An Impossible Attraction

Lady Beatrice Gregory has beauty, brains—and a wastrel brother. With her family fortune squandered, her only chance of a Season is as a lowly companion. London’s glittering balls and parties are bittersweet when Beatrice has no hope of a match. Still, helping Lord Greystone with his charitable work brings her genuine pleasure...perhaps more than she dares to admit.

Even when every marriageable miss in London is paraded before him, the only woman to capture Lord Greystone’s attention is the one he shouldn’t pursue. Attaching himself to a ruined family would jeopardize his ambitions. Yet Lady Beatrice may be the only wife to suit his lord’s heart.

“Tell me, Miss Gregory, where do you reside when not in London? Mrs. Parton has been foretelling your arrival for weeks, but she told us nothing about you.”

“My origins are of no consequence, I assure you, sir.” The young lady lifted her chin. Her eyes glinted, and her lips thinned into a line. So she had a bit of spunk. Greystone liked that. Few young ladies spoke so boldly to a peer of his standing.

“Now, my dear.” Mrs. Parton reached across the table and patted her hand. “Greystone is a treasured friend. He can be trusted with your secret.”

The young lady’s eyes shifted this way and that, as if she would escape this interview. Greystone began to regret quizzing her, even as his curiosity about her increased. “If you are in some sort of difficulty, miss...” He could not imagine a problem that Mrs. Parton’s vast wealth could not solve.

Again Miss Gregory lifted her chin, and wounded pride beamed from her elegant countenance. “I am not a mere miss. I am Lady Beatrice Gregory.”

LOUISE M. GOUGE

has been married to her husband, David, for forty-seven years. They have four children and seven grand-children. Louise always had an active imagination, thinking up stories for her friends, classmates and family, but seldom writing them down. At a friend’s insistence, in 1984 she finally began to type up her latest idea. Before trying to find a publisher, Louise returned to college, earning a B.A. in English/creative writing and a master’s degree in liberal studies. She reworked that first novel based on what she had learned and sold it to a major Christian publisher. Louise then worked in television marketing for a short time before becoming a college English/humanities instructor. She has had twelve novels published, several of which have earned multiple awards, including the 2006 Inspirational Reader’s Choice Award. Please visit her website at http://blog.Louisemgouge.com.

A Suitable Wife

Louise M. Gouge

www.millsandboon.co.uk

He that walketh with wise men shall be wise:

but a companion of fools shall be destroyed.

—Proverbs 13:20

This book is dedicated to my beloved husband, David, who has stood by my side through

my entire writing career. I would also like to thank Nancy Mayer and the Beau Monde Chapter of RWA for helping with my research into the Regency era.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Excerpt

Chapter One

London, May 1814

“Well, Mother, have you chosen a bride for me yet?” Lord Greystone surveyed the guests in the ballroom of his Hanover Square town house, already bored by the dull young misses who had been paraded before him by overeager mothers.

“Greystone, it is simply appalling.” Standing beside him, Mother waved her closed fan carelessly toward the throng of guests, many of whom were engaged in a lively country reel. “I cannot think of any of these silly gels becoming my daughter-in-law. If you married one of them, I should be forced to utterly forsake your company to avoid all that nonsensical chatter.”

“If you fear you will be lonely, madam, perhaps you should consider hiring a new companion.” He sent his parent a playful smirk, but failed to evoke even a hint of a smile from the poor dear. Although she would never admit it, Mother missed her former companion Miss Newfield since the young lady married Greystone’s youngest brother.

“Nonsense.” Mother inspected him up and down through her quizzing glass, then brushed invisible lint from his blue satin sleeve. “I shall find you a bride who can fill the duties of a companion for me, someone who understands her responsibilities to family and Society.”

“Hmm.” Greystone resisted the notion of his future wife suffering under Mother’s domination, as Miss Newfield had. Perhaps after his marriage he should consider settling his parent in a dower residence. The house would be elegant and well staffed, of course, but at some distance from his other homes.

The thought stirred a strong measure of guilt in him. He and his two brothers owed everything to Mother. From the age of six, when his father’s sudden death had vaulted him into the titular headship of the Greystone dynasty, he had followed her every teaching. She had made certain he and his brothers, especially Greystone, were well versed in their duties to king and country. Although they had often loathed her controlling hand, she had restored the family fortune Father had gambled away, making possible a future for each of them. A future she herself designed.

Tonight she had gone to great effort for his birthday, inviting numerous aristocratic families and their marriageable daughters, ordering the best cuisine and hiring a fine orchestra. To match her scarlet gown, she wore the exquisite ruby necklace that had been in his family for some two hundred years. It suited her so well, he decided she must have it even after he married, as a symbol of his gratitude for all she had done for the family.

Although he felt the utmost gratitude toward her, recently he had begun to chafe against her controls. All these years he had observed how she had ruled the family. But how did a husband and father manage his own house? His memories of Father offered no example, only horror and fear. What if he inherited the man’s brutish ways? What if—

“Are you listening to me?” Mother’s sharp elbow cut into his biceps. He stifled a wince and clamped down on a cross retort. “What do you think of Lady Grandly’s eldest gel?” She waved her fan toward the comely Miss Waddington.

“Hmm.” Miss Waddington certainly possessed the appropriate breeding and character, but she stirred no feeling in him at all. Now that he had seriously begun his obligatory marital search, a new longing had started to stir within him. He wanted to experience genuine love, a deep emotion toward his wife, such as both of his brothers felt for their brides. A feeling so strong that it made each of them willing to risk everything to have the woman he loved.

Yet those other, darker thoughts always accompanied that sentiment. What if he had inherited his father’s propensity for cruelty? For evil? For profligate living? With no paternal example how could he truly become the good man he longed to be in the sight of God? Often after a burst of anger over some offense, real or imagined, he pondered whether he was even fit for marriage and fatherhood. Perhaps his brother Richard should continue as his heir. The newly ordained minister possessed an agreeable, temperate disposition and would never knowingly cause harm to anyone. But then such a passive course would mean that Greystone was neglecting his responsibility, something he would never do. He must choose a bride, must beget an heir. If he was fortunate enough to love the lady, then all the better.

Best get on with it.

“Do excuse me, madam. I should see to my guests.” He bowed to Mother.

“Just so.” She waved him toward the wall of young ladies without partners.

Instead Greystone strode toward the door, determined to play a few hands of whist with his brother Edmond. Greystone would seek the newlywed’s advice about choosing a bride.

When had Edmond realized no lady would do for him but Anna Newfield? How had he been certain of his feelings, despite the vast chasm between their social ranks? How had he developed the courage to defy Mother’s control? Perhaps as an officer over His Majesty’s Dragoons in America.

Neither Edmond nor Richard remembered their father, so Greystone doubted they would ever emulate his wicked ways. On the other hand, Greystone’s memories, forged from infancy, often found their way to the forefront of his mind, especially when his own temper threatened to explode like cannon fire. Then he prayed desperately that he might maintain control, unlike those few times in his youth when he had wreaked havoc on innocents. That must never happen again. He must never be like Father.

Pausing in the doorway, he surveyed the card room for the familiar head of dark brown hair. But his eyes stopped instead at the sight of golden curls framing the most exquisite female countenance he had ever gazed upon. Oddly his heart seemed to hiccup in his chest, and he had to remind himself to breathe. Even from a distance of some five and twenty feet, even in the flickering candlelight, he could see the sparkle of her blue eyes and her flawless ivory complexion. A pert little nose sat over full pink lips that were quirked to the side, as though she was concentrating on which card to play. From her sudden smile and decisive play he surmised the young lady could be counted on to betray her hand, a charming trait that revealed a lack of cunning.

But who was she? As host he should have met every guest at the ballroom door. Perhaps she was a latecomer. He did not have to search far to find someone to present him to her. Mother’s good friend Mrs. Parton sat across from the golden lady, and from their traded smiles, he assumed they were acquainted. If Mrs. Parton approved of the young lady, that was good enough for him. He made his way through the maze of populated tables toward his goal. With each step closer to her his pulse quickened.

Four sets of feminine eyes turned in his direction, but Mrs. Parton spoke first.

“Go away, Greystone. My partner and I are about to win this hand, and I forbid you to interrupt, even if it is your birthday.”

Greystone laughed. “And a good evening to you, too, dear lady.” He stopped by her chair and placed a kiss upon her plump cheek. Then he turned his attention to the other ladies. “I do hope you are having a pleasant time, Lady Blakemore, Miss Hart, and...?” He feigned innocent surprise, even as his pulse hammered wildly. “Forgive me, miss. Mrs. Parton, will you present me to this lovely young lady?”

“I will not.” She waved him away. He gave her a charming grin as he had since boyhood, and she harrumphed. “You never did mind well, Greystone.” Exhaling dramatically, she folded her hand of cards and placed them facedown. “Miss Gregory, may I present our host, Lord Greystone. Greystone, this is my new companion, Miss Gregory. She arrived in London just this afternoon.”

“Charmed, Miss Gregory.” To be sure, he was more than charmed. He was enchanted by those calm sapphire eyes. But while he kissed her hand, his mind scrambled and his pulse slowed. So this was Mrs. Parton’s long-awaited companion, and doubtless a penniless lady, if her unadorned, ill-fitting brown dress was any indication. If he chose a bride who was anything less than a baron’s daughter, Mother would be devastated.

“Lord Greystone.” The lady’s bright pink blush charmed him all the more. Every unmarried young lady blushed, but somehow Miss Gregory’s deportment bespoke something deeper than girlish nerves. Curiosity and interest quickly overrode his reservations regarding her status.

“Well, Greystone.” Lady Blakemore stood, as did her companion. “Since you have interrupted our game, Miss Hart and I will take our leave and find the refreshments.” Amid protests to the contrary, the two ladies disappeared from the room.

“Do forgive me. I have spoiled your game.” Greystone did not regret it for a moment. “Did you lose much?” He glanced around for a pile of coins or tokens but found none. Miss Gregory stared at him as if he had three heads.

“Gracious, no.” Mrs. Parton waved a silk fan before her ruddy cheeks. “You know I never gamble. Not even a button. Dreadful habit. Leads to ruin.”

Miss Gregory’s cheeks flamed even brighter, causing Greystone no little concern.

“Again, forgive me. I do not mean to be boorish.” He sat in one of the empty chairs, knowing full well he was neglecting his other guests. But surely after spoiling their game, he could be excused while he set things to right with these two ladies. Or so he convinced himself. “Tell me, Miss Gregory, where do you reside when not in London? Mrs. Parton has been foretelling your arrival for weeks, but she told us nothing about you.”

“My origins are of no consequence, I assure you, sir.” The young lady lifted her chin. Her eyes glinted, and her lips thinned into a line. So she had a bit of spunk. He liked that. Few young ladies of the gentry spoke so boldly to a peer of his standing.

“Now, my dear.” Mrs. Parton reached across the table and patted her hand. “Greystone is a treasured friend. He can be trusted with your secret.”

The young lady shifted her eyes this way and that, as if she would escape this interview. Greystone began to regret quizzing her, even as his interest in her increased, along with his curiosity and an odd pinch of protectiveness. “If you are in some sort of difficulty, Miss...” He could not imagine a problem Mrs. Parton’s vast wealth could not solve.

