had been in his company long enough to be ruined several times over. There would be a race to see who could give her the cut direct first.

A large, warm hand grasped her shoulder.

“Hey.” Lord Jack shook her slightly. “Don’t worry, lad. I won’t leave you if you can’t like it.” He ruffled her hair. “Everything will be all right.”

Somehow she very much doubted that.

“Indeed,” Mrs. Understadt said. “Lord Jack has eyes and ears everywhere. He’ll find your brother, Master Haddon.”

And then he’d find out she was Frederick’s twin sister.

Blast it, she was beginning to feel as though she was trapped in a room where every exit was locked.

“We’d best be off,” Jack said. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Ursula. Send word on how the infant goes on, will you?”

“Of course, milord, though at this point no news is good news. As you know, it will be a while before we can be certain whether the child will flourish.” She stepped outside with them. “What do you wish to name him?”

Shakespeare, apparently losing patience with their slow progress, trotted on ahead. Jack grinned.

“I think he should bear the name of his savior, don’t you?” Jack said. “William Shakespeare.”

 

 

Jack set the carriage bowling back down the road to London. That was excellent news about the baby. Sometimes the infants he found were too weak to take the nipple, and when that happened with a baby so young, the outcome was usually not good. But now he felt extremely hopeful about young William Shakespeare’s future.

And as to the future of the boy sitting next to him . . . He glanced at Francis. The lad looked distinctly blue-deviled. He hadn’t said a word since they’d parted with Ursula.

Well, of course he was down pin. His plans had fallen all to pieces. Yes, Francis should have considered that his brother might not be where he expected him to be, but he was only a boy, and young boys rarely foresaw problems ahead.

Thank God Mrs. Findley had asked him to escort the lad to Town. If Francis had arrived alone in Covent Garden—

It didn’t bear thinking of. His boys—the ones they’d just left—would have managed. They knew their way around the darker parts of London. But Francis was far too green.

“Do you have any idea at all where your brother might be?” Jack asked.

“No.”

“Any idea whom he might have married?”

A ray of sunlight glanced along the boy’s smooth cheek and soft chin, making him look sadly feminine. Well, a few more years should solve that problem.

But thinking of females . . .

He should put the word out about Pettigrew’s anonymous girl, the one who bolted rather than marry Littleton. Perhaps there was still hope for her.

“Not the faintest.” The boy’s voice was bitter. “The landlady said she was a theater trollop.”

That might explain why Francis’s brother hadn’t mentioned his nuptials. “If she was connected to the theater, the marriage was probably talked about in the neighborhood. I’ll ask around. Someone should recognize your brother’s name.”

Francis’s face turned white. Damn.

“Are you all right?” He didn’t want the boy fainting and falling out of the carriage.

“Yes. Of course.” Francis looked down at his hands. His jaw flexed—clearly, he did not wish to discuss the matter.

The curricle rolled along in silence. They’d reached the outskirts of London, and traffic was picking up. Jack tried to focus on his driving, but it was hard to ignore Francis. The boy radiated tension—and guilt. He was definitely keeping something important from him.

“Francis—”

“Watch out!”

A man stepped almost directly in front of the curricle. Blast! Jack jerked on the reins.

“Ye bloody idiot!” The fellow shook his fist at them. “Watch where yer goin’!”

Jack was sorely tempted to cast aspersions on the man’s parentage and intellect, but he bit his tongue. He didn’t wish to teach Francis any new words nor waste his breath. The dolt was clearly drunk as an emperor.

Apparently Francis did not approve of his restraint. The boy swiveled around to glare at the man’s back. “What a clodpate! Did you see? He didn’t look right or left when he stepped off the curb. If you weren’t such an excellent whip, you would have flattened him. Why didn’t you tell him so?”

Was the lad going to run back and defend his honor? The martial light in his eyes certainly suggested it, but then young boys were often quick to take offense.

“What purpose would that have served? Shakespeare, please!” The dog decided he, too, should share his thoughts with the tosspot, who’d now made it into the public house that had been his goal. “I appreciate your defense, but you are deafening me.”

Thankfully, Shakespeare subsided. Francis did not.

“But he was
wrong
.”

“Yes, and he was also drunk. Let it go.”

The boy’s jaw hardened. “If I were a man—” He bit his lip and flushed bright red.

“You’ll be a man soon enough, and by then I hope you’ll have learned not to take umbrage at every little slight. Save your anger for important things.”

He’d started his houses because he’d been angry at a fate that had taken his brother’s wife and child, but now he took so much satisfaction from them, especially the foundling home. It was humbling, yet inspiring to see how lively the children were, so different from the way they’d been when he’d found them. He always felt so encouraged after he visited. He should—

Good God, would his hearing survive this trip? Now Shakespeare was taking violent exception to a cur on the walkway. “Shakespeare, stop or I swear I shall throw you overboard.”

The dog must have believed him, because he gave one parting shot and then resumed his seat, looking rather pleased with himself. Well, he
was
riding in a stylish curricle while the other mongrel was running in the dirt.

It was unfortunate Shakespeare did not look a bit more stylish himself. They’d now reached the shopping district, and Jack could foresee how the tale that he was tooling around London with a mangy mongrel and a young boy would set the gossips’ tongues to running on wheels.

Perhaps he would be lucky. Perhaps no one would be out shopping today.

Perhaps the moon was made of cheese.

Lady Dunlee, London’s premier gossip, was the first person he saw, promenading with her good friend and equally talented gossip, Melinda Fallwell. Lady Dunlee’s eyes widened as she caught sight of them, and her jaw actually dropped. Bloody hell.

She waved. Jack waved back. Best act as if everything was perfectly unremarkable—except the women were already remarking to each other about the odd sight he and his companions presented.

Oh blast. To top it all off, here came Pettigrew.

“Jack!” Pettigrew shouted.

Francis stiffened and drew in a sharp breath. Any passersby who had not yet noticed them stopped to stare. Wonderful.

Pettigrew rode up and turned his horse so he could continue along beside them. He looked a bit nervously at Shakespeare. “Where did you get the dog? He’s not quite the thing, you know.”

Shakespeare growled. Francis looked as if he’d like to growl.

Jack quite understood. Pettigrew seemed to bring out the worst in everyone. “See? You’ve offended Shakespeare.” He wouldn’t mention Francis’s reaction. “I’ll have you know he’s quite accomplished, though I will admit he could stand to have a bath.”

Shakespeare’s ears twitched at the word “bath.” Damn. He did hope the animal wouldn’t put up too much of a protest when he encountered soap and water. Richard and William, his two sturdiest footmen, would not thank him if they got soaked.

“If you say so.” Pettigrew didn’t bother to mask his distaste; Shakespeare didn’t bother to stop growling—in fact, he progressed to a snarl.

Pettigrew ignored him, looking instead at Francis. His brows rose, and his expression turned into something remarkably like a leer. Bloody hell, the fellow didn’t have that proclivity, did he?

“Haven’t found the”—Pettigrew waggled his brows—“boy’s brother yet?”

Or perhaps he was merely drunk.

Shakespeare snarled more loudly, punctuating his displeasure with a few well-placed barks.

“Shakespeare, some manners, please!” Jack said. Pettigrew was still staring at Francis, and Francis was glaring back at him, though the boy’s face was very pale.