Lady Rebecca Thatcher marched out of The Royal Society where her father was touting his favorite subject: Charles Babbage’s Difference Engine. She’d heard his lecture so often, she could recite it in her sleep. To date, and to her father’s frustration, Babbage’s device had not yet been approved by The Society. Papa’s fascination with a machine that tabulated numbers was, at times, entertaining, and at other times had her wanting to hide in the nearest closet and plug her ears with cotton. It wasn’t that Rebecca was opposed to progressive changes, but the changes she wished to see were those for women and the children they’d borne to protect. Mothers wished to feed and house themselves and their babies. Men seek to suppress. And Rebecca never allowed an opportunity pass of saying so to anyone within hearing to Papa’s utmost regret.
Outside the lecture hall, she was finally able to draw in a breath, revel in the mild afternoon—meaning it wasn’t wet or chilled.
She moved past the shaded stone steps into the sun’s rare appearance. The grass’s lushness had her longing to strip off her kid boots and stockings to let her toes breathe.
Patches of wild flowers dotted the field, coloring the landscape with new growth. Yellow kingcups, powder bluebells, daisies, and corncockles of magenta. It was quite lovely. It appeared she had the rolling meadow to herself, except for three gentlemen who had stepped out of their club.
Or so she’d believed.
A young boy flew at her from his hiding place from behind a huge oak and hugged her legs.
“Mama. Mama.”
Rebecca opened her mouth to ask him what the devil he was about but instantly caught sight of a harsh looking individual bearing down on her—them. She wrapped an arm around the boy’s thin shoulders and waited until she was certain the man was close enough to hear. “Where have you been, young man? I’ve been beside myself trying to find you.”
His blue eyes flashed with gratitude. “I’m sorry, Mama.” He lowered his gaze in a brilliant show of contriteness. His once white shirt was gray and tattered.
“I’ll lock you in the schoolroom, I will, if you ever pull a stunt like that again. Do you understand?” she said, shaking him lightly.
The man pulled up before her and she tightened her hold on the boy. The man’s nostril’s flared from a thin and pointed nose. His cheeks flushed a ruddy-red. Black eyes, small and deep set, narrowed on her. “This ’ere is yer child?”
Rebecca thrust her shoulders back and pulled to her full height—barely to his shoulders—some inches over five feet. Two, if one were exacting. Keeping a firm grip on the child, she eased him behind her, and faced the man straight on. “Indeed he is,” she said in her haughtiest imitation of one of her most challenging governess’s she’d grown up with, effectively shutting out the ghostly tendril memories of her first and favorite, Miss Lowe. “And just who might you be, sir?”
He reached toward her and she scuttled back out of reach. “That boy don’t belong to ye,” he growled. “Ain’t no one outsmarts Finch Cromwell.”
She committed his name to memory, eyeing the young gentlemen across the park, and raised her voice. “Unhand me, sirrah!” The volume had the intended effect, and the young men hurried in her direction.
The villain sneered. “This ain’t over,” he hissed. Just like that, he melted away.
“What is the meaning of this?” the tallest one asked. “Are you unharmed, madam?”
“Of course, I am,” she said, muting her irritation. Rebecca Thatcher was not a woman usually in need of rescuing. The proof of which she carried in her reticule in the form of a very fine, very sharp dagger.
The young man glanced about, then settled his gaze back on her. “You ought not to be out here alone, ma’am. This here is a dangerous area for a young lady.” There was condescension in his voice that rippled across her skin but she reined in her hauteur. After all, she was the one who had called out.
Still, Rebecca was almost certain the man was a year or two younger than her own age of five and twenty. “Thank you. But I’ve been looking for my… son.” She glanced over her shoulder. Finch Cromwell was nowhere to be seen. His complete and utter disappearance sent a shudder over her.
The man frowned. “Shall I a call for a hack?”
Behind her the boy stiffened and attempted to wrest from her hold. “That won’t be necessary,” she said to the young man, maintaining a solid grip on the child. “My carriage is just in front of the lecture hall.”
