A Dream of Desire (13 page)

Peter saw Lawford’s shoulders stiffen.

“When did you last speak to Peter?” he asked.

“Three days ago.”

“I assume his absence means he still has no intention of attending Brick Street,” Lawford remarked.

“If he does not by week’s end, my father won’t allow him to return home.” Alice lowered her head, her face shadowed. “Though I don’t suppose Peter cares anymore. If he ever did.”

Shame scorched Peter. He dug his fingers into his palms. Tried to find some semblance of courage beneath the layers of fear. He suddenly realized why Lady Talia had sought him out after he’d inadvertently helped her—when someone did something for you, you wanted to return the favor. He’d never done that for Alice.

“Well, perhaps it’s time Peter finds his own way,” Lawford said, setting his cup back on the table. “Certainly I did all I could at Newhall to set him on the right path. And it seems to me that you and your father have done all you could as well.”

Alice didn’t respond. She looked older than her twenty-six years. Shouldn’t have had to spend her life dealing with a younger brother who would never measure up.

“In any case.” Lawford shook his head, as if to dismiss the subject of Peter. “Please do consider my request, Miss Colston. May I call upon you on Thursday?”

Call upon…? Surely Alice wouldn’t…

“You may,” Alice said after a moment’s hesitation.

Cold trickled down Peter’s spine, his fear intensifying. He shifted. The movement caught his sister’s eye, and before Peter could duck into the shadows like the coward he was, Alice looked past Lawford’s shoulder to the doorway.

“Peter?” She stood, hurrying across the room to him.

Lawford swung around, his gaze narrowing on Peter like an arrow. Peter started to sweat, retreating a few steps.

“Peter, where have you been?” Alice grasped his arm, as if she sensed he were about to flee.

Which he desperately wanted to do. He could barely restrain himself from yanking his arm from his sister’s grip and running back out to the street. Self-disgust rose in his throat. He tried to steel his spine and meet Lawford’s gaze.

“Just…out looking for work,” he muttered.

“Even Lady Talia has been wanting to find you,” Alice said, still holding his arm. “Please don’t run away again.”

Why the hell not? It was what he was best at.

Alice moved closer to him and lowered her voice. “If you do not come home now, Peter, you’ll never be able to. Papa won’t allow it. Is that what you want? To end up begging for food or a place to stay? All because you didn’t want to go back to school?”

Peter tried to look at his sister, aware of Lawford’s presence like a sickness. His teeth clenched.

For the love of God. He was
free
. This was not his prison cell. This was his father’s home. If Peter were to regain any hint of self-respect, he could not allow Lawford to drive him from his father’s house. Or worse, let Lawford use Alice for his own purposes.

He swallowed hard. Concentrated on the feeling of his sister’s grip on his arm. She would not let go. She had never let go of him, never given up on him. Not even when he was sent to prison.

He couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes, staring instead at the brooch she always wore pinned to her collar. The oval frame encased a painted image of a blue flower with a slender, green stalk. Alice had told him the brooch once belonged to their mother.

“All right.” His heart pounded as he felt Lawford’s gaze, sharp as a pin. He tried not to think about what would happen if he went back to school. “I’ll go to Brick Street.”

He sensed the relief coursing through Alice and was even more ashamed of it. He tugged his arm from her grasp, finally glancing at Lawford. Though the man smiled at him, his eyes were filled with the coldness that had pierced the dark cells at Newhall.

“Lady Talia will be delighted with your decision, Peter,” Lawford remarked.

Peter wished to God he’d never run into that alley ten months ago. If he hadn’t, he’d never have met Lady Talia Hall or learned anything about her godforsaken school.

He ducked back into the foyer. Alice and Lawford followed.

“Peter, Papa will be home by six, and I’ve supper planned at eight,” Alice said. “I’d like you to tell him yourself. He’ll be so pleased.”

Peter doubted that. His father might be cautiously pleased, at best, but he’d know in his heart that Peter would never succeed at any school, even Brick Street. And the old man would be right about that.

“I’d best be off, then.” Lawford paused by the rack and shifted the coats around to retrieve his greatcoat. “Glad to know you are setting foot on the right path, Peter.”

“Won’t you stay for dinner, Mr. Lawford?” Alice asked, her voice lit with an expectancy that made Peter’s stomach twist again.

“Much obliged, but I’ve a few errands to run, Miss Colston.” He shrugged into his coat and tucked his hat beneath his arm. “Perhaps another time.”

“Perhaps,” Alice echoed.