Again Miss Gregory lifted her chin, and wounded pride beamed from her elegant countenance. “I am not a mere miss. I am Lady Beatrice Gregory. My brother is Lord Melton. Perhaps you know him?” One perfect blond eyebrow quirked upward to accompany the question, as if she already knew the answer.

Greystone tried to inhale, but like last winter’s nearly fatal illness, this revelation stole his breath.

“Ah. Yes. Of course. I know Melton. He was absent from the House of Lords today. I do hope he is not ill.” He must get away. Must not let her charm him further.

Disappointment clouded Mrs. Parton’s eyes. How well she knew him. How well she was reading him even now. But she of all people understood why he could not associate himself with the sister of a drunken, degenerate gambler.

“If you ladies will excuse me. My other guests—” He rose and offered a weak smile before turning to make his escape.

* * *

“Do forgive Lord Greystone.” Mrs. Parton’s round face creased with disappointment. “He truly must attend to his other guests. It is his birthday, you know.”

“Yes, of course.” Beatrice offered her employer a conciliatory smile, for her late mother had taught her well. No matter what happens, no matter what feelings rage within her, a lady always maintains her dignity. Mama had always exhibited graciousness despite Papa’s neglect, and never had Beatrice felt the need to emulate her more than now. The instant she saw the horror on Lord Greystone’s face—a rapid withdrawal of interest at the mention of her brother’s name—her breeding held strong. With a practiced vise grip on her emotions, she maintained her posture and poise, even offering a smile to the gentleman’s retreating back. But her disappointment was keen, her heart deeply cut. Would all of Society treat her this way?

Yet what could she expect from any gentleman, especially an eligible peer? Did not all noblemen spend their lives and fortunes as it suited them? Did they not all sit in church every Sunday, as duty demanded, and yet utterly neglect their duty to their families?

But daughters also had a duty—to marry well so that the family might benefit. Beatrice had always assumed her parents would find a husband for her, preferably someone wealthy and titled who could give Papa some sort of political advantage. Mama had promised Beatrice a grand London Season during which they would arrange the marriage. But Mama had died long before she could keep her promise, Papa had died before finding her a husband, and her brother had spent the past three years gambling away the fortune that came with his title. Beatrice loved her charming brother, but the new Lord Melton’s wastrel ways had utterly destroyed her chance for marriage or even a Season when he squandered her dowry in hopes of recouping his losses. No gentleman wanted a penniless lady, no matter how old or formerly prestigious her family name. Still, her sense of injustice cried out that any man who did not see how different she was from Melton did not deserve her notice or her heart.

Still again, from the moment she had observed Lord Greystone’s tall form and handsome face as he had threaded his way across the room toward her table, she had experienced a growing sense of admiration, at least for his outward appearance. Broad shoulders, thick, nearly black hair curled in the latest Caesar style, a lightly tanned complexion, high cheekbones and a slight cleft in his strong chin—features woven together to create an appealing presence. No doubt the gentleman knew his blue satin jacket reflected in those icy blue eyes, making him all the more attractive.

But no one could feign the kindness that shone from his countenance as he had spoken with Beatrice’s employer. This was the gentleman of whom Mrs. Parton had spoken so highly in regard to his defense of the poor. This was a gentleman of godly faith, a worthy soul who shared Beatrice’s concern for the downtrodden. But somehow his generous feelings did not extend to the sister of a wastrel.

“Shall we go to the ballroom?” Mrs. Parton stood and fussed with her gown, a deep purple silk creation with an orange print sash draped across one shoulder and fastened at the high waist with a golden broach. Her purple turban, which kept falling over her ruddy forehead, sported a blue-green peacock feather that bobbed when she moved. “I shall find you a partner for the quadrille, which should be the next dance, unless Lady Greystone has changed her usual order.” When Beatrice remained seated, the lady tilted her head in question. “Well, come along, my dear. We’ll not have any fun hiding here among the dowdy dowagers.” She waved a chubby arm to take in the rest of the room and received a few cross looks for it.

As Beatrice rose, the bodice of her borrowed and overlarge gown twisted to the side. She hurried to straighten it, but nothing could be done about the excess fabric. “I should not dance in this—” She wanted to say “rag,” but that would be an insult to Mrs. Parton’s daughter, for whom it had been made last year. But while the dark bronze gown might have complemented the young matron’s auburn hair, Beatrice knew it washed out her own lighter features. “I fear I will trip.”

“I’m sure you can manage, Miss Gregory.” Although a twinkle lit Mrs. Parton’s eyes, her tone and choice of address reminded Beatrice of her place.

Mortification brought a warm flush to her face. She was the daughter of an earl, the sister of his heir. She held precedence over Mrs. Parton, who was the daughter of a mere baron, the widow of a middle-class, albeit wealthy gentleman. But gratitude overcame shame, and Beatrice smiled at her benefactress. At one and twenty she was at last enjoying her first—and no doubt only—London Season. She must not expect to find a husband, even if Mrs. Parton should become agreeable to such a search. No, she was here to be the lady’s companion and nothing more.

On the other hand this nonsense of calling her Miss Gregory instead of Lady Beatrice would be revealed for what it was: a fraud. Then no reputable person would have anything to do with her. But if only for one evening she could escape the pain caused by Melton’s irresponsible behavior, she planned to make the most of it. A spirited quadrille might be just the cure she needed to heal her wounded pride.

The bright third-floor ballroom, though not terribly large, was exquisite, not unlike the ballroom at Melton Gardens in County Durham. Tall windows on the south side revealed the last dim glow of daylight over the rooftops on the opposite side of Hanover Square. But one would hardly know evening had arrived. The brilliant candlelight from numerous girandoles was magnified by their mirrors, while sparkling crystal chandeliers hung from a ceiling carved with a swirling leafy pattern. Beneath their feet, the polished oak floor had been dusted with chalk to keep dancers from slipping, and a sizeable orchestra sat on a dais at the east end. The scents of countless perfumes and pomades hung heavy in the air, making it difficult to breathe one moment and delightfully pleasant the next.

Beatrice stood next to her employer with growing hopes she would soon put to use the skills her dance master had praised in her youth. Several men were seeking partners, and one or two looked her way, then at Mrs. Parton, as if considering a request for an introduction. But against her will and all good reason, her eyes sought a certain tall viscount and soon found him.

Halfway across the room Lord Greystone stood beside a gray-haired matron of medium height wearing a scarlet gown and a glittering ruby necklace. From his close attention Beatrice guessed the lady was his mother, even though the severe expression on her thin face did not in the least resemble Lord Greystone’s warmer countenance. Beatrice admired the solicitous way he leaned toward the lady, wishing she could be the recipient of such kind gazes. She released a quiet sigh and forced her attention back to the dancers forming groups for the quadrille.

Beside her Mrs. Parton suddenly gasped. “We must go.” She gripped Beatrice’s forearm and tugged her toward the door.

“But—”

“Tst. Come with me.” Mrs. Parton jerked her head toward two gentlemen who were making their way through the crowd toward her.

Melton! Her prodigal brother. And he had the nerve to give her their secret wave, running a hand over one ear, then touching his chest over his heart. As they were growing up, they often played with the village children and had devised several signals to win games. This one was a promise always to listen to each other, always to care for one another. But after he destroyed his own reputation and her possibilities for marriage, she had long ago decided he had forever shattered that promise. Now only horror filled her, and she willingly permitted herself to be led away.

Count on Melton to destroy her chances for even one night of happiness. Well, now he could count on her to refuse to acknowledge him in public.

* * *

Coward. Greystone had berated himself from the moment he had so boorishly left the two ladies at their table. Lady Beatrice had quickly hidden her mortification, but not before he had seen the hurt in her eyes. Lovely eyes, blue as sapphires. Golden hair, ivory complexion—but he must stop thinking about her. Brooding over an unacceptable lady would do no good at all. Instead he would ask Mother’s opinion on whom he should approach for this next dance.

“Have you met Mrs. Parton’s companion?” Not the question he had intended to ask.

“No. Is she here?” Mother glanced beyond him. “Humph. Pretty enough, if one cares for the pallid sort.” She stared up at him, her eyes widening in alarm. “Now, Greystone, you must not give consequence to this gel. ’Twas bad enough for your brother to steal my companion. You must not steal Julia’s. In any event, you are Lord Greystone, and none will suit for your bride but the daughter of a duke—or at least an earl.”

“Ah, we’ve moved up the ladder with our expectations, have we?” Greystone stifled a laugh. Mother’s ambitions were not unlike every Society parent’s, each and all seeking some sort of advancement. He would tell her the truth about Miss Gregory, except that he was still trying very hard not to notice the young lady, much less give her any attention. Once again his eyes betrayed him just as his words had. But when he looked in her direction, he saw to his vexation that Mrs. Parton was dragging her from the room. Just as well. He could have no future with the young lady, but not for the reasons Mother stated.

In the corner of his eye he noticed two gentlemen following the ladies. What was Melton doing here? And that scoundrel Rumbold? Neither had been invited to this fete. Furthermore, Mrs. Parton seemed in a rush to elude them. Offering a quick apology to Mother, Greystone strode across the room to intercept the interlopers so the ladies might make their escape.

* * *

Lord Melton could hardly believe his eyes. Beatrice had looked directly at him, had seen him give her their secret wave and was actually giving him the cut. His own sister, the one whose presence had gained him access to this ball. He could only stand in shock.

“Come along, Melton.” Frank Rumbold gripped Melton’s arm in the same manner that Mrs. Parton had taken charge of Beatrice. “This will turn out even better if we catch them on the ground floor. Then we can walk them home.”

“If you think that is best.” Melton had permitted his older friend to guide him for three years, but they’d had a few setbacks socially. Actually more than a few. As if by some tacit agreement, members of the ton now refused to admit Rumbold into their drawing rooms. After Beatrice’s debut in Society, he and Rumbold hoped to amend the situation. With wealthy Mrs. Parton as her sponsor, his sister would meet only the best of Society and could draw them into her growing circles. He often felt stabs of conscience that he lacked the funds to sponsor her debut, much less a dowry to bestow upon any gentleman fortunate enough to win her hand. But Rumbold had expressed interest in her. Now that he had seen her, it should take very little to complete the marriage agreement. That is, if he could manage to arrange the introduction.

“Good evening, Melton.” Lord Greystone approached them, a tight smile on his arrogant face. “I fear there has been some mistake. This ball is only for invited guests.” He waved a hand toward the door. “Perhaps you will permit me to escort you out.” He nodded toward two footmen, one of them the fellow Rumbold had paid to let them into the affair, claiming Beatrice had their invitation. Now the man acted as if he had never seen them.

“We were just leaving.” A sudden thirst struck Melton. He needed some brandy from that drink table in the corner. “But first may I introduce—”

“No.” Not even looking at Rumbold, Greystone spoke politely, but there was a hint of anger in his tone. The two oversize servants who flanked him made his intentions clear as he again gestured toward the door. “If you please.”

“Come along, Melton.” Rumbold chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder as if it were all a fine joke. “We have four more invitations for the evening. Let’s not waste time here.”

They soon found themselves on the street amidst the carriages belonging to those attending the ball. To make matters worse, one or two of the awaiting drivers were imbibing freely, yet Melton had to endure his thirst.

“I am Lord Melton,” he muttered to his companion. “An earl of the realm. How dare a mere viscount cast me out of his house?” He glanced down the street toward the town house next door, Mrs. Parton’s abode. Somehow the old bat and his sister had already managed to disappear behind the massive front door.

