Savage Nights (The Savage Trilogy #2) (25 page)

With a sigh I turned away and headed for the room across the hall where my clothes and other belongings had been put, hoping to find my hairbrush. I couldn’t arrange my hair myself, but I could at least brush and braid it so I didn’t look as if I didn’t care. I quickly found my silver hairbrush and comb and turned to cross back to Savage’s rooms.

And nearly collided with a boy.

“Who are you?” he demanded imperiously. “Why are you here?”

“I should ask the same question of you, young man,” I said, surprise making me curt. I guessed he was eight years old or so, dressed in dark knickerbockers to his knees and dark socks, a white shirt and silk necktie, and a tailored tweed jacket with engraved buttons. My first thought was that he wore quality clothing for a servant’s child, and then, as I looked at him longer, I realized he wasn’t a servant’s child at all.

He had sharp cheekbones for a child, a full mouth that now was inclined towards sulkiness but would no doubt with age turn sensual, the kind of mouth that women would one day love to kiss. His black hair fell over his forehead, sleek and gleaming, and his eyes were the palest gray, the color of quicksilver.

He was Savage’s son.

Suddenly it all made sense. The important messages that had drawn Savage away, that he’d never rejected or put aside, all were to do with this boy, his son, who for whatever reason had arrived here at home unexpectedly last night. Savage had only been behaving like a father. There hadn’t been some mysterious, dangerous man in the house; there was only this boy now here before me.

“I asked you your name, madam,” the boy said again. “Why are you in my father’s house? And why aren’t you properly dressed for this hour? Are you ill?”

“You ask a great many questions,” I said, wondering how best to answer any of them. I tugged the sash on my silk robe a little more tightly, acutely aware of wearing nothing beneath it. Savage had said the boy was at school, as he should be, considering it was the middle of the term. I’d little experience with children, especially boys.

Especially
boys who were far too much like their fathers.

The boy narrowed his eyes in a way that was all too familiar. “Are you one of my father’s whores?”

Oh, yes, he’d been away to school, to learn such language from the other boys. I wouldn’t let anyone address me like that, particularly not a child, whether he was Savage’s son or not. I drew myself up and frowned down at him with all the considerable authority that I possessed as a Fifth Avenue resident.

“My name is Mrs. Arthur Hart, young man,” I said, “and I am not a whore, but a guest of your father’s. I do not believe he would approve of you addressing me with such rudeness, either.”

The boy scowled in return, but his earlier bravado seemed to fade.

“My father’s supposed to be here,” he said. “If you’re his guest, then you’d know that. He’s supposed to be dining with me now.”

“I don’t believe he’s at home at present, so he won’t be dining with either one of us,” I said, softening a bit. Why hadn’t Savage told me his son was home? I remembered how critical Savage had been of his only son—criticism that, on first meeting, didn’t seem merited.

“I am expecting my luncheon to be brought upstairs shortly,” I continued. “I’m not your father, but you are welcome to join me if you wish.”

His face lit. “I would be honored, Mrs. Hart,” he said. “If Father returns, then I can go with him.”

“True enough,” I said. “But in the meantime, it would be a pleasure to have your company. What is your name?”

“Lawton,” he said with undeniable pride. “More properly I’m Lord Lawton, and heir to the Earldom of Savage. That’s my father.”

“I guessed as much,” I said, amused. “How do you wish to be addressed?”

“You may call me Lawton, as my friends do,” he said with a breezy wave of his hand. “Are you American? Your accent is peculiar.”

“I am better than a mere American,” I said. “I’m a New Yorker.”

His eyes widened, and for the first time he seemed his age.

“I’ve never met anyone from New York,” he said. “Do you know Buffalo Bill?”

“I’ve met him,” I said. “Annie Oakley and Chief Sitting Bull, too.”

“Truly?” he said, impressed.

“Truly,” I said, realizing I now had the upper hand. “Here’s the footman with my luncheon. Is there anything else you’d like me to ask for you?”

“Cream tarts,” he said without hesitation. “Mrs. Wilson says I’ve had enough for today, but if
you
order them, then she’ll have to send them up.”

