Love With the Perfect Scoundrel (23 page)

“No, of course, sir,” Beaufort replied. “You were good to accede to my wishes. Especially when I’m certain you’ve little desire to spend time with me.”

“I beg your pardon?” They were nearly a quarter of a mile from Mayfair, and with every step closer, Michael became poised for flight, his knees grinding the saddle flaps.

“It’s quite obvious you’re smitten with the countess. Would have liked to get in the carriage with her, no?” He winked. “I say, though, you’re looking quite high above your station. Knew the earl well. Excellent shot. Very devoted to her. But you’ll be delighted to know I shall champion your efforts.”

Michael’s attention was riveted by three riders, their horses approaching at full gallop. There was only one reason men would set such a pace. His heart leaped to his throat and he swallowed against the knot, barely understanding a word of the foolish man beside him.

“I’m quite selfish in my motives, of course,” the duke continued, oblivious. “If the countess will have you, then perhaps the dowager duchess will be tempted to visit my seat in Yorkshire on occasion.”

The riders were almost upon them, the cutlasses visible like beacons in the gray dinginess of the cobbled street.
Christ. Bow Street runners.
Michael tried to regulate his breathing. He’d been a fool to risk coming to London. And they were close to Manning’s Livery—far too close. He’d sworn never to tread so close as a hundred miles of the place again. And as if the duke could read minds, the pompous man continued his monotonous rant in a new direction.

“Have you seen the new yards at Manning’s? Just saw them myself yesterday. Three times the size of Tattersall’s now. Who’d have guessed that upstart would grow so far and so fast? From a paltry livery owner to one of the most reknowned men in London. But for all that, he’s still nothing more than a bastard with vulgar pretensions of grandeur. Indeed, can’t imagine why he enjoys the Prince Regent’s patronage. Richard Tattersall is at least a gentleman if not a lord.”

The three Bow Street runners slowed to a trot as they approached to pass, and Michael brought his hand to the rim of his hat to partially shield his face.

“Well, ho!” The duke hailed the runners. “Off to find a criminal, are you? Who are you looking for?”

One man halted as the other two continued past. “A thief, sir. Did you happen to see a grimy boy not above four and ten, running with a sack? He nipped a gen’l’man’s greatcoat not twenty minutes ago.”

“A hanging offense,” the duke said with a grimace. “Why, the idea. We shall be on the lookout for the scallywag. If we find him, shall we shoot him for you?”

“Got to catch up with me mates, sir. But by all means grab the thieving little devil if you see ’im.” The runner tipped his hat before riding on.

“Well, I like that. A larcenist in Mayfair. It’s the reason I prefer the country. We know how to catch and dispose of riffraff in Yorkshire. You will see how it goes once you’ve settled there. Why, gypsy vagrants, beggars, and other trash never dare set a hair in our neighborhood, Mr. Ranier.”

The man was preening and crowing so much that he failed to notice the tiny waif hiding behind a dung heap in the alley they passed. Michael would have wagered his life that a greatcoat was tucked in the pouch the ragged, thin boy carried.

“And how do you manage it, sir?”

“Why, we shoot first and ask questions later. Saves us the trouble of guarding and feeding them before a hearing. A trial would only to prolong their misery, don’t you think?”

“Very enlightened.”

“I’m so glad you see it that way, Mr. Ranier. As former Lord Lieutenant of our county, I’m always looking for like-minded gentlemen to recommend for the stipendiary magistrate position. It is good to know I will be able to count on you, sir.”

“Oh, you may depend on me, Your Grace. I shall ever and always look upon beggars and vagrants with the same eye I cultivated in my youth.”

The Duke of Beaufort glanced at him with a comical mixture of suspicion and arrogance.

“Here we are. Just a few more blocks before St. James’s Square.”

“And where are you off to now, sir? Where are your lodgings? Surely you have a moment more to join me for a fortifying cup of something stronger than tea? And I will condescend to show you Beaufort House. The armory is not to be missed.”

Michael kept a steady gaze on the awful gentleman who embodied everything he most disliked about the aristocracy of England. “Thank you, Your Grace. But I think I shall see if I can find that thief. Wouldn’t want you to have to blacken your hands with a rover.”