Rumbold followed the direction of Melton’s gaze. “That will change once Lady Beatrice and I—” The idea seemed to encourage him, for he once again clapped Melton on the shoulder. “But really, my boy, you will have to bring her under control. What kind of sister gives her titled brother the cut?”

Melton snorted out his agreement. “Indeed. What kind of sister?” But that nagging conscience once again jabbed at his mind. She had always been the best and sweetest of sisters. Somehow that Parton woman, with no title at all, had turned Beatrice against him. To forget their secret signal was not unlike forgetting the whole of their childhood friendship. It was all entirely too much. He would need more than one drink to get over the pain her cut had caused.

Chapter Two

“The very idea.” Mother snapped the pages of the Times over her breakfast plate, barely missing her sausages. “It even made the papers. How dare Melton attend your ball uninvited?” She sniffed with indignation. “And bring a guest whom no decent member of Society will receive.”

Greystone well understood she expected no response, and he was in no humor to give one. His mood was as gray as the London weather outside the tall, narrow windows of the town house’s breakfast room. Since the early hours of last evening’s ball, he had pondered the situation with the young earl and his beautiful sister. Mrs. Parton was of course above suspicion, but he could not be so certain “Miss Gregory” was innocent in the matter. His inner turmoil had kept him awake for hours.

Before sleep had at last claimed him, he’d come to the conclusion that Frank Rumbold had devised the whole plan. That culprit was nothing less than a sharper, an ill-born scoundrel who had ensnared more than one young aristocrat new to London’s gaming dens. And a newly raised peer of two and twenty years, one with a known penchant for gambling, was a prime target for an older man intent upon forcing his way into Society. Rumbold was reputed to be a peer’s illegitimate son with ambitions to advance to the nobility, an utter impossibility. Had he accepted his fate, he might have found some acceptance and a reasonable position in life. But because of the path he had chosen, misusing naive nobles and their heirs, he could scheme all he wanted, but the best he could hope for was to slink around the dark edges of Society. No one of significance would ever grant him consequence, unless forced to. Fortunately it had taken very little convincing to send the two men packing last evening.

“Did Melton not have a sister?” Mother’s question cut into Greystone’s thoughts, and his hand stilled with a bite of jam-covered bread halfway to his mouth. “I seem to recall the late Lord Melton had two children.” She folded her paper and set it on the table. “Surely she is out by now. Poor gel. Surely no one of breeding will associate with her.”

Just as Mother spoke, he made the mistake of taking the bite and was rewarded by almost choking on it. If only she knew.

“Really, Greystone, do chew your food.”

“I beg your pardon.” He gulped his entirely too-hot coffee, which brought forth another bout of coughing.

Mother stared at him, her eyebrows bent into a scolding frown. Even the footman behind her watched him with alarm.

“Never mind.” He held up a hand to prevent the man from coming to his aid. “I am well.”

Another sip of coffee ensured his physical recovery, but not his mental improvement. Now was the time for him to tell Mother about Lady Beatrice. Now.

No, not now. Maybe he would leave it up to Mrs. Parton. She was to blame, after all. Had she not brought the girl to London, had she not brought her to last night’s ball, Melton would never have had the nerve to seek entrance. Yet had she not brought the young lady, Greystone never would have been introduced to the most enchanting creature he had met this Season. Or during any of the previous six Seasons since he had taken his seat in the House of Lords.

As often before, the accusation resounded in his mind: coward! At eight and twenty years, why did he still try so hard to avoid stirring his mother’s anger? This situation was not of his making, but rather, the result of her best friend’s machinations. Let Mrs. Parton sort it out for her.

Yet shame, or some emotion he could not name, would not let him go. Last week he had waxed eloquent in Parliament in support of Wilberforce’s proposal to abolish slavery in all British colonies. He was even now working with Lord Blakemore on a bill to grant pensions to soldiers and sailors wounded in the recent wars with France and America. Soon he would find his own cause to champion and had every confidence he would achieve success with it. Why, then, could he not speak up to his mother about a matter of minimal social significance?

“Her name is Lady Beatrice, but I do not know whether she is out.” He bent over his plate, cutting into his sausage as if it were a beefsteak. “She is the mysterious companion Mrs. Parton has been raving about for weeks.” Awaiting the explosion, he risked a glance at his parent.

Her lined but still lovely face paled, and her jaw dropped ever so slightly. “And exactly when did you plan to tell me this?” Now her eyes blazed. She stood so abruptly that her chair tipped, caught by the able footman. She slapped her serviette onto the white damask tablecloth and strode toward the door, muttering words he could not decipher.

Greystone forced away the familiar childish guilt and anxiety that tried to claim him. He had done it. Had faced Mother’s ire. And yet he survived.

But would Mother’s friendship with her lifelong friend survive, as well?

* * *

“Now, now, my dear, you really must eat your breakfast.” Mrs. Parton nibbled daintily at her own food, three gravy-covered Scotch eggs and a pretty French pastry filled with vanilla crème, the aromas of which failed to excite Beatrice’s appetite. “You must maintain your health if you are to keep pace with me.” Seated at the small round table in the brightly decorated breakfast room, she chuckled at her own wit, a habit which Beatrice had, until last evening, found agreeable.

One ball—that was all she had prayed for, a harmless enough request for an earl’s daughter. She had resigned herself to Divine Will for the rest of her life, but could she not enjoy one evening worthy of someone of her station? Even wearing another lady’s cast-off gown, which she’d not had time to alter, she had found herself eager to dance once she’d heard the music. But she had not even been able to so much as observe the elegant Lord Greystone gracing the ballroom floor, much less dance herself. And all because of Melton’s horrid intrusion. While she did have some curiosity about the handsome older gentleman with her brother, he could in no way match up to the nonpareil Lord Greystone.

Beatrice sighed. The Lord had spoken. She must bear the burden of shame cast over every wastrel’s family, as though their lack of restraint tainted all of their relatives. No one would ever give her a chance to prove her own character. No one would ever wish to attach himself to the sister of such a man. Still, she could never despise Melly. Had he not defended her from a pack of wandering dogs when they were but children? Had he not taught her to ride her pony? Had they not grieved together when Mama died? But such brotherly devotion would not recommend him to Lord Greystone, whose disapproval of her brother had been obvious when he cut off Melly’s attempt to follow her from the ballroom. What had the viscount said to him? She found herself hoping it was a scathing setdown, for surely someone of Lord Greystone’s character could turn her foolish brother from his imprudent ways.

“Eat, child.” Mrs. Parton tapped her fork on the edge of Beatrice’s plate. “You must have energy for our outing this morning.”

“Outing?” Beatrice shook off her sullen musing, for sullen was the only proper name for her mood. She had never been one to pout, but these days she could hardly cease to do so.

“Why, yes.” Mrs. Parton laughed in her merry way, and both her plump jowls and her rusty curls bounced. “If you are to accompany me out into Society, you must have proper clothing. We must shop on Bond Street before it is too late.”

“Too late?” Beatrice’s face heated. Her absurd questions made her sound like a ninny.

“Why, yes.” More chuckles. “Ladies generally shop in the morning before the gentlemen and the lower classes take over the shopping district.”

“Ah. I see. How interesting.” In the village near Melton Gardens, Beatrice shopped whenever the mood struck her. Or rather, whenever she managed to set aside a few coins for her own needs. “But surely you know I am without resources.”

“Why, my dear girl, you are my employee. Have you noticed my servants’ fine purple livery? Do you think I brought you to London to follow me about wearing tatters?” She took a sip of tea and another bite of her French pastry. “Indeed not. I shall provide a wardrobe for you to suit every occasion.”

Beatrice avoided looking down at her gown, a faded, much-mended orange chintz. Should Lord Greystone happen to see her dressed so meanly, she would never live down the shame. But why should she care what he thought when he clearly held her in no regard? Still, her eyes stung with unshed tears over her miserable situation. “I thank you, madam. You are too kind. But what of your children? Will they not resent your spending their inheritance on me?”

“Ha. They have more than enough.” She leaned toward Beatrice and winked. “More than enough and to spare. Furthermore there is no entail on my property, so I can spend as I please. And this afternoon I shall show you one place where I am very pleased to spend it.”

Beatrice’s heart leaped. “St. Ann’s?”

The lady beamed. “St. Ann’s.”

“Oh, how wonderful. I have longed for this day.”

“More than for a ball?” Mrs. Parton’s eyes twinkled with kindness.

“Well,” Beatrice drawled, “at least as much as for a ball.” Indeed she had always looked forward to being involved with St. Ann’s, Mama’s favorite charity. She would concentrate on that worthy cause, not on some unreasonable peer who happened to live in the town house next door. Besides, she had no doubt such a gentleman would prove as distant and neglectful a husband and father as Papa had been. Despite his obvious admiration last night, she could expect nothing more from him.

On the other hand, Mrs. Parton’s promise of a new wardrobe was far more than Beatrice had expected. She was, after all, the lady’s hired companion and now had no claim to pride or vanity of any sort. But in less than an hour she found herself in a pretty little dressmaker’s shop on Bond Street, where the delicate scent of rosewater filled the air.

The modiste fluttered around Beatrice like a butterfly, not at all put off by her plain country clothing. “Mais non, mademoiselle. Ze orange is not for you.” The brown-haired woman, perhaps in her mid-forties, cast a quick glance at Mrs. Parton. “For madam, of course, eet ees perfection. But mademoiselle must have ze blue, ze pink and perhaps even ze pale green to enhance her flawless complexion and beautiful eyes.”

Beatrice did not care for Giselle’s excessive flattery, but she did admire the woman’s skill, which was exhibited in lovely gowns draped over molded female forms. Beatrice longed to try on one of the exquisite dresses. Not since before Mama died had she worn such beautiful clothes, for Papa had never given her wardrobe the slightest consideration.

“Do you not think so, Miss Gregory?” Mrs. Parton’s question interrupted Beatrice’s dark musings.

“What? Oh, yes, I am certain—” She had no idea to what she was agreeing. “Forgive me. I was admiring this lovely gown.” She fingered the delicate lace edging on the low-cut green bodice of a dress on display. Without doubt, this style would demand a fichu. Her hand involuntarily went to her neckline. While her dress might be old and an unflattering color, at least it was modest.

“Then you must have one just like it, but in pink sprigged muslin. Giselle, write it down.” Mrs. Parton wagged a finger toward the modiste’s growing list. “But for now, for this afternoon, you must have something to wear. Giselle has this blue already made.” She took a walking gown from the modiste’s assistant and held it up in front of Beatrice. “What do you think?”

Beatrice embraced the Irish linen garment and stepped in front of the tall mirror. By its delicate finishing stitches she could see it had been skillfully completed, no doubt for another lady near her size, perhaps someone like her who in the end could not pay her bill. Or, more likely, some spoiled miss who thought the waistline too high for the latest style and had changed her mind, leaving Giselle with an expensive castoff no wellborn lady would have. If Mrs. Parton took Beatrice to all the promised events, she risked being seen by the lady who had ordered it. Perhaps this was a part of God’s journey for her, this stripping away of all her pride. But never mind. The people she would meet this afternoon would not judge her by her clothes.

“It is lovely. I thank you, Mrs. Parton.” After measurements were taken for her other gowns and fabrics chosen, Beatrice donned her hastily altered new dress and followed her employer out to the black phaeton.

