No Regrets (11 page)

   He permitted himself a small, swift smile. "As you wish, Lady Foxhaven. I shall say nothing, if you promise to walk with your maid in future."

   "Believe me, Mr. Rivers, after today, nothing would persuade me to leave home without an escort. I beg you won't betray me." Golden lights danced in amber eyes and sunlight streaked into his dark world.

   Struck blind, he sought the dark cave of cool detachment and crawled inside its shadowy protection to find a guarded response. "Please, call me Cedric. After all, we are now family."

   She smiled, a tremulous curve of her lips. "If you will call me Carolyn. Lady Foxhaven sounds so stuffy, don't you think?"

   "The Foxhaven and Stockbridge titles are old and proud ones. They came to our family through Henry the Second."

   Her hand trembled and slid from his arm.

   Swift to sense a distress he didn't understand, he caught her fingers and replaced them on his sleeve. He softened his tone. "Forgive my pride, cousin. When you have sons of your own, our name will mean as much to you as it does to me."

   A seemingly nervous spasm tightened her fingers on his arm. "I expect you are right," she murmured.

   He glanced down, but could see nothing of her expression for the cursed brim shielding her face, but his nerve endings tingled. He had been right to suspect this marriage.

   "You know, cousin, it would greatly please my mother if you allowed her to help with your introduction," he said.

   "She is truly kind."

   Not many people recognized his mother's worth or realized the shabby treatment Stockbridge meted out to his poor relations. He bowed slightly. "She can be a little outspoken at times, but I assure you she means well."

   He ran his cane along the green wrought iron railings shielding the area steps of a small townhouse. It made a pleasant musical sound. "Will Lucas bring you to Almack's on Wednesday?"

   "I don't believe so." The merest hint of a sigh followed the words.

   "It would be a shame not to attend after Mother went to the trouble to obtain vouchers."

   "I appreciate her kindness, I do assure you."

   Good. Gratitude ranked almost as high as fear in garnering cooperation. He bared his teeth in a smile. "My mother is already fond of you. She makes the offer as much for your own sake as she does out of duty to Lord Stockbridge."

   Once more, the lady at his side averted her face. "How exceedingly generous."

   Too vulnerable. A pang of guilt squeezed his chest. Damn. He didn't have room for weak emotions. "I see you borrowed a book?"

   She held up the volume for his inspection. "A rather dreadful novel by Mrs. Radcliffe, I'm afraid." She chuckled. "My father would never have approved. I started reading it in the library and lost all track of the time." A rueful smile touched her full, soft lips.

   He raised a brow. "I've done the same thing myself and caught a scolding from my mother."

   She laughed. Cedric thought that distant church bells on a summer Sunday never sounded so sweet.

   Lush yet modest, her air of purity called to him with unaccustomed allure. Foxhaven didn't deserve her any more than he deserved his fortune or his title. The urge to know her better, much better, stirred his blood.

   He crushed the sensation and buried it beneath a mountain of disappointed hopes. Far more urgent considerations required his attention than the unruly demands of his body. He forced sincerity into his voice. "If I or my mother can ever be of assistance, you promise you will not hesitate to ask?"

   Once more, her eyes shone, for him. "As you did so fortunately today. I am forever in your debt."

   A genuine grin stretched his lips, a smile so broad his stiff cheeks complained of unaccustomed use. "It gives me great pleasure to be of service to you."

* * *

No bloody workmen.

   Lucas drew his phaeton to a halt on Wooten Hall's weed-infested drive and glowered at the Tudor mansion's crumbling façade.

   Where the hell was the builder? His man of business had said work would start immediately.

   "Take their heads, please, Tigs."

   The tiger leaped from his perch, landed with a crunch on the uneven gravel, and rushed forward.

   Lucas jumped down.