The duke raised his chin and his wattle jiggled. “Good man. Perhaps you should take my pistol.”

“No, I won’t hear of it. I don’t want to put you out.” Michael thought he might just shoot the duke between his peepers given the chance. “But if I don’t hurry along, I might miss him. You know how wily and difficult criminals are. Especially young, hardened ones.”

The man hesitated, confusion battering his small brain-box. “Well, then, I bid you good day, sir.”

“Good day to you, too.”
You old bugger
. Michael wended his way quickly back to the alley, taking care to employ evasive tactics lest someone saw him.

Noting several shadows of blighted humanity as he searched, Michael finally spied the boy, still hiding behind the dung heap. Returning to London had only served to remind him how powerless he was given the magnitude of the wretched poor lurking everywhere.

“You there,” he called to the boy, “come out. The runners are headed south. I have something for you.” Michael reached for the guineas in his pocket and tossed the boy half of what he held. “Leave the coat. It will only lead you to the gallows.”

The boy was covered in grime; even the whites of his eyes appeared dingy. He bowed his head after retrieving the coins.

“Where are you sleeping?”

“’Ere and there, guv’nor.”

“What’s your name?”

“James.”

James…Christ, it was his own father’s name.
“And other than thieving, are you employed?”

“Was, sir. Chimney sweep. Got too big fer it. Was turned out well nigh a fortnight ago.”

“I see. Well, if I promise you employment, will you come with me?”

The boy lowered his head like a dog. “Are you going ter turn me over?”

“No. Now you will either have the good sense to find your way to the foundling home at Lamb’s Conduit Fields, where you will tell Mrs. Kane that I sent you—and where I will meet you later this afternoon—or you will be foolish and end up dead or transported for life. It’s your choice, James.”

The boy gave Michael a long searching look and then nodded once before dropping the sack and racing back through the alleyway behind him. Michael gave it an even chance of ever seeing the boy again. Trust was something learned, and boys such as James had never been given the chance to comprehend the notion.

As Michael went on to gather the odd assortment of goods needed to ensure a memorable day for the children on the morrow, he wondered if he too was manacled by the past. He questioned if he was an adult version of that boy, unable to trust or to expect the best that life had to offer because he was not grounded properly. In his mind, he struggled to clear a path that would allow Grace into his life despite the clutter of his impossible past. The way appeared mired in far too much danger for her and it left Michael flummoxed.

He had everything he needed, finally—a small property that would prosper in future to ensure his comfort and the comfort of others, such as the Lattimers and that boy James. And yet, he wanted more. He wanted Grace.

Was life always filled with insatiable wanting?

Just then, on the way to a lumberyard for his final purchase, Michael’s attention was caught by the jangle of carriage traces at the crossroads ahead. A smart pair of matched chestnuts crossed in front of him, dressed out in the telltale dark blue and gold colors of Manning’s Livery. A chill of recognition froze Michael’s thoughts.

God. He was such a fool. Why was he leaving everything to such risk? He had to leave. Very soon. He did not want to be one of those reckless sods who lost everything for wanting the impossible. And more important, he could not…would not…put Grace in peril.

She was being so imprudent about all of this, Grace thought, as she waited for the gatekeeper at the foundling home to open the tall black iron gates for her carriage to enter. Yes, there seemed to be no end to the lengths she would stoop to make a greater fool of herself where Mr. Michael Ranier was concerned.

She should have accepted Quinn and Georgiana’s invitation tonight. All of the widows in the club, and their burgeoning families, would be there to celebrate the season. But no, she just couldn’t pass up another occasion to see him. To drift ever closer toward further heartbreak, she thought cynically, because really, until she experienced out-and-out disaster a third time, she might never learn that she was not meant to find any sort of happiness with someone else. And, in the end, it didn’t matter. She had already decided that she could find contentment all by herself.

Her carriage’s wheels crunched the hard-packed sandy path leading to the entryway of the
U
-shaped structure, the chapel separating the boys’ wing from the girls’ wing. While she descended, one of the carriage drivers unpacked the provisions she had brought.

“Mrs. Kane,” Grace said, when the mistress rushed forward to greet her. “You’re very kind to have extended an invitation to me tonight.”