Mrs. Parton insisted upon driving the small carriage herself, but at least a tiger and a footman sat behind them in the jump seat, which eased Beatrice’s mind. Melly once overturned his smaller phaeton while racing, and thereafter Papa had forbidden his sole heir to use the sporty conveyance. She prayed her brother had not taken up racing again, but she would not seek him out to ask him.

They wended their way through the busy streets, and Beatrice soon understood why upper-class ladies shopped before the crowds descended upon the area. The lower classes, even the women, shouted in the most colorful language she had ever heard, generating frowns from Mrs. Parton and heat in Beatrice’s cheeks. Even gentlemen in fine suits and top hats, riding excellent steeds, seemed to have left their proper manners at home, for they rode as if the streets belonged to them and berated anyone who stood in their way, again in language no one should hear, much less use.

“Well, my goodness.” Mrs. Parton waved her whip toward a wide boulevard where the crowds had thinned. “There’s Greystone. I suppose he is on his way to Parliament.”

Beatrice located the viscount among the few carriages and carts filling the street. He was the very picture of grace upon his black gelding. Her heart jolted, but she forced down her emotions. “Hmm. How interesting.” She managed to keep her tone calm as she sank back into her seat, wishing all the while the phaeton top were raised so she could hide from his view. To her horror, he spied them and turned his steed in their direction. They met at the edge of the street in front of Westminster Abbey.

“Good afternoon, ladies.” His expression appeared guarded, but he did tip his hat. Here was one gentleman who remembered his manners in the midst of all the rudeness and hubbub. “Did you complete your shopping before the crush?”

Beatrice noticed his gaze briefly touched on her new gown, and a look of approval flitted across his face. Then he frowned and gave his head a little shake, as if to snuff out any admiration. But how foolish she was. Why should she hope for his good opinion when he seemed determined not to give it? Humph. That was a favor she could easily return.

“Yes, we have finished,” Mrs. Parton said. “And now we are off to St. Ann’s. Miss Gregory has a great interest in my work there.”

“Indeed?” The viscount’s gruff expression softened. “Very admirable, Lady Beatrice.”

Beatrice’s face warmed, something she was growing tired of. At home at Melton Gardens, she had never felt so discomfited so often. Had never, ever blushed. “I thank you, sir.” She gazed upward and beyond him toward one of the Abbey’s two square spires, lest he see how his small approval pleased her. How quickly she had abandoned her resolve not to wish for his good opinion—and all against her will.

“Most young ladies I know never give a thought to orphans or any other needy soul.”

“Indeed?” Even her eyes betrayed her, turning back as if of their own accord to view the handsome viscount so grandly mounted on his fine horse. “Why, how do they occupy their days if not in service to some worthy cause?”

He shrugged. “My lady, I cannot guess. Perhaps shopping, visiting, gossiping, planning parties and balls. You have my utmost respect for your generosity.” No smile confirmed his compliment.

Once again an infuriating blush heated her face, and she waved her fan to cool it. “You are too kind, sir.”

“Not at all.” He stared at her, and for several seconds she could not move. Or breathe.

“Well, go on then, Greystone,” Mrs. Parton said. “We shall not keep you.” She waved him away. “You are excused to go solve all of Prinny’s problems.”

“Madam, if I could do that, the world would stop spinning upon its axis.” At last he smiled, then tipped his hat again. “I bid you both good day.” He reined his horse around and rode toward the Parliament building in the next block.

Beatrice still could not turn her eyes away from his departing figure. What a handsome gentleman, so refined, so considerate of his mother’s friend. But admiring him or any gentleman would bring her only heartbreak and disappointment. She must concentrate on the work ahead rather than dream of having the friendship of a gentleman who clearly did not wish to befriend her.

How annoying to realize that no matter what she told herself, her heart raced at the sight of Lord Greystone.

Chapter Three

“Here we are.” Mrs. Parton drove the phaeton through the gates of a large property into a wide front courtyard. “St. Ann’s Orphan Asylum. But it has become much more than a refuge for foundling girls.”

Eyeing the seven-foot wrought-iron fence as they passed through, Beatrice felt a shiver of dread that diminished her former anticipation. The gray brick of the three-story building added to the asylum’s foreboding appearance. This seemed more like a fortress, even a prison, than a home for children, though she approved of the tidy grounds. Unlike the street beyond the fence, not a scrap of trash littered the grassy yard, and not a single pebble lay on the front walkway.

“I delight in these visits,” Mrs. Parton said. “The children are so dear, and the matrons do such fine work in schooling them and teaching them useful skills. Most of my maids were reared and educated in this school.”

“Mama was going to bring me here.” Beatrice swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. Her mother had become ill before she could keep any of her promises.

“Lady Bennington founded the institution, and your mother and I joined her some twenty years ago.” Mrs. Parton waved to the two men on the jump seat.

The tiger took charge of the horse while the footman helped the ladies down.

“We will be here awhile,” Mrs. Parton told them, “so you may go around to the kitchen for a bite to eat. Miss Gregory, shall we go in?”

Beatrice followed her employer up the concrete steps to the large front door. A black-clad woman of perhaps thirty years opened it. “Welcome, Mrs. Parton. Please come in.” The matron’s eyes exuded warmth and welcome.

In the front hall they were met by the smells of lye soap and a hint of lavender. The floor was well scrubbed, and not a speck of lint or dust lay upon the polished oak hall tree or the framed pictures that adorned the long, wide entryway.

The matron spoke quietly to the young girl beside her, and the child hastened up the staircase. Soon the soft rumble of running feet disturbed the silence as over a hundred girls of all sizes and descriptions descended the steps and formed lines. Each girl wore a gray serge uniform and a plain white pinafore bearing a number.

Once again Beatrice swallowed a wave of sentiment. Like these girls she had no parents, but how vastly different their circumstances were. How sad to be an orphan, a seemingly nameless child with only a number on one’s clothing for identification. Beatrice steeled herself against further emotion, for tears would not help the children and might inspire them to self-pity, an exercise she knew to be fruitless.

A slender middle-aged matron in a matching uniform offered a deep curtsey to their guests, and the girls followed suit.

“Welcome, Mrs. Parton.” Another matron, silver-haired and in a black dress, stepped forward. Authority emanated from her pale, lined face.

“Mrs. Martin.” Mrs. Parton’s face glowed as she grasped the woman’s hands. “How good to see you.” Her gaze swept over the assembly. “Good afternoon, my dear, dear girls.”

Mrs. Martin lifted one hand to direct the children in a chorus of “Good afternoon, Mrs. Parton.”

“Children, this is my companion, Miss Gregory.” Mrs. Parton brought Beatrice forward.

Again the girls curtseyed and called out a greeting.

“Now,” Mrs. Parton said, “what have you to show us?” She and Beatrice sat in upholstered chairs the matron had ordered for them.

The girls’ sweet faces beamed with affection for their patroness while they recited their lessons or showed her examples of penmanship, sewing and artwork. Mrs. Parton offered praise and dispensed many hugs as though each was her own dear daughter.

Beatrice followed her example in commending the children. Over the next hour she found herself drawn to one in particular. Sally was perhaps fourteen years old, and Beatrice observed how well she managed the younger children. How she wished she could offer the girl employment, perhaps even train her as a lady’s maid if she was so minded. But alas Beatrice had no funds for such an undertaking.

As they left the building, Mrs. Parton told Beatrice that the true beneficence happened later when her steward ascertained the institution’s needs and budgeted the funds to cover as many of them as possible.

“I take such pleasure in helping them,” Mrs. Parton said on their way back to her Hanover Square town house. “Not unlike Lord Greystone.”

“How so, madam?” Pleasantly exhausted from the afternoon’s charitable exercise, Beatrice still felt a jolt in her heart at the mention of the viscount’s name.

“Why, he is the patron of a boys’ asylum in Shrewsbury, not far from his family seat.”

Beatrice experienced no surprise at this revelation, for Mrs. Parton had already mentioned the viscount’s generosity. Of course she could not expect that generosity to extend to the sister of a wastrel, lest his name be tainted. She knew very little of Society, but that one lesson had stood at the forefront of her thoughts ever since she had met him the night before. Perhaps she could glean from that experience a true indication of his character. He might perform charitable acts to be seen by others, yet neglect his duty to family, as Papa had. Thus, she must do her best to ignore her childish admiration for his physical appearance and social graces.

But somehow she could not resist a few moments of daydreaming about what it would be like to have the good opinion of such a fine gentleman.

* * *

Greystone longed to dig his heels into Gallant’s sides and race madly down Pall Mall. Unfortunately traffic prevented such an exercise, so he would have to find another method of releasing his anger. In his six years in Parliament, this was the first time he had stormed out in protest over the way a vote had gone, but he had no doubt it would not be his last.

Never had he been more ashamed of his peers. Or, better said, the majority of them—those who today had rejected a measure providing a reasonable pension for wounded soldiers returning from the Continent. How did the lords expect these men to survive, much less provide for families who had often gone hungry while their husbands and fathers were fighting for England? Greystone’s own brother Edmond had been seriously wounded in America, but had the good fortune to be an aristocrat, as well as their childless uncle’s chosen heir. He now had an occupation and a home, not to mention a lovely bride. The rank-and-file soldiers had no such security or pleasures. What did Parliament expect these men to do? Become poachers? Pickpockets? Highwaymen?

Somehow Greystone and his like-minded peers must break through the thick skulls and hardened hearts of those who regarded the lower classes with such arrogance. Almost to a man they claimed to be Christians, yet they exhibited not a whit of Christ’s charity. Then, of course, there were dullards like Melton, who sat in the House like lumps of unmolded clay, showing no interest in anything of importance, no doubt waiting until the session was over so he could return to his gambling. No matter how young he might be, how could the earl be so uncaring? And how different he was from his sister.

Greystone had not failed to notice that Lady Beatrice appeared eager to accompany Mrs. Parton to the orphan asylum. With a wastrel brother who should be seeing to her needs, the lady no doubt had limited funds, which made her charitable actions all the more remarkable. Still, she wore a new blue day dress, which complimented her fair complexion far more than the brown gown she had worn last night. Perhaps she was better situated than it seemed. But then, why would she be Mrs. Parton’s companion, generally a paid position? Why was she introduced as Miss Gregory?

That last question was the easiest to answer. Were he related to Melton, he would not wish for Society to know it, either. Yet dissembling could do her no good and much harm if she hoped to make a match worthy of her station. But then, it would be difficult to find a gentleman whose charitable nature matched her own who would accept such an intimate connection to Melton.

His useless musings were interrupted when a coach rumbled past, drawn by six lathered horses and churning up dust to fill the air...and Greystone’s lungs. He fell into a bout of coughing almost as bad as those he had suffered in his nearly fatal illness last winter. For a moment he struggled to breathe as he had then, but at last his lungs cleared. Being deprived of air was a frightening matter. He coughed and inhaled several more times to recover. If he arrived home in this condition, Mother would fuss over him and send for a physician.

His early arrival meant that the lad who watched for his homecoming would not be at the front window to collect his horse and take it around to the mews. Thus when Greystone dismounted, he secured the reins to the post near the front door. Then he took the three front steps in one leap to prove to himself that his illness had not permanently threatened his health.

Inside, a commotion lured him to the drawing room. The furniture was covered with white linens, and Crawford the butler knelt over something on the floor. Near the hearth stood a scowling, soot-covered man in black holding a broom with circled bristles.