“Or perhaps I shall see you at the Brick Street school.” Lawford’s gaze slanted to Peter, as if warning him that he would never fully escape the shadow of Newhall. “I’m quite interested to learn more about the school myself, if it might help to reform boys who have found themselves on the wrong path. We might consider such an institution as part of the Shipton Fields prison.”

Peter watched his sister as she watched Lawford leave. Her eyes had an anticipation and warmth that filled him with dread. He had to protect her from Lawford and his blade-sharp cruelty. Peter owed it to his sister, and he could not fail her again.

J
ames knew these boys. They frequented the docks and shipyards, scavenging for food and occasional work, clad in threadbare clothes that hung on their skinny frames. They picked pockets, stole food, fought, vandalized, and hoped for passage on an expedition to some faraway land that they were certain had to be better than London.

They were boys on the cusp of manhood who had seen far too much of the vile nature of humankind. Who’d either been victims or victimized others, sometimes both. They’d committed crimes—theft, begging, conning, fighting, and those at the very least.

If any of the Hall brothers or Lord Rushton knew exactly the kind of company Talia was keeping in her charity work, they’d either lock her in her room or send her off to live with Aunt Sally in the country.

Pity James didn’t have either option. That would solve a great deal of his problems.

He glowered at Talia from across the room. She stood with Mr. Fletcher beside the desk, her expression serious as they discussed something he’d written on a piece of paper.

James pushed to his feet, shaking off the sudden rustle of unease. He strode across the room, his boots ringing out against the wood floor. The boys glanced at him as he passed. A wadded-up paper ball hit his ear. Talia looked up, her eyes narrowing on the boys.

“Mr. Norvell,” she said, her voice sharp but with an undercurrent of warmth that needled James. “Should you wish to throw something at Lord Castleford, I suggest you choose flowers. That might go a long way toward sweetening his disposition.”

The boys guffawed. James frowned. Even Fletcher cracked a smile as he returned to his desk and called for the boys’ attention.

“Open your books to page fifteen, please,” he said.

James caught Talia’s eye and jerked his chin toward the corridor before stepping out of the room. He reminded himself that he could not allow his resolve to soften, no matter how much he might want to acknowledge Talia’s…belonging here.

He couldn’t help but notice how at ease she was in this hovel of a room, how the boys actually listened to her, how assured she was in surroundings that would unsettle any other woman of her status.

Yet Talia’s status was precisely the reason she shouldn’t be here. James kept his frown in place as Talia joined him.

“Surely you can see the—” she began earnestly.

“Talia, do you think these boys don’t know who you are or what you have?” James asked. “That you’re fooling them by wearing plain clothes and no jewelry? Boys like this can spot wealth a mile away, especially with a woman as refined and lovely as—”

The words stopped in his throat. Talia blinked. A taut silence descended.

As you.

It was a simple truth. Talia was refined, and she was lovely. It was like saying a giraffe has a long neck, or a parrot is colorful. A basic fact that not even the most militant of the Hall family detractors could dispute.

So why—standing here in a badly lit corridor with Talia before him in a plain gray dress and bonnet—did her loveliness sear through his chest and fill him with sudden heat? Why did her green eyes seem more vivid than ever? Why did he notice yet again that her mouth was quite lushly full and—

The door leading to the street opened, hinges screeching and wood scraping against the floor. James turned, suppressing the direction of his thoughts. A man with dark, graying hair and a black coat entered the corridor, followed by a tall, lanky boy who appeared to be around fifteen or sixteen years of age.

“Peter!” Talia hurried forward, surprise and relief lightening her expression. She grasped the boy’s arms, seeming to restrain herself from embracing him. “Peter, where have you been? What happened?”

“My son has agreed to enroll at Brick Street, my lady,” the man said, giving the boy a sharp tug forward. “I would like to request that he reside in the dormitories for the time being, at least until he has proven his commitment to his word.”

“Yes, of course. This is wonderful news.” Talia opened the classroom door and ushered them both inside. “I’ll have to fetch all the paperwork from Sir Henry, but in the meantime we’ll get you situated here, Peter.”

James watched as the boy Peter slunk to an empty desk at the back of the room. His shoulders were hunched so far forward, it looked as if he were trying to hide in himself. James experienced a strange discomfort as he recalled having felt that way himself once, after he’d discovered the truth about his father.

The other boys rustled with interest over the newcomer until Mr. Fletcher rapped his desk to call for attention.

“Page fifteen of the geography text, gentlemen,” Mr. Fletcher called.

Peter Colston just slouched lower in his chair and glared at the books as if they were his enemies. James crossed the room, avoiding a boy who stuck out his foot to try to trip him. He sat down on the bench beside Peter Colston.