“Your ladyship is very generous to have accepted. I’m certain you had far more glorious entertainments in the offing,” Mrs. Kane replied. “And once again you honor us with more gifts, I see. I don’t know how to thank you properly.”

Grace pressed a sheaf of papers bound with ribbon into the lady’s outstretched hands. “These are the donations from the other evening. And a little more from my good friends, the Marquis of Ellesmere and the Duke of Helston, as well as, uh, an anonymous donor. I know you will put it to good use.”

Mrs. Kane untied the ribbon; her face blanched at the enormity of the bank drafts within.

“Mrs. Kane, you are not to say a word. Tonight it is Christmas Eve, and I’ve come to help you make merry for a short while.”

Mrs. Kane laughed, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Make merry? Why, I rather think you’ve just ensured that for the next twelve months if not longer, my lady. Shall we adjourn to the chapel, then? Perhaps I can give you another tour of the—”

“No, no, Mrs. Kane. I don’t want to take you away from the children. And I understand there are to be amusements and such.”

“Of course. Mr. Ranier and Miss Givan have arranged the games and everything. Do you know Hot Cockles, Lady Sheffield, or Shoe the Wild Mare?”

Grace shook her head. “No, but I should like to learn.”

Mrs. Kane smiled and Grace followed the older woman as she bustled down a corridor, her key fob jangling with every step.

A chorus of shouts and giggles met them on the other side of the double doors. Such a scene…A crowd of children filled the hall, a circle carved out in the middle. A young girl with a starched pinafore, identical to all the aprons on the other girls, sat in the middle, a handkerchief tied as a blindfold. A boy rushed forward and tapped the girl on the shoulder while the other children goaded her to guess his identity.

The child grinned. “It’s Tom. I guess Tom.”

Hoots of laughter erupted and she tore off the blindfold.

Michael Ranier strode toward the girl. “And how did you know him when you’ve not seen one of these boys all year, miss?”

“Half the boys here are named Tom. The other half ’re John or Harry.” All the girls giggled and Grace could not help but smile too.

At that moment Michael turned in her direction and left the children to their game. “Why, you’ve come. I feared you wouldn’t.”

“Well, if yesterday was any example, I would think you’d know by now that I never renege on a promise, Mr. Ranier.”

“You’re quite right, Lady Sheffield.” He chuckled, and Grace was reminded yet again that Michael Ranier could, indeed, be a most devastatingly attractive man when he chose. He had only to turn his full attention on a person and unleash his smile.

Grace searched her pocket for a note. “I promised to deliver this to you.” She did not mutter “Lord help me,” as she wished. “I shall warn you that it’s an invitation from Ata. She would like you to join us at Helston House for dinner tomorrow.”

His eyes lit up with amusement. “Would she now?”

“Yes.”

“And would
you
like me to come, Lady Sheffield?”

She just could not do it. Her pride would not allow her to put her feelings before him on a platter. “I would not presume to intrude on your time in town, Mr. Ranier.”

“I see. And this is to be an intimate family gathering rather than a ball given for half of London?”

Such a strange question. “One never knows with Ata. It should be the former but when she includes extended family and her ducal friends…well, I should not hazard a guess.”

His expression turned serious. “I’m honored by her invitation but I must decline. I’ll be needed here. The children—”

“There’s no need to explain,” she interrupted. “I’m certain Ata will understand.”

He appeared as if he wanted to say more on the subject but changed his mind. “Come. The children must be served a good show. They’ve waited all year. And you’re just in time.”

“Really?” She released the tension in her shoulders when she realized the awkward moment had passed.

So he would not accept Ata’s invitation. He really did want nothing more than friendship. The apologies were complete, and they were to part amicably.

“Yes, it’s time to drag in the largest Yule log in all of London.”

The children overheard his rising voice and erupted into cheers.

She tried to ignore the bruise to her heart. “It sounds daunting. But I’m sure you’ll manage it, Mr. Ranier. You always manage everything perfectly well.”

“Such flattery, ma’am,” he replied wryly. “Although it won’t help me move the log.”

“Well, if it’s advice you’re looking for, Mr. Ranier, I’m happy to oblige, although you might not like it.”