“Greystone.” Mother rushed toward him waving her fan, first in front of her own face and then his. “You must leave this instant.”

He tried to block her wild gesturing, to no avail. “What in the world?” Foolish question. Obviously the chimney sweep had come to ply his trade. But that did not answer for the two servants hovering over the object on the floor.

“That horrid man and his filthy helper have utterly destroyed my drawing room.” She continued to flutter the fan. “There is soot everywhere. You must not breathe it.”

Indeed, he did have to cough away a few particles, but the air was tolerable. “I am well, madam. But what is that?”

As soon as he asked the question, Crawford moved back to reveal a small boy lying on the floor. “’Tis the climbing-boy, my lord. He had a nasty fall inside the chimney.” The old butler’s face was lined with worry. “If I may say so, sir, you should do as Lady Greystone says. This soot flying about cannot be good for your health.”

As if cued, the boy began to cough as violently as Greystone had just minutes ago on his trip home. A black cloud issued forth from the lad’s mouth, or perhaps his clothing, and then he noisily dragged in a breath.

“Shh.” The young serving girl kneeling beside him eyed Greystone with concern as she patted the boy’s face with a damp cloth. “His lordship’s in the house. Don’t be so much trouble.”

In answer the boy wheezed and gasped again, and his head rolled back and forth.

“Good heavens, he cannot breathe.” Greystone rushed to move the girl aside as memories of his illness made his own chest ache. The poor child might be suffocating. Recalling how it had helped him to breathe when he sat up, he knelt and gently pulled the lad into a sitting position, amid loud protests from Mother and Crawford. “There you go, lad. This should help.”

“Aw, gov’ner, leave him be.” The master sweep peered down at the boy. “’E’s a faker, that’n. Just trying to get out o’ work.”

Rage flooded Greystone’s chest. “Silence, you oaf.” The child’s eyes opened, revealing yellow, bloodshot orbs...and fear. Greystone gulped back his anger, for it would not help anyone. “Give me the cloth.” He grabbed it from the girl and swiped it down the boy’s cheeks and under his nose.

Orders and reprimands flew around him, but the only words he could discern were those of a voice speaking within his soul: help this boy. All he could answer was, Lord, I am Your servant. Doubtless this was the mission God promised to assign to him one dark night last November when Greystone had cried out to him, certain he would soon take his last breath. I still have work for you had been His answer. The irony was not lost on him. How well he knew the terror of not being able to inhale life-giving air. Now this poor climbing-boy, this thin, frail bit of bones barely tied together in human form, struggled to breathe. Yes, this was Greystone’s work, his cause. A strange excitement swept through him even as fear for the moppet welled up beside it.

The boy gave out another violent cough. “Sorry, gov. I’ll get back to work.” He tried to wiggle out of Greystone’s hold, but cried out. “Ow, me arm, me arm.”

“Shh, easy, lad.” Greystone touched the boy’s appendage, bringing forth more cries. No doubt it was broken, if its slight crookedness was any indication.

“Hush, boy.” The master sweep bent over him. “Hush, or I’ll gi’ ya sumpin’ to holler about.” He punctuated his threat with a curse.

Mother gasped. “How dare you?”

“Watch your tongue, sirrah.” Crawford stepped toward the taller, younger man as if he would seize and eject him.

Greystone lifted the boy in his arms and stood, noticing that the brave child clenched his jaw to keep from crying out again. “Crawford, prepare a room for my little friend and fetch a physician. His climbing days are over.”

“Now, see ’ere, yer lordship.” The master sweep had the gall to step in front of Greystone to block his exit. “I bought that boy and ’is brother for a pretty penny. ’E owes me work.”

Barely able to control his rage, Greystone gave the man an icy glare. “You will be paid. That is, after I have investigated your illegal use of this child. He cannot possibly be old enough to work as a climbing-boy.”

“I say you pay me now.” The wild-eyed man must be mad to challenge a peer this way.

Greystone longed to smash the man in his brazen face. But that would not help the boy. “You are fortunate my hands are occupied. Get out of my house.”

“If ya please, sir.” The child’s eyes watered profusely, and his tears formed ragged streaks down his tiny blackened face. “I gotta go with ’im. I gotta take care o’ me little brother.”

Greystone’s eyes burned, the oddest sensation, for he never wept. Perhaps it was all this soot. But he too had younger brothers and would never leave either of them defenseless. He glared at the master sweep. “Bring me the boy’s brother within the hour. If you do not, I shall personally hunt you down, and you will regret it for the rest of your wretched life.”

While Mother continued to protest, he marched toward the front entry. Neither she nor the sweep nor anyone else would keep him from obeying God’s prompting in this matter.

Crawford scurried ahead of him. “The nursery? The footmen’s corridor? A closet in the attic? Oh, dear, where shall we put him?”

Although Greystone knew the old fellow was talking to himself, he offered a hearty answer to set his mind at ease. “The nursery will do.”

They reached the entryway just as a footman responded to a knock on the door. When he opened it, Mrs. Parton bustled in, followed by Lady Beatrice.

“Do forgive us, Greystone. Where is your mama? I should like to take tea with her.” She stopped and stared at his sooty bundle. “Good gracious, my boy, whatever do you have there?”

But it was Lady Beatrice who held his attention. The regard filling her lovely blue eyes nearly made him stumble, nearly made him drop the child. After a long day in Parliament he would not mind coming home every day to that sort of admiration.

No, he simply must not think such things, must get away from her as soon as possible. But how could he when he would prefer nothing more than to sit down to tea with her and stare into those lovely blue eyes?

Chapter Four

Beatrice could hardly contain her laughter at the sight of Lord Greystone holding a bundle of sooty rags. This was the same elegantly garbed viscount she had seen earlier in the afternoon on his way to Parliament. But now his handsome black suit was covered with gray dust, and his once-pristine white shirt and cravat bore black streaks, as did his nose and left cheek. Although she tried to keep her composure, a smile escaped her as she silently echoed Mrs. Parton’s question. Why on earth was the viscount carting about grimy trash when he obviously had sufficient staff for such menial work?

“Good afternoon again, Mrs. Parton, Lady Beatrice.” Standing at the base of the staircase, the gentleman spoke in a nonchalant tone at odds with his scruffy appearance. The aristocrats of Beatrice’s acquaintance would be mortified if caught in such a state. “Do come in. I am certain Mother will be pleased to see you.”

“Gracious, Julia.” Lady Greystone appeared from the drawing room on the right. “What an inconvenient time for you to call.” The lady glanced between her son and Mrs. Parton, and annoyance filled her countenance. “Never mind. You may as well come in. Perhaps you can help me dissuade Greystone from keeping this little gutter rat.” She waved her fan toward the rags in the viscount’s arms.

The rags moved, and a tiny, tear-streaked face turned toward the viscountess. Beatrice’s heart leaped into her throat. It was a child, a filthy street urchin. She had never known another person of any rank who would willingly touch such a creature, much less carry him.

“Why, it is a child.” Mrs. Parton bustled over to the viscount. “My dear Greystone, whatever are you doing?”

The gentleman started to speak, but his mother rushed to join them.

“You see, Greystone, even Julia agrees. The brat has no place in this house. Oh, do come to your senses—”

“Mother!” The viscount sent her a scolding glare, but quickly softened his expression. “Please, madam, permit me to do what I know to be right.”

Once again Beatrice’s heart skipped. Although she had no idea what drama was unfolding here, she could feel only admiration for the gentleman’s extraordinary kindness to both his mother and the child.

“Nonsense.” The viscountess returned a glare that did not soften. “You simply cannot give such notice to the lower classes. It teaches them to rebel against their God-given place. Have we not been through this before?” She glanced at Mrs. Parton as if for confirmation. “If you must rescue him from his dreadful owner, then send him to your orphanage in Shrewsbury.”

The viscount sighed. “Yes, perhaps I will. But he is injured, and I will not rest until the physician has tended him. Will you ladies excuse me?” He nodded to Mrs. Parton and Beatrice, then started toward the staircase.

“Greystone!” Lady Greystone stepped to the banister and gripped it with a gloved hand. “I forbid you to take him upstairs and spread his filth all over my household.”

He paused and slowly turned. Beatrice could not entirely read the expression in his eyes, but for the briefest instant, she thought she detected a silent reprimand spark from him toward his mother like a tiny bolt of lightning. But once again his countenance softened, and his smile brightened those brilliant blue eyes. “We will be careful, will we not, my boy?” Murmuring to the child as to an old friend, he climbed the stairs and disappeared from sight.

Quiet descended upon the spacious oak-paneled entryway. For several moments Lady Greystone stood like a marble statue and stared after her son. Beatrice could hear hushed voices and sounds of movement in the drawing room, but this chamber seemed silent as a tomb.

At last the viscountess turned toward Mrs. Parton, her face a mask. “Shall we go to the small parlor for tea?” Her gaze landed on Beatrice, and one dark gray eyebrow rose.

“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Parton beckoned to Beatrice. “But first permit me to present Miss Gregory, my new companion.”

“Miss Gregory, indeed.” Lady Greystone emitted a mild, ladylike snort. “Nonsense. I know full well who she is.” She fixed her eyes on Beatrice with a hint of accusation. “Lady Beatrice, do not permit Julia to further endanger your marriage prospects by adding a lie to your résumé. It is enough that Lord Melton has done all he possibly can to destroy your family name.”

Her words pummeled Beatrice like a housemaid’s blows to a dirty carpet. If she was to be received in this manner everywhere Mrs. Parton took her, she might as well return to Melton Gardens.

“Now, Frances.” Mrs. Parton wagged a finger at her friend. “It is not her fault Melton fell in with a bad lot. You must help me repair the damage to her.” She looped an arm in Lady Greystone’s and ushered her toward a corridor, with Beatrice trailing behind. “She may be reduced to being only my companion but—” She leaned closer and whispered something to the viscountess.

Lady Greystone stopped abruptly and stared down at her shorter friend, then cast a suspicious glance at Beatrice. “Do not dare to think—”

“Humph.” Mrs. Parton urged her down the corridor again. “There are many fish in the sea, my dear.”

While Beatrice had no choice but to follow, her mind took another direction. She had never had a truly close female friend with whom to whisper secrets. But she could not imagine why jolly Mrs. Parton chose such a cold, unfeeling confidante like Lady Greystone.

Memories of Mama’s poise and graciousness swept into her thoughts. She straightened her shoulders and followed the other ladies into a bright, pretty parlor at the back of the house. No matter what her brother had done, no matter what censure came her way, she would hold her head high and never again deny who she was. Even when a gentleman like Lord Greystone withheld his good opinion from her, yet carried a dirty street child as if he were a precious jewel.

* * *

A myriad of thoughts assailed Greystone as he followed Crawford toward the fourth-floor nursery. He tried to concentrate on the imp in his arms, but the flawless, smiling Lady Beatrice invaded his mind. Had he mistaken her expression? Was she laughing at him or approving of his actions, as he had first thought? And why did it matter? Last night he’d dismissed any notion of taking an interest in her, a decision solidified by her brother’s association with that scoundrel Rumbold. As Mother had taught him from childhood, no good could come from ill-advised friendships, for a man could find himself too deeply involved to escape the evil influences such associations could bring.

