Just who was this man?
And how much had her father paid him to put on this act?
Five
When he stepped out of the orphanage, Neil felt as though he could breathe again. The tightness in his chest finally lessened, and by the time he’d hailed the hackney and was away from Spitalfields, his shoulders had relaxed and his head ceased throbbing.
He didn’t need to go to King Street in St. James to post the letters for Lady Juliana. He could have done it in Spitalfields, but he wanted to go to his club. He needed one hour there, just to remind him who he was. The orphans were not as bad as he’d first thought. It was fortunate none were older than eleven, or Lady Juliana would never have been able to manage them. As it was, she would need to watch Walter and Billy closely. Living in the midst of a rookery meant there were always gangs looking for cubs to train as thieves. Small hands were nimble hands, and the young were given lenient prison sentences and could be back to work within months.
Neil had told himself his work at St. Dismas Home for Wayward Youth was temporary. He had his orders—persuade Lady Juliana to return home. It hadn’t taken a quarter hour for him to ascertain she would not be easy to persuade and that the situation was worse than he’d anticipated. She wasn’t safe in the least, and as far as her well-being… Well, the rats with biblical names spoke for themselves. So he’d done what he always did when he assumed command: he handled the crises as they came. He’d fed the children and then handed them off so he could do the real work of identifying the threats to safety. But every time he thought he had the boys taken care of, they landed back in his hands.
And so he’d gritted his teeth and did what was required. He’d told himself he’d been assigned worse tasks than supervising a dozen orphans. He’d had to set up camp in Russia in the middle of winter, he’d had to order men to complete missions he knew were suicide, and he’d had to inform mothers and fathers that the sons they’d lovingly rocked in their arms as infants were dead.
Making tea and toast with orphans was—pardon the pun—child’s play. Except it wasn’t. Because every single time he looked into those boys’ faces he saw himself. No, he hadn’t been raised in an orphanage, but he was Robbie and Jimmy and Chester all the same. His mother had died in childbirth. His father had claimed him, but even that acceptance couldn’t wipe away the shame of his birth. He was a bastard, and every look, every word exchanged, every moment spent with the orphans was a harsh reminder of his bastardy.
When the hackney stopped in front of the Draven Club, Neil almost sagged with relief. Here no one cared he was a bastard. Here he could forget that he was an outcast and that his own father didn’t quite know what to do with him, and that father’s wife would gladly have traded Neil’s life for that of her beloved son Christopher.
There were days Neil would have traded himself for Chris too.
The Draven Club was a haven from the circumstances of his birth, and it was the one place he could go to remember the men he’d lost. Ewan and Rafe and he could reminisce about their fallen comrades and, in that small way, keep the men’s spirits alive. It was the least Neil could do, considering he’d killed them. All eighteen of those lives were on his conscience.
He paid the hackney driver and walked briskly to the door of the club. Porter opened it as though he’d been expecting Neil at precisely this moment. “Hello, Porter.”
“Mr. Wraxall, a pleasure to see you, sir.”
Neil handed the Master of the House the two letters from Lady Juliana. “Would you post these for me, Porter?”
“Certainly, sir.” He tucked the letters into a pocket and took Neil’s greatcoat and hat. “Do you want dinner?”
It was still a bit early for dinner, and Neil wasn’t hungry. The churning of his stomach from the reminders of his bastardy that had been thrown in his face all day had dampened his appetite. But he had promised Lady Juliana to deal with dinner for the children.
“I wonder if you could help me on that point, Porter,” Neil said.
“Of course, Mr. Wraxall.”
Neil explained his needs, and Porter assured him it would be nothing for the cook to make another pot of stew and bake several more loaves of bread. The bounty would be ready in an hour, and Neil must take the club’s carriage in order to convey the meal to the orphans and their mistress.
Neil made a note to mention increasing both Porter and the cook’s salary when Draven’s men next met to discuss club business. He’d also ask about the aforementioned conveyance. Why hadn’t he known the club had a carriage and a coachman?
“Is anyone here at this hour, Porter?” Neil asked.
“Mr. Beaumont is in the Billiards Room, sir.”
Neil nodded. No doubt Rafe was hiding from some woman who hoped to sink her claws in him for a night or two. Most men would have been happy to have Rafe’s problems with women. Even Rafe had been happy to find himself a magnet to the female sex, until he’d realized that his love affairs often created more trouble than they were worth.
Neil ascended the stairs and leaned against the door, watching Rafe study the billiards table and position his cue, then, taking aim, knock two balls into the pocket.
“Nice shot,” Neil commented.
Rafe turned smoothly. Neil had no idea if his presence had surprised Rafe. The man had a way of appearing smooth and unruffled no matter the situation. “I wondered when you would show your face.”
“Tired of looking at your own?” Neil entered the room and stood at the other end of the table. He wasn’t interested in billiards, but he liked to watch a man with skill, like Rafe, sink the balls.
“Who could tire of looking at my face?” Rafe asked, lining up another shot.
“I could name any number of husbands.”
“I don’t dally with married women,” Rafe said. He hit the white ball, but his aim was off and it went wild, bouncing off the sides of the table.
Neil laughed. “Since when?”
“It has always been my policy.” Rafe chalked the end of the leather cue tip. “I cannot be held responsible if some of those wives are extremely persuasive.”
“No, I’m sure you can’t.”
“We could talk about me all day.” Rafe lined up another shot.
“We usually do,” Neil muttered.
“Where have you been? I thought your father had business for you and imagined you’d be riding to Hampshire or Dorset to oversee some agricultural fiasco.”
“The business was actually closer to home.”
“Oh?” Rafe took his shot.
“Spitalfields.”
Rafe looked up sharply, ignoring the thunk of the white ball into the pocket. “What was that?”
“You heard me.”
“There’s no agriculture in Spitalfields.”
“Not unless you count the growing of thieves and the multiplying of stolen wipes in shop windows.”
Rafe studied the table again.
“I’ve been at the St. Dismas Home for Wayward Youth.”
The table was forgotten, and Rafe stared at Neil with something like horror on his face. “Why? Did your father discover another offspring?”
“No. I think he learned his lesson after me. Not to mention Lady Kensington would probably castrate him if he showed up at her door with another bastard.”
“Then… But you couldn’t possibly have one there.” The sentence was a statement. Still, Rafe gave Neil a questioning look.
Neil shook his head. “My feelings on that score haven’t changed. None of the boys are mine.”
“Then you are still…” Rafe gestured vaguely.
“A virgin? Yes, though with my experience I think one could hardly call me that.”
“And yet I do enjoy it. Our Virgin Warrior.”
Neil ignored the jibe. He was not so easy to bait. The men of Draven’s troop had always called him the Warrior. It was only Rafe and a few other brave ones who dared add Virgin before it.
“And if you weren’t searching for lost offspring, what were you doing at an orphanage?”