I ordered the extra cream tarts, and then, to my amusement, I watched him eat three of them plus a good deal of what was supposed to have been my luncheon. Also to my surprise, I liked him, and he seemed to like me. I regaled him with tales of New York skyscrapers and my father’s railroads, while he told me about school, which tutors were right tartars, which of the boys he liked and those he didn’t, and which ones he categorized as bullies who needed to be put in their place for making life wretched for the smaller boys.

I avoided asking why he was at home in the middle of the term, and he didn’t volunteer an explanation. Most of all, he said nothing further of his father, except to look repeatedly at the clock on the mantel and wistfully wonder aloud where he could be.

I wondered that, too. I could occupy myself perfectly well until Savage returned, but I felt sorry for Lawton. I’d been the only child of a busy, powerful father, and I remembered all too well sitting dressed in the front hall and waiting eagerly for a promised outing or treat with him that never quite occurred.

“Would you like to go walk in the square?” I asked when Lawton had finished making a wreckage of the meal. “We needn’t go far. You’ll be able to see your father’s carriage when he returns.”

Lawton’s smile was so much like Savage’s. “I’m not permitted to leave the house alone, but I’m certain Father wouldn’t mind if I were with you.”

I excused myself to dress. I wore the simplest clothing I could find among my things, choosing a blouse, skirt, and jacket that were usually reserved for informal wear in the country—not because I wished to be informal, but because it was the easiest to put on myself, without a maid. I twisted my plaited hair into a simple knot and pinned a small straw hat on top of my head to keep away the sun.

When I was done, I looked more like the boy’s governess than his father’s lover, but under the circumstances that was probably for the best. I returned to the sitting room and found Lawton staring at some of the drawings of me that Savage had propped up on a bookshelf. I blushed; I couldn’t help it. Fortunately, they weren’t the most revealing ones, more drawings of my face, but it was still obvious that I hadn’t been wearing any clothes when he’d drawn them.

“I’m ready,” I said briskly, praying Lawton wouldn’t say anything about the pictures, either.

But he did.

“Those are of you, aren’t they?” he said, and I realized he was blushing, too. “Father always draws pictures of the people he likes.”

“Then I’m sure he’s drawn you, too,” I said, pulling on my gloves.

“He did when I was little,” Lawton said, looking down at the carpet. “Not now.”

There was something so painful about his resignation that I longed to be able to take him into my arms and hug him. But I wasn’t sure how an eight-year-old boy would respond to that, especially since he’d just been studying drawings of me naked.

I simply held out my arm, the way I would do with every other gentleman regardless of age. “Shall we go, Lawton?”

He stared at my offered arm and instead took my hand. I smiled, for his simple, gesture had made me ridiculously happy. Yes, he was a miniature version of Savage, but there was more. It wasn’t until we were heading down the front stairs that I realized the true reason for my happiness: Lawton trusted me, the same way as his father did.

“Lord Lawton and I are going to walk about the square,” I told the butler when we reached the hall and the front door. “We won’t be far. We’ll return as soon as we see Lord Savage’s carriage.”

Perplexed, the butler shook his head. “Forgive me, Mrs. Hart, but I am not certain that would follow His Lordship’s wishes for Lord Lawton.”

Lawton’s small fingers tightened in mine, enough to make me want to stand up for him.

“Lord Savage can answer to me, then,” I said firmly to the butler. “You may tell him it was my idea to take his son outside for some fresh air. There’s a beautiful afternoon today. It’s not good for children to be closed up inside on such a day.”

The butler bowed and murmured and moved aside, his disapproval palpable, but I didn’t care. It was better for the boy to be out-of-doors, and it was better for me as well. My spirits rose as soon as we walked down the steps and crossed the road, Lawton’s hand still firmly in mine.

It
was
a beautiful afternoon, too. The sun was warm on our shoulders, and the sky overhead was uncharacteristically blue for London. I only wished that Savage were with us.

St. James’s Square wasn’t what I would call a proper park (though I will admit that most parks paled beside the lushness of Central Park). This was really just an enclosure, surrounded by streets and houses on all four sides. There was a statue of some British king or hero in the center, some halfhearted grass, and a few straggly trees, enclosed by a black cast-iron fence: altogether disappointing for one of the most expensive addresses in London.