At the thought of Mother a hint of shame struck him. As he often did, he recalled his debt to her. He owed her everything: his life, his faith, his moral standards, her restoration of the family fortune Father had gambled away. Yet since his illness last winter he found himself less and less amenable to her instructions. She had a harshness about her that had never bothered him before, but now he found it inconsistent with the improvements he wished to make in his own character. Furthermore he found he could no longer align himself with her every opinion. Now he wanted to learn about and follow the teachings of Christ. Still, he would never cease to honor her, as the Biblical commandment instructed.

The child moaned, then bit his lower lip and shuddered. “Sorry, gov’ner.” Tears filled his eyes, and he swatted at them with his uninjured hand.

“Never mind, my good man.” Greystone swallowed his own sentiments. He wanted to give the boy a reassuring squeeze, but that would doubtless cause him more pain. “We’ll have you fixed up in no time.” He eyed the footman posted on the landing. “Bring hot water and a tub to the nursery.”

“Yes, milord.” The man hurried downstairs.

“Ain’t ya gonna have me whipped, sir?” Curiosity rather than fear filled the boy’s expression.

Now Greystone’s emotions—rage at the master sweep, pity for the boy—threatened to undo him, so he did not risk an answer.

They reached the nursery, and Crawford held the door open. “’Tis a bit musty in here, my lord.”

“Of course.” Greystone stepped inside and surveyed the long-unused chamber. Dusty holland covers were draped over the furniture, and threads of light peered around the heavy drapes, glinting off dust motes hanging in the air. “Get someone in here to clean it as quickly as possible. But first uncover the bed so I can set my little friend down.”

“But my lord.” Crawford’s pale eyes widened. “He is not fit for a clean bed. He must have his bath first.”

“Bath?” The boy squirmed, then cried out and grasped his injured arm with his good hand. At each of his movements, Greystone could feel the child’s bony frame.

“Never mind the bedding. It will wash.”

With a martyred sigh, Crawford folded away the holland cover and turned down the counterpane on the four-poster bed. Greystone gently laid the boy down, amazed at his resilience. Although the lad shuddered and bit his lip, he did not cry out again.

“There, my lad. The physician will be here shortly to see to your arm.” Greystone turned to leave, but the boy grabbed his hand.

“Gov’ner, won’t ya let me go to my brother? The master’ll beat him if I’m not there to take it for him.”

Greystone cleared his throat to cancel the emotion this revelation caused. “Do you not recall? I have ordered your master to bring your brother here to keep you company.”

The child blinked and frowned, then glanced toward the door with a wild look in his eyes, as if planning to escape. Hoping to reassure him, Greystone sat on the edge of the bed and patted his shoulder. “You may trust me, lad. Now tell me, what is your name?”

The boy gulped. “Kit, gov’ner.”

“Do not say governor, boy.” Crawford stood on the other side of the bed, where he had just opened the drapes, letting in a stream of sunlight. “You must address Lord Greystone as ‘my lord.’”

Kit eyed Greystone, and Greystone offered a wink of confirmation.

“Now, Kit, you must wait here, or you may miss your brother’s arrival. I shall send up someone to keep you company. What do you say to that?”

Kit’s forehead furrowed. “I don’t know, gov...milord.”

Crawford harrumphed. “Why, you say I thank you, of course.”

Kit spared him a glance before fixing a serious stare on Greystone. “I thank ya, o’course.”

Greystone coughed away a laugh. “You are welcome, Kit.”

“Ah, here you are.” Mrs. Parton bustled into the room with Lady Beatrice in her wake. “Greystone, your mother is quite beside herself over your unexpected guest. I have relieved her mind utterly, for I plan to take on this little fellow’s care myself.”

“I beg your pardon?” Greystone stood and gazed at the lady in puzzlement.

“The child, my boy.” Mrs. Parton laughed in her inimitable way. “I plan to take him away from you and care for him myself. With Lady Beatrice’s help, of course.” She gave Kit a maternal smile. “We shall make him quite our little pet, shall we not, my dear?” She sent the young lady a glance before approaching the bed.

Lady Beatrice gave him an apologetic shrug. “Lady Greystone does seem unhappy about your project.”

“But you see, dear ladies, it is just that—my project. I have already made friends with young Kit, and I have no intention of surrendering him to you.”

Kit’s eyes darted from Greystone to Mrs. Parton and back again. Greystone gave the boy another reassuring wink.

“Hmm. Just as I suspected.” Without a hint of hesitation Mrs. Parton patted Kit’s dirty cheek with her gloved hand. “But do you have any idea of what you are doing?”

Feeling a bit put upon, Greystone stepped between the older lady and his new ward. “I shall inquire of the physician.”

“Humph.” Mrs. Parton wagged a sooty finger at him. “And what do you suppose a physician knows about taking care of children?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but had no idea what to say.

“Just as I thought.” The lady shook her head, and her red curls bounced merrily. “You must let me have him, Greystone.”

Here was another lady who had nurtured him all his life and for whom he had the greatest respect. Unlike Mother she harbored no secret bitterness, but was merry and generous in every way. Still, he was done with letting these good women rule his life.

“Forgive me, madam, but I cannot do that. His brother will be here soon, and I plan to care for the both of them.”

Mrs. Parton scowled at him, at least as much as her permanently merry face would permit. “Your mama will be greatly disappointed. As will Lady Beatrice. Won’t you, my dear?”

The young lady blinked in obvious confusion. “I... Well...yes, of course. But Lord Greystone must do what he thinks is best.”

“I thank you, madam.” He gave her a nod. “At least someone thinks I can manage it.” From the startled yet pleased expression on her lovely face, he wished he had not shown quite so much gratitude.

“Very well. Have it your way.” Mrs. Parton looped an arm around Greystone’s and moved him away from the bed. “But you will grant us visiting privileges.”

“Yes, of course.” The words came out before he had time to consider all the implications. Had he granted Lady Beatrice unlimited access to his house just when he had determined it was best to avoid her very appealing presence? How could he possibly retract his words without appearing ungentlemanly?

Chapter Five

Her emotions churning, Beatrice watched the battle of wills between her benefactress and the viscount. On the one hand she wanted to laugh at Lord Greystone’s obvious struggle to overrule Mrs. Parton. She could see that rank was not held in high regard between these two friends. The observation sent a pang through her, for she longed to enjoy such friendships. She also wanted to comfort the distraught child, who held one hand over the other forearm and had lost his battle against weeping. Mrs. Parton had not held back from touching the boy, so Beatrice went to the bedside and brushed filthy black hair from his forehead, sending a cloud of soot over the white pillow. A smoky smell emanated from him, along with the scent of rancid perspiration. At her touch the child ceased his tears and stared up at her, eyes wide.

“Coo, miss, yer the prettiest lady I ever did see.” He winced as he spoke.

She smiled at his artless compliment. “I thank you, sir. And you are a dandy young fellow.” She glanced at Lord Greystone, whose bemused expression made her want to laugh. But the child might misunderstand, so she merely smiled. “May I look at your arm?”

The boy winced again. “Aw, miss, I ain’t clean.” He sniffed loudly and ran his good arm under his damp nose, making more of a mess of himself.

“Never mind that.” Beatrice shoved away her feelings of revulsion. The poor child could not be faulted for the life to which he had been born. And he could be cleaned up just like the immaculate orphans she had seen only two hours ago. “Now let me see your arm.” She touched his threadbare shirtsleeve, testing the frail arm beneath. “Have you broken it before?”

After a tiny gasp of pain, he said, “Aye, miss,” on a whimper.

“Hmm.” Beatrice swallowed the emotion his admission stirred within her. What a horrible life he must live. She glanced at Mrs. Parton, who gave her an inscrutable look, and decided to plunge ahead. “Of course the physician will know more than I, but I think the arm is not broken, merely sprained. Because of the old injury, it no doubt causes more pain.”

“Indeed.” Lord Greystone eyed her skeptically. “And upon what do you base your diagnosis?”

Bristling at his doubtful tone, she withheld a tart reply. After all, the viscount could not be aware of her experiences ministering to her brother’s tenants. She turned her attention back to the child. “Can you wiggle your fingers?”

He raised his frail hand and complied. “It hurts.”

“As it will for some time.” She turned back to Lord Greystone. “Still, I believe a bath will not harm him if care is taken for the injury.”

Her words set off another bout of tears. “No bath, miss, gov’ner. Please, no bath.”

“Hush, boy.” The aged butler, who had been scowling from the other side of the wide bed, shook a bony finger at the child. “You will do as you are told.”

The little one cringed and trembled so fiercely, soot drifted up from his entire body.

“Shh.” Beatrice caressed his cheek. “Have you ever had a bath?”

Wide-eyed, he shook his head, and more soot dislodged from his person. “’Tis sumpin’ terrible, they tell me.”

At that Lord Greystone and Mrs. Parton laughed, his baritone providing a perfect harmony to her soprano.

Beatrice continued to caress the boy’s cheek.

“Not at all, Kit. A warm bath is just the thing to make a new man of you,” said Greystone.

He moved closer to the bed and chucked the boy under his chin, absorbing another dose of the soot that seemed to have already drifted to every corner of the room. At the same time, the viscount’s arm brushed against Beatrice’s, and a pleasant shiver swept over her making her fully aware of his height and masculine presence. Gracious, what was the matter with her? She cleared her throat and returned her attention to the child.

“Lord Greystone speaks the truth. You may trust him.” Her words earned her a warm smile and a conspiratorial wink from the gentleman, and another pleasant feeling swept through her. A bit breathlessly, she suggested, “Perhaps you can send for a footman to do the honors?”

“It has already been ordered, Lady Beatrice.” Again his smile stirred a giddy feeling within her. “I do believe we think alike in this matter.” A frown darted across his brow, but he shook it away and focused on the child. Then, as if to confirm his words, several footmen entered the bedchamber carrying a large brass tub and buckets of steaming water.

Kit squirmed and sniffed, his eyes wide with fear. Her heart breaking for his terror, Beatrice bent down as close as she dared and whispered, “If you are brave and let them bathe you, I shall ask Lord Greystone to bring you sweetmeats as a reward.”

“Sweeties? For me?” Now his wide eyes filled with wonder. He held his arm, sat up and seemed to shake off his fright. “I’ll do it fer you, miss.” He offered her an impish grin. “And for the sweeties.”

Again Lord Greystone and Mrs. Parton laughed in harmony. Beatrice joined them, filled with a sense of a companionship such as she had not experienced since Mama died.

* * *

Against his better judgment Greystone permitted himself to enjoy the moment. He could not deny that Lady Beatrice intrigued him. This was no spoiled lady who refused to let her clothes be soiled by the work at hand. In fact she seemed not to notice the soot on her pretty new frock and white kid gloves. How different was her willingness to be involved with this child from her brother’s apathy to any charitable matter introduced in the House of Lords. How could a brother and sister be so dissimilar? Greystone tried to build an inner wall to block out the effects Lady Beatrice had on him, but her gentle, generous spirit breached all his defenses. With luck this would be a passing attraction, one that would mellow into kind regard. For now there was a child to deal with, and the lady was putting him to shame in comforting the lad.

“Ladies, perhaps you would wait outside while the servants tend to our new friend?”

“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Parton, who had been uncharacteristically quiet for the past few minutes, beckoned to her companion. “Come along, Bea.”

Lady Beatrice gaped briefly at her employer, then complied with her order. “Yes, of course.”

