Rules for a Lady (A Lady's Lessons, Book 1) (3 page)

He desired her, and he made no effort to hide the fact.

"I... I beg your pardon, sir?"

He did not answer her flustered question. Instead he held up the unmistakable worn blue fabric of her reticule, taking pains to direct her attention to the cut ends of the string that had once held it to her wrist. Then she noticed the wiggling, twisting child effortlessly restrained by the gentleman's other hand.

"That is the sweet boy who bumped into me!" she exclaimed, only now realizing what had happened.

"This is the sweet boy who robbed you."

She felt herself color, seeing what a country fool she must appear to this man. "Well, yes, I suppose you are right." She took her bag back and carefully tucked it into the pocket of her gown.

"Shall I have my coachman call a constable?"

Glancing at his face, she knew he cared little about her response, so long as they dispensed with the boy quickly. His thoughts were clearly centered elsewhere, and she pulled her coat more tightly about her throat to cover the neckline of her dress.

"I ain't 'urt no one!" squeaked the boy, diverting her attention away from his captor. "Don't give me over to the constable, miss! Please!"

"Oh, dear." Gillian bit her lip as the gentleman handed the distraught child to a large man in burgundy livery. The boy was a tiny scrap of a thing, dwarfed by the two men who held him. As if sensing her gaze on him, the boy lifted meltingly beautiful brown eyes up to her, silently imploring.

He was a pathetic sight. With the filth and the drizzle, the boy looked nothing short of a half-drowned puppy dog squirming in the coachman's hand. She shuddered to think what would happen to the child in a London prison. "No," she said softly. "No, I cannot think a constable will be necessary."

"Very well." The gentleman nodded to the coachman. "You may release him."

"No!"

Both men turned to her with identical expressions of shock. The gentleman went so far as to lift his quizzing glass. "I beg your pardon?" he drawled.

His tone finally stirred her outrage. She understood she appeared a countrified miss with more hair than wit. It was incredibly stupid to gawk at her surroundings without heed to her silly reticule. Still, he need not stare at her as though she were an escaped Bedlamite. She pulled herself up to her full height, which though impressive for a woman, could not approach that of the dark gentleman.

"I suggest we talk to the child," she said firmly. Ignoring the coachman's undignified snort, she crouched down to look eye-to-eye with the boy. "What is your name, young man?"

He would not answer at first, but after a shake and a growl from the coachman, the boy spoke with a tiny explosion of anger.

"Tom!"

"Well, Tom, we seem to be in a bit of a muddle. You stole something of mine, and though I am reluctant to hand you over to the authorities, I find I cannot simply let you go free." She waited, trying to gauge the child's measure, and was startled to see the same calculating look in his eyes. "What do you suggest we do with you?" she asked.

It began as a slight glimmer in his soft brown eyes, but it quickly grew to a watershed of pathos. He spoke haltingly, sniffing into his sleeve and biting his hp. "Aw, miss," he stammered between sobs. "It be me poor mum. She died last year of a 'orrible sickness." He coughed once for effect, peaking at her face between his fingers.

"I see," she said dryly. "And your father?"

"Oh, 'e's a cruel 'un, miss. Drinks mean and knocks me about just for me earnings."

"But he is alive, and we can find him?"

"Oh, no!" the child quickly retracted. "'E left us weeks ago. Years."

Despite the child's exaggerated display, Gillian felt her sympathies rise. Most of his story was probably true. "So you wander the streets cutting purses to survive?"

"Oh, no, miss. I am a good boy, I am. But I am terrible 'ungry." He clutched his stomach. "I just wanted a bite of black bread."

"Good boys do not cut purses, Tom." She tried to be stern, but it was hard when looking into such soulful eyes.

"I am a crossing sweep, miss." Then he dropped his chin and squeezed a fat tear from his left eye. "Leastways I was until someone stole me broom. It is 'orrible 'ard to sweep without a broom." Then he descended into loud wails of despair.

She was not fooled, of course. The child was simply playacting. And from his looks, the gentleman knew it, too. Still, it was excruciating to stand idle before an entire courtyard while a tiny child wailed at their feet. All three adults fidgeted as they encountered the icy stares of more than one casual observer.

The gentleman broke first. "This is outside of enough!"

"I quite agree," added Gillian, but Tom was so caught up in his performance he would not stop. "Very well, sir. I suppose we must call a constable."

She expected her comment to stop the child's wailing, but the sobs only intensified. He became positively hysterical. Glancing up, she saw the gentleman's face darken. The man was clearly at the end of his patience. He bent down, careful to keep his clothing out of the muck, and spoke fiercely and quietly to the child. She could not understand what he said, but she could hear the low throb of authority infusing his tone.

Tom stopped crying mid wail.

Gillian breathed a sigh of relief. Whoever the dark gentleman was, he certainly possessed a talent for cutting through juvenile hysterics. But then she noticed the gentleman's clenched jaw muscles and decided to get man and boy separated as soon as possible. Patience clearly was not one of his virtues.

She smiled as winningly as possible. "Thank you for your help, sir. I believe Tom and I can handle things now."

He straightened, looking for all the world like a large black panther slowly uncurling before his prey. "Truly?" he drawled. "I am absolutely breathless with curiosity. How do you intend to control the brat?"

Gillian winced at the cruel term and became more determined than ever to escape this domineering man. "I am sure Tom will control his own behavior. Am I correct, Tom?"

As expected, the boy nodded vigorously, probably intending to run the moment the coachman released him.

"Of course you will, Tom," she continued, "because you and I will find something to eat, and then we shall speak with my guardian. I am certain he can find a position for a good boy in his household."