“Might be interesting if he talked about opium robbers,” James muttered.

He felt Peter glance at him. “What do you know about robbers?”

“Had a caravan attacked by them in the Yunnan valley a few years ago,” James said, still keeping his voice low.

Peter was silent for a moment before he said, “Really?”

“We’d entered China through Tibet and had been given an escort of Chinese soldiers from the governor of the province for that very reason.”

Peter straightened, leaning forward into the space between the desks. “What happened?”

“A skirmish, though no one was hurt. Ran them off.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Head of an expedition to document customs and institutions of the Yunnan province.”

“I’ve seen those ships at the East India dock,” Peter said.

“Likely you’ve seen mine, then.”

He almost felt questions bubbling in Peter. Reminded James a bit of himself when he’d been the same age. Curious about the world, always wanting to know more. Imagining excitement, danger, adventure.

Another wad of paper hit James in the chest, followed by a muffled guffaw. He glowered at the boy, Martin, who sat in the last row. Martin nodded at the paper. James unwrapped it and stared at the scrawled note on the inside.

An icy ball tightened in James’s throat. He looked at Martin, who tilted his head toward Peter.

Bloody hell.

James shoved up from the bench and stalked to the door, grabbing Talia’s arm as he passed her by the bookshelf. She gave a little gasp. He pulled her back into the corridor and shut the door.

“What the hell is this?” James snapped, thrusting the creased paper at her.

She took it from him, her face paling as she read the scribbled word. “Who gave this to you?”

“The boy Martin Norvell.” Anger sank claws into James’s neck. “Is it true? Did Peter
murder
someone? Is that why he was in prison?”

“Keep your voice down, James,” Talia hissed. “I don’t want the others to hear you.”

“Answer me!”

Talia crushed the paper in her fist and turned to stalk outside.

“That boy murdered someone and you’re determined to see him reformed?” James felt his rage building like a stoked furnace as he followed her to the street.

“I don’t have a choice,” Talia replied curtly.

“You do have a choice! How many others have committed violent crimes? And why do you think you have to be the one to help them?”

“Who else would it be?” Talia faced him, her hands balling into fists. “You don’t understand, do you, James? These boys are lost. The ragged schools have done brilliant work educating poor children, but what are we to do with children who have committed crimes?”

“Keep them in prison,” James retorted. “Especially if they’ve
murdered
someone, for the love of God.”

“No good will come of Peter rotting in prison, James,” Talia said, “being flogged for disciplinary offenses or kept manacled. It’s my duty to help boys like him.”

“Why
you
?” James snapped. “Why must you, Lady Talia Hall, be the champion of miscreants?”

“Because no one else will! And I’ve learned well over the past four years that I cannot fight the speculation about my respectability, but not a soul can argue my efforts to be useful.”

“What is
useful
about trying to help a person who has committed such a heinous crime?”

“It’s not as straightforward as you think, James, but it is always useful to help someone who has no other recourse.”

James’s heart clenched with anger and regret. If he’d agreed to her proposal a year ago, he could have at the very least provided her with the respectability of marriage. He hadn’t even thought of that at the time, too intent on his latest expedition, too convinced he could never be the kind of husband she deserved.

Nothing had changed.

Except…
her.

He stared at Talia, struck by the sudden realization. Determination glinted in her green eyes, and her jaw was tight with frustration. She returned his gaze with a steady one of her own, as if daring him to oppose her resolve.

“It’s like trying to stop a broken dam, Talia,” James said, aware of a hard-edged desperation beginning to grow inside him. “Plenty of other young criminals will go through the courts and be sentenced to prison. Do you intend to rescue them all?”

“James, that is the very reason we need support for the school!” Talia said, turning to stride toward the waiting cab.

James went after her, hating the words crashing together in his brain
. Murder, discipline, criminals, prison, flogging, manacles…Talia.

Her name didn’t belong anywhere near such words. The name
Talia
belonged alongside
flowers, silk, tea parties, laughter, kisses.

James grabbed Talia’s arm and pulled her to a halt.

“Talia, stop this foolishness, and I’ll give your bloody school a fortune,” he hissed.

She threw him a withering look. “Oh, I’ll take your fortune gladly, my lord, but don’t you dare think you’ve a right to tell me what to do.”

“Dammit, why, Talia?” James snapped. “There are a thousand boys like Peter Colston on the streets.”

“That does not mean he is not worth helping.”

“If Martin is telling the truth, Peter is a
murderer
.” The word tasted like rusted metal in his mouth. “Why would you possibly want to help him?”

Talia stopped. She turned to look at him, a sudden darkness suffusing her eyes.

“Because he saved my life.”