“Don’t leave me, miss.” Kit reached out as if to grab her arm and almost fell out of the bed for his efforts.

Greystone caught and righted him. “Easy, lad.”

“I shall come back when you are presentable, Kit.” She looked at Greystone, and her blue eyes sparkled with amusement. “And when you are presentable as well, sir.”

“What?” Greystone quizzed her with a look, then glanced in the mirror over the nearby bureau. Like Kit, he bore streaks of soot all over his face, hardly the visage a peer wished to display in front of ladies. Yet he could not object when it brought such amusement and, dare he say, a feeling of amity with the most charming, selfless young miss he had ever met.

* * *

“Come along, Bea.” Mrs. Parton clasped Beatrice’s hand and led her from the chamber. “We will have that cup of tea with Lady Greystone while we wait.”

Beatrice did not resist her leading, but she did balk at the byname her employer used. “Mrs. Parton—”

Before she could voice her complaint, a plump young housemaid in mobcap and apron came charging up the corridor dragging a tiny boy who was as dirty as little Kit. The girl stopped in front of them and curtseyed.

“Begging your pardon, mum, but her ladyship sent me up with this one to join the other.” The maid’s upper lip curled with distaste, and she held the boy away from her.

The child’s eyes were round, and his lower lip trembled. In fact, his entire body shook, sending soot into the air, but he did not speak.

“Well, now.” Mrs. Parton bent down to give the boy a smile. “Won’t Kit be delighted to see you, my boy?”

A flicker of hope lit his eyes, and he gave her a solemn nod.

Mrs. Parton waved a hand toward the door. “Then let us not waste a moment. Take him inside.”

“Aye, mum.” The girl knocked on the door, and a footman answered. After a brief exchange he took charge of the child and closed the door. She brushed her hands together. “La, mum, I haven’t ever seen such dirt on a person in all my born days.”

The maid’s impertinence in engaging a guest of the viscount in conversation brought a rebuke to Beatrice’s mind, but Mrs. Parton merely chuckled.

“I would not disagree.” She glanced at her soiled gloves. “And how nice of the boys to share it with us.”

The maid laughed all too familiarly for Beatrice’s taste. Who had trained this girl? Why, instead of lowering her eyes, as custom dictated, she even stared Mrs. Parton full in the face.

“Now.” Mrs. Parton seemed not to notice the impertinence. “Who are you? And how long have you been in service?”

“I’m Lucy Crawford, mum.” At least the girl had the sense to curtsey. “My grandfather’s been the butler here at Lord Greystone’s ever so long, and he just got me hired.”

“Ah, yes. Crawford is a fine fellow.” From her friendly manner, one would think Mrs. Parton was talking to an equal, not a servant. “And what will your duties be?”

Lucy shrugged. “I’d hoped to be a lady’s maid, but as there’s only one lady in this house, and Mrs. Hudson takes care of her, I’m not sure what all I’ll be doing.” She gave Beatrice a shy smile. “Do you have a lady’s maid, miss? I should ever so much like to do your pretty hair. I have a talent for it, if I do say so myself.”

Beatrice withheld a gasp at the girl’s effrontery, even as humiliation filled her. “No, I have no maid.” Melton’s wastefulness had required her to let the woman go two years ago. Beatrice had been forced to manage on her own at home, but now that she was in town and needed to look her best, she had to depend upon Mrs. Parton’s lady’s maid, Poole, to help her dress.

“But you are employed here, Lucy,” Mrs. Parton said. “You are in training with your grandpapa, and I am certain he would not wish you to leave.”

The girl chewed her lip and stared at the floor. “No, mum.” Then she gave Beatrice a bright smile. “But if I could get away from time to time when my duties are done, could I work for you? I won’t even ask a wage, just so I can get the experience.”

Before Beatrice could respond, Mrs. Parton nodded with a measure of reserve. “Yes, that is a possibility. What do you think, Lady Beatrice?”

Beatrice could not help but think her employer’s way of addressing her was for the girl’s benefit. But Mrs. Parton’s charity gave her pause, as well as a hint of self-rebuke. Helping Lucy learn a skill was not much different from working with the girls at the orphanage. And it would be grand to have her own maid again.

“I believe it is a possibility.” Perhaps she could also give the girl some lessons in proper decorum, as well.

“Oh, miss, um, my lady, thank you.” Lucy clapped her hands and bobbed another curtsey. “You won’t be sorry.”

Mrs. Parton chuckled, but also wagged a finger at the girl. “Now, if this works out, you must not shirk any duties here at Greystone Hall. I will not tolerate a shirker.” Her words echoed Beatrice’s own concerns. What would Lord Greystone think of her enticing away one of his servants?

“Aye, mum. I’ll do it all.”

Laughter within the bedchamber drew their attention, and they all watched the door expectantly.

“I cannot wait to see what those darling boys look like under all that soot.” Mrs. Parton voiced the very idea Beatrice was thinking.

As if in response to her curiosity, Crawford opened the door. “Lady Beatrice, Mrs. Parton, Lord Greystone requests your presence.”

As they entered the chamber, the butler’s bushy gray eyebrows arched at the sight of his granddaughter, but he said nothing to her as she followed them in.

Clustered around the two boys, who were wrapped in linen towels, Lord Greystone and the footmen were still laughing, despite all of them being drenched and dirty.

“Can you believe it, Mrs. Parton?” The viscount waved them closer. “The lads are blond. Why, I doubt their own master would recognize them now.”

Indeed Beatrice thought the two mites bore no resemblance to their former selves, though they still had a gray cast to their skin and black lines embedded in various spots.

Mrs. Parton harrumphed in her good-natured way as she checked their ears and fingernails, taking care special care with Kit’s injured arm. “It will take a number of baths to get rid of the last of the soil, but you have made a good beginning.”

“As you say, madam.” Lord Greystone bowed with an exaggerated flourish. “But I shall leave the next washing to these good men.” His brow furrowed briefly. “Perhaps you can advise me...never mind. You have brought the solution with you.” He beckoned to Lucy. “Crawford, we have discussed the direction of your granddaughter’s training, and now I know exactly what she will do. The lads will require a nursemaid with youthful energy to keep up with them, and she is just the one to do it.”

Lucy emitted a tiny squeak that sounded to Beatrice like a protest, but Crawford’s quick glare silenced her instantly.

“As you wish, sir.” The butler gave her a furtive wave, and she curtseyed even as she bit her lower lip and stared at the floor.

Beatrice’s heart went out to the girl, despite her failure to know her place. Chasing two small boys all day would leave her little time and energy to learn the duties of a lady’s maid. But Beatrice would not interfere. After all, she could not pay Lucy. Perhaps this was the Lord’s will for the girl, just as He willed for Beatrice to be humbled by the restrictions of her own situation. In this matter both of them must endure their disappointments.

To her shock, Lord Greystone approached her. “Did you enjoy your visit to St. Ann’s?” Despite his friendly tone, he did not smile.

Still, her foolish heart skipped at this singular attention. “I did indeed. The girls are very sweet, and they adore Mrs. Parton.” Looking up into his intense blue eyes, she found herself a bit breathless.

Now he grinned, but his smile was directed at the older lady. “As do I, and all who know her.” True affection beamed from his eyes, and Beatrice could not help but long to receive that sort of approval. Before she could offer her own praise of her employer, he turned to Crawford with orders about the care of the boys.

Beatrice watched the viscount while admiration for his Christian beneficence replaced her personal longings. She could not imagine Papa in this setting. He had barely noticed his footmen, let alone bantered with them as Lord Greystone now did. Nor had Papa ever extended any kindnesses to the children in the village near Melton Gardens. He had left all charitable work to Mama, and she had relished those activities. Yet in this family it was the viscount who enjoyed helping the helpless. Perhaps she would have to revise her former opinion that all peers thought only of their own interests.

“Come along, Bea.” Mrs. Parton once again pulled her from the room. “At last we can have our tea with Lady Greystone.”

Cringing again at the nickname, Beatrice nevertheless followed. But if she had her choice between taking tea with the haughty Lady Greystone and tending orphans with the lady’s suddenly amiable son, she had no trouble deciding which she would rather do.

Chapter Six

Greystone had never felt such satisfaction over a simple act of charity. Or perhaps this was not quite so simple. He still had to contend with Mother. But somehow the approval of Mrs. Parton—and, he must admit, Lady Beatrice, as well—reassured him that he was doing God’s will. And to think that the young lady cared nothing about soiling her new gloves and gown. That was a wonder in itself.

For his part he found the soot on his own breeches and shirt something akin to a badge of honor. But a few marks on his clothing were nothing like the many bruises on the two little boys. Obviously they had been caned, for large welts covered their backs and legs. Greystone was sickened to think of anyone treating a child so cruelly. He had felt the whip when he was near Kit’s age, and the sight of those injuries caused his own back to sting with the memories.

Gilly, Greystone’s body servant since he had turned four years old, had washed away tears and tended wounds, but never spoken a word against Greystone’s father, though he had inflicted countless physical and emotional wounds.

“My lord, the physician is here.” Crawford motioned to the young, black-clad gentleman who had just entered the chamber.

“My lord, I came as quickly as I could.” Dr. Horton gave Greystone a quick bow before turning his attention to the boys. At the sight of them he blinked, his brown eyebrows arched and his jaw dropped. “My lord—?”

“Yes, my good man.” Greystone put on a serious face, although he wanted to laugh at the confusion on the man’s countenance. “These are my new charges.” As he made the declaration, the weight of his new responsibility bore down upon him. Did he have the right to assume the care of these lads? He must find out who they were and whether their parents had truly sold them to the master sweep, lest he be considered a kidnapper. Just the work for his brother Edmond, who was studying law. Or, in the event criminals were at work in this, perhaps a Bow Street Runner.

While the footmen cleaned up the mess caused by the thrashing boys in the bath, Greystone apprised Dr. Horton of the events of the past two hours. He ended with orders that he should not mind the embedded grime, for it would grow out eventually. At least he hoped so, for if not, it would mark the lads forever and limit their possibilities. And while he could have left the chamber and been done with the affair, he found himself unable to abandon the two round-eyed boys, one wincing in pain, the other quaking in fear.

“Easy now, Kit. What is your brother’s name?” Greystone asked.

Kit had been cradling his injured arm in the other, but he let go and put the good one around the smaller lad. “This ’ere’s Ben, sir.” He whispered something in his brother’s ear that seemed to comfort him, for his shaking grew less intense.

“I am pleased to meet you, Ben.” Greystone gave him a slight bow, earning a gasp from Dr. Horton.

“Why, my lord, these are nothing but—”

“My charges, as I said.” Greystone schooled the man with a sharp look. “You must treat them with all courtesy.” He softened his expression. “Do tend to his arm straightaway. I shall not rest until we know its condition.”

After an examination of said appendage, the doctor confirmed Lady Beatrice’s astute diagnosis. “Not broken, but severely sprained. It seems a previous break healed incorrectly. The only remedy is to re-break it and set it properly.”

Kit exploded with a howl of protest. “I like me arm as it is, gov’ner.” At Crawford’s scolding harrumph, he winced and added, “milord.”

The distress on his face, mirrored on Ben’s, cut into Greystone’s heart. Poor terrified children. “There now, do not be frightened. We have no intention of causing you further pain.”

“Most of the bruises will heal soon enough.” Dr. Horton completed his examination of both boys and prescribed treatment for several ailments, both internal and external. “And of course they are dreadfully thin, as climbing-boys must be to do their work.”

