L
ady Lorelei Radcliff, daughter of Viscount Harlowe, stood in the arched entry of her bedchamber, hands splayed on her hips, foot tapping against an aged Persian rug, fury surging through her. She was going to kill her younger brother. “Brandon Vincent Radcliff!”
Of course there was no answer. He and his monstrous terrorizing friend, George Welton, were likely in their favorite hiding place, laughing their fool heads off.
She studied her freshly laundered sheets now soiled with—she counted—eight slimy creatures, hopping about. Her brother, the future Viscount Harlowe, was at the horrid age of nine. On his own, Brandon was a sweet boy, but this mischief was not the act of just one bedeviled child. He’d had assistance.
Informing their mother would be a useless endeavor. She indulged Brandon for his foibles, rendering him outright rotten. How fortuitous that her parents were currently in London. Parliament was in session and Papa served a judicial role. She was unclear on the specifics, but that was neither here nor there.
Clearly, Lorelei would have to serve up their punishment herself. At ten and four, she could be just as diabolical as her brother, and she had experience on her side. She spun on her slippered heel and stormed out of the house.
The ground was wet from the recent rains, but she didn’t bother taking the time to change her shoes even knowing they would be ruined by the time she returned. She ran, braids flying as she took the short path to Spixworth’s large pond, following the winding path to a cozy naturalized nook fashioned between two large oaks.
Her quarries’ high-pitched laughter came to an abrupt halt as her shadow moved over them. Their hands covered their mouths, and their eyes widened.
She drew in a steadying breath and considered her words carefully, gracing them with an evil smile.
Brandon’s eyes grew bigger.
A smirk, however, hovered about George’s mouth. This was a boy bent on destruction seasoned with stupidity, and Lorelei had had enough.
She addressed Brandon. “I understand.”
His sweet features twisted in confusion. “Understand what?”
“The need to have fun.”
He stood and squeezed his hands into fists. “No you don’t! You never want to have fun.” His voice was petulant, his face mulish.
Lorelei realized in an instant what her brother felt. Abandonment. By their parents. By her. Her insides softened but she squelched it with a medieval ruthlessness. This was exactly how Brandon played on their mother’s weakness.
Lorelei loved her brother more than life itself. She would fight his battles to the death. With an insight beyond her years, she knew if Brandon’s misdeeds weren’t handled and he wasn’t taught to respect others now, not only would life be unbearable for her, but his own fate would suffer greatly as a result. And as she was the only one at hand…
Without warning, Lorelei surged forward and took each boy by the ear, tugging them to their feet. Both crying out in fury, in pain, in vain. Any weakness shown on her part at this juncture would ensure a huge cost later.
Neither fought her. It would be to their peril. She guided them staunchly back down the path to the yard where Jilly was pounding the drawing room rugs.
“I’ve brought you two helpers. They insist on assisting with the laundry today.”
“I have to go home,” George whined.
“I have firsthand knowledge that is not the case, Lord Welton.” Lorelei turned back to Jilly. “The boys first wish to retrieve their pets out of my bed. They’ll be back with soiled sheets to launder.”
Jilly’s expression was carefully blank. “Yes, miss.”
Still grasping Brandon and George by their ears, Lorelei guided her charges in the house, up the stairs, and didn’t let go until they’d reached her chamber. She crossed her arms over her chest, blocking the door. “Get to it.”
Both boys stalked over to the bed and gathered up four toads each. Lorelei strode over to her vanity and, disgusted, spilled the contents from a decorated wooden box. The one she used for clippings out of the newspapers on London society, her favorite hobby (there wasn’t much to do in Spixworth). She couldn’t wait for her come out season. But that was years from now. And here she was having to use her favorite most precious box for slimy frogs her brother and his mischievous cohort had dumped in her clean linens.
“I’ll take them to the pond,” George said. “You get the sheets, Bran.”
Brandon sighed, nodding.
George didn’t return.
Lorelei had lost her favorite box but she maintained her vigil, standing over Brandon, making sure he finished the task of laundering—washing, hanging, and after drying her sheets, replacing them on the bed. It took him the whole rest of the day.
Two days later, Lorelei was handed her own grief.
“You made him do what?” Mama was outraged.
“He cost the maid a lot of time, disrespected Jilly’s hard work, Mama.” Lorelei felt no repentance. “The punishment fit the transgression.”
Papa’s laughter boomed through the drawing room. “I daresay it didn’t hurt the lad, my dear. Lorelei is right. I vow, Lorelei, you shall be a good mother someday.”
Lorelei beamed under Papa’s praise.