But there were a few benches and a narrow walk around the perimeter, and this was where I led Lawton. To my surprise and my pleasure, he continued to hold my hand, though I wasn’t sure whether from boyish gallantry or because he liked the contact, as did I myself. We had the Square to ourselves except for two nannies with babies in prams and several elderly persons dozing on the benches in the sun. I asked him if he’d a pony at Thornbury House, his family’s country house, and that topic lasted us for three turns around the Square, followed by another two turns devoted to various dogs.

Each time we passed Savage’s house, however, both Lawton and I looked to see if his carriage was drawn before the door, to show he’d returned. Each time, it wasn’t, though neither of us noted it out loud.

As we were walking along the far side of the square away from the house I noticed a hackney that seemed to be traveling at a different pace than the other carriages and wagons along the street. It was nondescript, a battered black cab with two large wheels, a single horse, and an equally nondescript driver riding behind, much like hundreds of others that clogged the London streets.

But I’d the uneasy impression that this particular hackney was following us. The driver was keeping close to the curb, about twenty paces behind us, and there he stayed, paying no attention to openings that appeared in the traffic that would have permitted him to go faster. That was not like any hackney I’d ever seen, and as an experiment I paused with Lawton, pointing out a cluster of starlings that had landed on the grass.

The hackney stopped, too.

We began walking again, and the hackney started as well.

My pulse quickened as I considered what next to do. This was exactly the sort of thing that my father had always feared for me, and now, during one of the few times I’d ventured into a city street unattended, I’d the uneasy feeling I was in danger. Although I glanced about for a policeman making his rounds, a customary sight, this time there wasn’t one. I didn’t want to alarm Lawton, but I knew we should make our way back to the house as swiftly as possible. We couldn’t cut across the Square because of the iron railings that surrounded it, but I could hurry him along.

“Let’s return to the house, Lawton,” I said as cheerfully as I could. “It’s nearly three thirty, and I’m sure your father will return in time for tea.”

By way of answering, Lawton charged forward with his head down, trying to drag me along after him. I followed as quickly as I could, forcing myself not to look back over my shoulder for the hackney.

We turned the corner of the Square. Savage’s house was in sight now, and we were almost there. I tightened my grip on Lawton’s hand and stopped, intending to cross the street to the house.

But as I did the hackney came forward and blocked our way. I stepped back from the curb, pulling Lawton back with me.

“Stupid driver, to block our way,” Lawton said indignantly. “He shouldn’t—”

“Hush now; we’ll just walk around him,” I said, trying desperately not to panic. “This way, Lawton, and we’ll—
Oh!
”

Two men with hats pulled low to hide their faces jumped from the cab, leaving the door open. Quickly they flanked me, one on either side, and grabbed my arms. The one on the right yanked my hand away from Lawton’s and pushed the boy to one side.

“Stop, stop!” I cried, fighting to free myself as the two men tried to shove me towards the hackney’s open door. I jerked back, twisting in terror. My hat slipped over my eyes for a moment and I couldn’t see before it fell behind me. It was all happening too fast, and the two men holding me were large and strong. “Help me, please, someone!”

“You release Mrs. Hart!” cried Lawton furiously, and I’d a fractured image of him hurling himself at the arm of one of the men. The men shrugged him away and shoved him to the pavement.

“Not the boy!” I cried, thinking now of Savage’s son rather than myself. “Don’t hurt him!”

But Lawton wasn’t hurt. Like a fierce little terrier, he popped up between the larger man’s legs and bucked his head up into the man’s groin. Caught off-balance and swearing with pain, the man released my arm and toppled backwards over Lawton, crashing on his back. In the confusion I jerked my other arm free and grabbed my skirts in one hand and Lawton in the other.

“Run!” I ordered breathlessly, already doing exactly that.

We were still in the street when Savage’s carriage drew up before the curb. It was still rolling to a stop when Savage himself threw open the door to jump out and raced towards us.

“What has happened, Evelyn?” he demanded, seizing me by the shoulders to pull me from the street, away from traffic. “I saw you running—”