His comment brought Greystone up short. Of course sweeps must be small enough to crawl inside chimneys, and many were children. It was a nasty but necessary business, for London would burn to the ground without well-cleaned chimneys. But he could not countenance such young boys being pressed into that service. He must examine the laws to discover exactly how young a climbing-boy could be, and perhaps find some way to ease their lives. “Yes, well, Kit and Ben will soon be too fat for cleaning chimneys.”

That earned a few sniffles until he knelt before them with a reassuring smile. “What do you say, lads? Would you like to learn a different trade?”

Each one gave him a solemn nod, although he doubted they knew what he meant.

“Well then, we’ll get you some clothes and food while we decide exactly how to proceed.” He beckoned to the housemaid, and she stepped forward, her face as blank as her grandfather’s always was. “Lads, you must obey Lucy at all times, understand?”

More solemn nods. Kit leaned toward him and whispered, “Th’other lady promised sweeties.”

Greystone chuckled. “Lucy, did you hear that? If they eat all their dinner, you must see that they have sweeties afterward. If you have any questions, I am certain Crawford can advise you.” He ordered one footman to dash out and purchase clothing for the boys. Another was sent to the kitchen for food. The rest continued to clean the nursery and make it fit for habitation.

With all set in motion, Greystone at last quitted the room and descended to his second-floor chambers, content that his new venture would be a grand and enjoyable success.

Gilly emerged from his small bedchamber attached to the larger room, his eyes widening in horror as he took in Greystone’s appearance. He cleared his throat, as if correcting himself, and schooled his expression into his usual placid smile. “Well, milord, what have we been up to today?” He removed the soiled jacket and cravat, staring at them as if wondering how to repair the damage.

Greystone laughed. “Quite a mess, am I not?” He quickly explained the situation, receiving Gilly’s usual acceptance of anything he said. The least he could do was offer a way out of the work his valet would have to do to restore the garments. “Why not just toss them, old man? They’re just clothes. Easily replaced. Unlike a human life, no matter how humble.” He was surprised by the emotion on Gilly’s face, a reddening of his eyes and a slight sniff, if Greystone was not mistaken.

“A fine thing you’re doing, milord.” Gilly kept his eyes on his work as he cleaned Greystone’s face and hair. But then, as a servant, he rarely looked Greystone in the eye. In fact he had not done so for many years, not since Greystone had taken his seat in Parliament, as if that had signaled a parting of the ways for them. He missed that deeper connection with the man. Maybe now was the time to recapture it.

“I am pleased to have your approval.”

Now Gilly directed his gaze to Greystone’s eyes, and he blinked, then smiled. “Thank you, milord.”

Greystone returned a grin, and warmth spread through his chest. With Gilly’s endorsement he was once again struck with the certainty that he was doing the work of God. As his heart lightened in exultation, Lady Beatrice’s approval came to mind. With Mrs. Parton he could count three people in his corner regarding the little boys. He wished the younger lady’s approval did not please him quite so much. Wished he did not think of her quite so much.

Interesting how she had correctly diagnosed Kit’s injury. No doubt she had ministered to her brother’s tenants, just as Greystone’s mother often visited the people of their Shropshire village, taking them food, clothing and medicine. Yet Mother always seemed to begrudge her duties, or at best tolerate them, while Lady Beatrice had clearly delighted in helping with the boys. He had no doubt that the young lady had been trained in managing a home and an estate. And no one could deny she was a singular beauty. Why must he search further? What more could a peer wish for in a wife?

Simple. He could wish and pray for a lady whose name was untarnished by a reprobate brother.

* * *

“Mrs. Parton, it is exquisite.” Standing before the wardrobe mirror in her bedchamber, Beatrice turned this way and that to see every detail of her new pink evening dress. As dictated by this year’s fashions, the waistline hung halfway down the midriff, which she found more comfortable than the higher, tighter bands. The sheer full-length sleeves hugged her arms, but did not bind. And the lace-lined neckline was high enough to protect her modesty. Would Lord Greystone view her with approval in this creation as he had the blue day dress? She dismissed the wayward turn of her thoughts and directed her attention to the lady beside her. “Giselle’s seamstresses must have worked without rest to complete it in three days. How can I ever thank you?”

Her benefactress chuckled, then sobered. “’Tis no more than your dear mama would have done for you, my child.” A tiny sniff escaped her. “I am pleased to provide a wardrobe appropriate for my companion.”

Beatrice sighed. “Yes, madam.” She was deeply grateful to Mrs. Parton, but must she always be reminded of her reduced status, even as she found a moment of enjoyment?

“But I have decided it would be wise to accept Lady Greystone’s advice.” Mrs. Parton reached up to adjust the silk scarf and strand of pearls her lady’s maid had entwined in Beatrice’s hair. “Hmm. I do believe this requires another pin or two.” She set about searching the dressing table drawer.

In a mere five days of being in London, Beatrice had learned her employer often became distracted. “Lady Greystone’s advice?” The viscountess had given counsel on many topics as the three of them had sipped their tea the other day. But the majority of her warnings had to do with avoiding chimney sweeps and other such members of the working classes.

“Yes, dear. Do try to keep up.” Mrs. Parton clicked her tongue. “We must not present you as Miss Gregory, as I first planned. Such a scheme will be all too easily exposed, and you will suffer for it. Some members of the ton may even think you have tried to deceive me.”

An odd tendril of hope threaded through Beatrice. Would she now be elevated to the position of ward rather than employee?

“No, we will introduce you by your rightful name, and no one need know you are in my employ.”

So much for Beatrice’s fondest wish. Why did she not leave London right now and return to Melton Gardens? At least there she would receive the highest respect of the tenants, who never blamed her for their master’s failings.

Mrs. Parton’s thoughtful frown was reflected in the wardrobe mirror. “And of course we must make it clear that you have nothing to do with your brother. I have given orders to the entire staff that he absolutely must not be permitted to enter this house.”

Her proclamation cut like a knife into Beatrice. As much as she did not want to be seen with Melly in public, she refused to believe he was utterly lost to her. But she would comply with Mrs. Parton’s orders in hopes that their refusal to receive him would shame him into reformation. And of course she would continue to pray day and night for her wayward brother.

This evening, however, she had the responsibility of being a good companion to her employer, which would bring her both joy and sorrow. Attending the Royal Olympic Theatre in Drury Lane with Mrs. Parton had been among Mama’s favorite activities when she had accompanied Papa to London every spring. She had often promised to take Beatrice to plays and balls during her debut Season. Left at home in the schoolroom with her governess, Beatrice dreamed of the coming adventures, but Mama died of a fever before she could keep her promises. At one and twenty Beatrice was long past the proper age for a debut, and she doubted Mrs. Parton planned to introduce her at one of Her Majesty’s Drawing Rooms. But for now she would try to enjoy this evening as though Mama were with them, scheming to find the perfect husband for her only daughter.

Alas, for the past several days Beatrice’s thoughts of marriage were followed straightaway by thoughts of the viscount who lived next door. But despite Lord Greystone’s playful winks and banter about their shared interest in the little chimney sweeps, Lady Greystone made it clear Beatrice was not completely welcome in her home and was received only because she was Mrs. Parton’s companion. Even Lord Greystone had advanced his friendliness no further. Beatrice chafed at these unfair judgments against her because of Melly’s reputation, but there was no remedy for it.

To carry them to the theatre, Mrs. Parton had ordered her new blue-and-white landau, drawn by her favorite team of four white horses. The two ladies sat side by side facing the front of the elegant carriage so they could best enjoy the scenery as they traveled. Emerging from Hanover Square, they observed many other stylish carriages conveying members of the haute ton to parties and routs and festivities to celebrate Napoleon’s defeat.

At the thought of such gaiety Beatrice dismissed the pain of her own disappointments. After years of war perhaps England and all of Europe could breathe more easily. Beatrice decided the future looked brighter than it had since Mama died, at least for the moment.

The carriage clattered over the cobblestones, but the thick cushions covering the benches and the springs on the wheels protected the passengers from severe jarring, making conversation pleasant. The air was filled with various scents, spring roses and honeysuckle vying with the evidence of passing horses on the roadways. As the landau turned this way and that on the streets leading to Covent Gardens, the always jovial Mrs. Parton extolled the talents of the renowned actor who would soon entertain them.

“Mr. Robert Elliston is quite handsome, to be sure. He will no doubt thrill us as Richard III, although I cannot think he could surpass his performance as Hamlet. Have you seen any of Shakespeare’s plays performed, my dear?”

Beatrice felt her own excitement growing. “No, madam, but I have read them all.”

“Oh, gracious.” Mrs. Parton eyed her with alarm. “Even Titus Andronicus?”

Beatrice gave her a sober nod. “And did not sleep for many a night afterward.”

“I should think not.” Mrs. Parton shuddered, as if to shake off her own memories of the bloody tale. “But tragically, real life is often mirrored in these dramas.” After a moment her smile returned, accompanied by a twinkle in her eyes. “We are meeting Lord and Lady Blakemore at the theatre and will share their box, then go to their home near Grosvenor Square for a midnight supper. They have invited a few other friends, although Grace did not tell me whom.”

“I should like that.” Beatrice found herself hoping a certain viscount would be in attendance. In fact, Lord Greystone’s handsome visage continued to dance across her mind as the landau stopped in front of an imposing building.

“Here we are. The Royal Olympic Theatre.” Mrs. Parton waited while the footman opened the door and handed her down. “Come along, my dear.”

Beatrice scooted across the velvet cushion and reached for the white-gloved hand extended to assist her, all the while fussing with her skirt to keep it modestly in place. But as she emerged from the carriage and looked up to thank John Footman, she gazed instead into the very face that moments before had filled her thoughts. Her pulse quickened with guilt, as when her governess once caught her stealing a sweetmeat before supper.

“Lord Greystone.”

But to her chagrin, the gentleman did not return her smile.

Chapter Seven

Why did she have to look so beautiful? Exquisite, in fact. As members of their little party greeted each other, Greystone had no option but to believe that Mrs. Parton and Lady Blakemore, perhaps even Lord Blakemore, had conspired to arrange this evening. Otherwise why would the earl have taken the trouble of driving by White’s to invite him to the theatre? Yes, Blakemore did have some information to impart regarding the laws about child chimney sweeps. Yes, his countess did have her own pretty companion who, Greystone suspected, would be put forward to him for a bride, should they fail to match him with Lady Beatrice. Schemers, the lot of them. He had a mind to have done with it and offer for the Duke of Devonshire’s dull granddaughter, who owned no opinions of her own except those concerning expensive frocks.

But Lady Augusta could never hope to display a dress as Lady Beatrice graced this stylish new creation. No ill-fitting castoff, this, but a perfect fit over a perfect form. Its warm pink shade brought a rosy blush to her flawless ivory cheeks and heightened the blue of her intelligent eyes. Only the questioning frown upon her fair brow marred her beauty, and he was at fault for it.

“My lady.” He offered a bow, then his arm to escort her into the theatre, but his attempt to smile was more of a grimace. He could feel it. Could see it reflected in the hurt that darted across her eyes, in her diminished smile that still succeeded more than his.

“I thank you, sir.” She placed a gloved hand upon his forearm and permitted him to guide her in following their friends through the theatre’s wide doors. “I did not expect to see you in our party this evening.”

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