   He ran a critical eye over the old place. Ivy trailed from the patterned red brick walls as if ripped aside by a mighty hand. Broken chimney pots stuck up like rotten teeth. A casement hung drunkenly on its hinge above the magnificent columned portico, and missing panes of glass gave the house a gap-toothed appearance. At least the gray slate roof kept the rain out.

   The gardens also required urgent attention. Tangled and matted like a whore's hair after a night of debauchery, weeds overgrew what remained of rosebushes and shrubs. He'd have to hire a gardener from the local village.

   He sighed. A place like this would quickly eat all his capital if his recent investments didn't come through. He eyed the whole thing through narrowed eyes, imagining it in its former glory. The house nestled against a hodgepodge of green fields broken by stands of oaks and beeches on the hilltops. In the valley, the spire of Wooten's village church poked into an azure sky.

   Caro would like to ride here. The thought brought a smile to his lips. A picture of her as a child galloping, racing him neck-or-nothing, across the fields surrounding Stockbridge Hall flashed into his mind. What a contrast to this morning. She'd looked temptingly lush and tum bled. Mentally, he groaned at his body's instant response to the recollection. That was not something he should be thinking about—especially considering that she had seemed ready to murder him.

   What on earth had he done? Appearing in a state of undress at her door, no doubt. He didn't recall her being so particular when they were children. Perhaps the strawberry roan he bought at Tatt's would turn her up sweet as well as occupy her while he kept busy here.

   A projectile hurled into the back of his knees. "Whoa!" he shouted.

   Small hands gripped his coattails, and a bullet head pressed against his arse.

   "Milud, you gotta come an' see it."

   Freeing his coattails from the bony fingers, Lucas stared into the excited, thin face of a blond youth jumping up and down under his nose.

   "Steady on, lad."

   Jake had filled out these past few weeks. He'd lost some of the pinched look of starvation and fear. Lucas put his hands on his hips and frowned.

   Jake stilled, his face dropping. "Wot?"

   Shaking his head, Lucas held out his hand.

   "I never took nuffin'." Jake drooped. "Well, just a wipe." He drew Lucas's pocket-handkerchief from inside his coat and placed it in Lucas's palm.

   "And," Lucas said.

"Yer ticker."

   Lucas repressed a grin as the nine-year-old ragamuffin fished into the deep pocket of his threadbare dung-colored coat and held Lucas's timepiece dangling from its gold chain.

   "And," Lucas repeated.

   Jake's shoulders slumped, and he handed back the sovereign Lucas always carried in his fob pocket. "Bleedin' hell, yor worship, I gotta keep me hand in, don't I?"

   "No, you do not. Keep that up, and you will end your days with your neck stretched on the nubbing cheat."

   The boy kicked at a stone on the drive. "They ain't never going to 'ang me. They gotta catch me first."

   But they would. And what a dreadful waste of marvelous talent. The long fingers, which picked pockets with ease, worked magic when they played the violin. "I caught you."

   "You're different. I lets you catch me." Jake drew his sleeve across his nose, leaving a slimy trail on the rough fabric.

   With an inward shudder, Lucas held out the handkerchief. "Here, use this."

   "Cor. Can I keep it?"

   Lucas nodded. "It is a gift."

   Jake hopped on his toes. "But you gotta come and see the pianny. It came yesterday. It's huge." Once more, his mouth turned down in sulky lines. "Fred won't let us nippers anywhere near it. He's says we'll knock it or somethin'."

   Ah, Fred. Lucas's greatest treasure and biggest worry.

   "Lead on, McDuff."

   "I ain't McDuff. I'm Jake. We ain't got a McDuff."

   Lucas laughed. The sooner this child was educated, the better it would be for all of them.

   The boy sped off, his trousers skimming his sparrow's ankles and his cuffs flapping below his hands. He looked like a miniature scarecrow. With any luck, the new clothes Lucas had ordered would arrive this week.

   He ambled after the skinny legs pumping Jake toward the side door in the moderately habitable west wing. He sauntered down the narrow passage to the conservatory where the boys had temporary lodgings.