"Indeed." There was a wealth of understatement in the man's one word, but Gillian was not one to be intimidated by his arrogance. "And just who is this paragon of virtue who will hire a cutpurse?"

Gillian grinned, anticipating her moment of triumph. "The Earl of Mavenford," she said loftily, "and a kinder, more understanding gentleman I have yet to find." Her expression indicated that the dark gentleman was nothing close.

But far from appearing stunned by the mention of her guardian, the man actually began to smile. It was a bitter smile, cold and mocking, and it sent a tremor of fear up her spine despite her confidence.

"I believe you are mistaken," he said softly.

"Nonsense. My guardian is Stephen Conley, fifth Earl of Mavenford."

"And you are Miss Amanda Faith Wyndham?"

She lifted her chin, determined to lie with a straight face. "Yes, I am."

"Well, Miss Wyndham, I am quite intimately acquainted with his lordship, and I can assure you, he is neither kind nor understanding."

"Piffle," she said, reaching for Tom. She was gratified to see the coachman release him, and the boy sidled quickly into her protective embrace. "In any event, this is no longer your affair."

She made to leave, taking Tom with her, but the gentleman reached out and grabbed her, his large hand clamping like iron about her arm.

"You are going nowhere, you impertinent chit!" His hand tightened around her arm.

"Sir, you are offensive."

"I intend to get a good deal more offensive before the day is much older. Where is your companion? And why were you on top of the coach?"

"Just who are you, sir, to demand such questions of me?" She had practiced that tone before, imitating her half sister at her most condescending.

"I, Miss Wyndham, am the fifth Earl of Mavenford." He smiled grimly. "Your guardian."

Gillian felt her jaw go slack in shock. It could not be true. Why would the Earl of Mavenford pick up his nearly impoverished cousin from a coaching inn on a drizzly, gray day? At most he should have sent a servant, and she had scrupulously checked the courtyard for someone who appeared to be a footman or driver for the earl. No one had caught her attention, so she'd assumed the man simply had not bothered. After all, that was exactly what Amanda would have done if some nobody cousin came to visit her. It was inconceivable that this person could be the earl himself.

"I assure you," he said, clearly guessing her thoughts, "I am the Earl of Mavenford."

Despite his words, desperation compelled Gillian to glance at the coachman. He gave her a single, grave nod, and for the first time in years, Gillian wished she had died at birth.

"My... my lord—"

"Do not bother cutting up sweet, my dear. I assure you, you have already used up my store of patience."

"But—"

"I suggest you let the boy go on his misguided way and apply yourself to finding an explanation for your outrageous behavior."

Gillian stared at the dark gentleman, narrowing her eyes as she came to grips with situation. The man was condescending, tyrannical, and arrogant to the bone. He had to be the earl. Still, she had spent the better part of her life nursing the shrewish Amanda Wyndham. She knew how to handle autocrats.

"I am sorry, my lord, but I am afraid I cannot comply. I have made a promise to this boy, and I intend to keep it."

"A promise! What promise?" A vein in his neck visibly pulsed, but the earl kept his voice level, his blue eyes narrow and intense. Somehow his very control made her fear him even more.

"I..." She faltered, but was still determined. "I promised to help him find employment."

He did not answer, but she could feel his anger mount exponentially with his every indrawn breath. It practically vibrated in the air between them, and she wondered why the passersby did not flee in terror.

Gillian swallowed and tried a different tack. "My lord, surely you can see this child must be helped."

"He is a common cutpurse!"

"No, my lord. He is a child who needs a little guidance."

"You are a naive fool," he retorted.

"No doubt. But at least I shall have tried."

The earl fell silent, surprising her by appearing to consider her comment. Determined to take advantage of any tempering within him, Gillian smiled as winningly as she knew how. "Please, my lord. True, the child's a liar and a thief, but he is also alone and hungry. We cannot just abandon him."

She expected some softening in his expression, but to her horror, his face grew harder, colder, more filled with disdain. "You will do better not to try your wiles on me, Miss Wyndham. You will find me particularly immune."

"Oh!" Gillian actually stomped her foot in frustration, something she had not done in fifteen years. She knew the child was not evil; why could he not see that as well? "You cannot abandon him, my lord. It would be..." She groped desperately for the appropriate word. "It would be unpatriotic!"

That, at least, gave him pause. "Unpatriotic?"

"Why, yes," she stammered as she tried to explain. "Suppose you were in some foreign country, and you saw a destitute English boy. You would help him then."

"I would?" His disbelief was obvious.

"Of course you would. Have I not said you are the kindest and most understanding man?"

He folded his arms across his chest. "You did indeed say that."

"Then it stands to reason you would help a poor English boy lost in a foreign land." She pushed Tom forward. "Only think, my lord, Tom is English and destitute. You cannot penalize the child merely because he is orphaned in England rather than in some foreign part?"

"To do so would be unpatriotic?"

"Exactly!" She beamed at him, pleased he understood her twisted logic.

He shook his head. "This is why women will never be allowed into Oxford."

"And that is why men will never be allowed in women's drawing rooms!" she shot back.

He blinked at her. "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, never mind. I needed to say something, and that tumbled out." She saw the gleam of humor spark in his eyes and judged it the best time to press her case. "Please, my lord, could we not keep him?"

"Keep him?" The earl's eyebrows climbed straight up beneath his hair. "Like a pet?"

"No." She tried to smile, but she felt off balance before the earl, unsure of exactly how to act. "I mean care for him like a child who has nowhere to go and no one else to turn to."

Then Gillian saw something she never expected: the man's face shifted, not easing in the way of a man giving in to a pretty woman, but twisting as a man remembering something cruel that was finally over. He sighed heavily. "You cannot go about saving every lost soul in London."