   Filled with bright light from its domed skylights and the bank of windows along the southfacing wall, the conservatory had once been Wooten Hall's crowning glory. Added in the old king's reign, it epitomized Palladian architecture and provided a perfect studio for his music school for orphaned street musicians.

   Doric columns supported the arching roof, elegant niches housed classic statuary, and pale gray marble graced the floors. The room should have trumpeted wealth and privilege. Only now, wooden boards filled in for panes of glass, and cots with rumpled blankets and discarded items of clothing turned one corner into a rat's nest. Boxes and trunks crowded the wall nearest the door. At the far end, fiddles and flutes lay discarded near an ancient pianoforte.

   Pristine in a clear space in the center, a mahogany Broadwood grand piano basked in majestic isolation against a backdrop of fine English countryside. Three feet separated it from Jake, who, with his hands in his pockets, grinned at a lanky dark-haired lout wearing a multicolored waistcoat and the pugnacious expression of an English bulldog.

   Fred.

   He turned as Lucas's booted steps echoed off marble and bounced against the bare walls. The aggressive stance and balled fists disappeared. He nodded at Lucas and swaggered to lean against the nearest pillar.

   Jake dashed at the piano and patted the mirrorpolished surface. "See," he crowed.

   "You'll scratch it," Fred said, with a growl. "An' next, you'll be carving your initials in it."

   Pulling the key from his waistcoat pocket, Lucas strolled to the keyboard and unlocked the lid. Jake pushed in front of him and ran his hands over the blazing white ivory.

   "There," Fred said, drawing close and peering over his tousled head. "Look at them mitts. They're filthy."

   Shoving his hands back in his pockets, Jake backed up. His hatred of soap and water was a standing joke among the boys.

   "What do you think?" Lucas asked Fred. At sixteen, the lad's ego was as sensitive as a girl's and his temper incendiary.

   His eyes hungry and his mouth sullen, Fred stared at the instrument. "It's all right I suppose . . . milud."

   Fred hated to use Lucas's title. Mr. Davis, the housemaster Lucas employed to look after the boys, would have chastised the studied insolence. Lucas let it slide. He sat down on the polished bench stool and ran his fingers over the keys. He picked out the notes of a Beethoven sonata, pleased he still remembered.

   "Strike me," Jake whispered. "You're good."

   "I was better at your age."

   "Why ain't you a musician, then?"

   The answer tasted of ashes. But to win their trust, he'd always been honest with these boys. "My father had other plans."

   "I wish mine had," Fred muttered.

   Lucas had found him in a public house bashing out tunes on an old piano for beer, having fled his home, wherever that was. He was no ordinary urchin. As much as he tried to hide his origins, somewhere along the line, he'd received an education, including music lessons. If he heard a tune once, he played it perfectly. Seeing Fred in that tavern had given Lucas the idea for the music school.

   "Try it," Lucas encouraged, getting up.

   Tossing him a lowering glance from beneath beetled brows, Fred pulled back the stool and slouched down. He hit middle C.

   For all his cynical sneer, reverence shone in the lad's eyes as the note rang out clear and true to the vaulted ceiling. He caressed a chord and listened to its sweetness die away. Then, his fingers as light and delicate as a butterfly, he drew out a few notes.

   Settling himself more comfortably, he banged out a rousing ditty popular in the stews of London with words to make a sailor blush.

   Jake, his voice as pure as an angel's, picked up the refrain, and the story of Mother O'Reilly and what her old man did with her duck filled the room. The three other boys—Red, named after his hair; Aggie, a gangly piccolo player; and Pete, blond and blue-eyed and the finest flautist Lucas had ever heard—tumbled into the room and joined the chorus.

   Fred challenged Lucas with a sly glance.

   With a grin, Lucas added his tenor to the boys' heavenly trebles and slid onto the bench. He picked up the harmony, occasionally passing across Fred's hands and his fourp'ny rabbit chest.