“Shall we accompany you? In the event that scalawag returns.”
The boy quit fighting her hold and froze.
“That would be lovely,” she said, smiling. “Shall we, my dear?” she directed to her new charge.
His lips pressed into a petulant line. He knew he was outnumbered if he attempted to run. The troupe reached her carriage and she handed the boy up. “Stay here a minute, Barrett,” she said to her driver. Thanking the young men, she climbed in and took the seat across from the boy. “Would you care to tell me what this is all about?”
Nothing.
All right then. “Where are you from?”
Nothing. Lips tighter, perhaps.
“Your name?”
Again, nothing.
“A constable might assist us. Or a doctor, since you seemed to have lost your ability to talk.”
“We can’t leave. Not yet.” His hurried words were succinct and, though he was young, educated. So he wasn’t from the streets.
“And why is that?”
Something nudged the carriage and his small frame seemed to heave a huge sigh of relief.
The carriage shook again, and Rebecca knew that Barrett had taken care of whatever it was that had shaken the conveyance in the first place. The door opened and Barrett held up an identical version of the child sitting across from her.
“Good heavens,” she breathed. “There are two of you?” She shook her head. “Toss him in, Barrett.”
Naturally, Barrett set the child gently to his feet inside and shut the door. The boy took his place next to his brother and they clasped hands.
She glanced at the first boy. “I take it he is what, rather who, we were waiting on?”
He nodded.
“Let us start again. Your names, if you please.”
Boy number one did the talking. “I’m Oliver and this here’s my brother Owen.”
“It’s nice to meet you both. I’m Lady Rebecca. Now, tell me. Where are we going?”
The boys looked at one another then back at her, their eyes wide.
Oliver, the apparent designated speaker, said, “We’d like to go home, please.”
“And where is home, pray tell?”
“Somerset, my lady.”
“Somer—” she sucked in a sharp breath. “Why, that is a two-day drive, young man. How on earth did you end up in London?”
Oliver’s mouth tightened into a line she was already starting to associate with what was a stubborn side of him.
Rebecca held a long breath, looking out the window, before letting it out. Owen had yet to utter a word. “Somerset.” She drummed her gloved fingers on her knee then faced them. “All right. I shall escort you to Somerset. You won’t mind if we locate some clean clothes for you?”
Oliver, or was it Owen? nodded.
“Will that dastardly man be chasing us?”
They looked at one another, then back at her. Oliver shook his head.
“That’s something anyway.” She lifted the trap. “The house, please, Barrett.”
The ride to 15 Berkley Square was a twenty minute drive due to the clogged streets. It would have been faster and more efficient to walk, but Rebecca didn’t trust that horrid man not to follow. At least with Barrett manning the carriage, she felt relatively safe. They pulled into the drive and stepped out. “See what you can locate in the way of decent clothes for the boys,” she told Barrett. “I’ve no idea where one finds clothing for growing boys. Perhaps tunics? Leading strings? I shall leave it to you. Then be ready to push on. We’ll leave for Somerset fairly soon after.”
“Of course, Lady Rebecca.”
A sense of intuition touched her and she leaned in, as if someone might overhear. “I think it wise to not publicize we are providing for two children rather than one.”
He nodded and clucked the reins.
Rebecca ushered her charges into the house. She stripped off her bonnet, handing it to Lars, the Rivers’ staidly butler. Her gloves came next and the atmosphere in the hall riddled in shock.
Oliver’s eyes widened in horror. “Cor! What happened to your arm, my lady?”
Rebecca glanced down at the unsightly scarring, located above her wrist on the inside. It covered a good portion of her forearm and had gotten infected at the time. She never forgot how lucky she was that Papa hadn’t allowed the surgeon to take the hacksaw to her arm. She rarely had cause to think of that day so long ago. “I saved a friend from a monster.” Due to the break in her wrist she’d sustained at the same time, she’d acquired an uncanny predilection of foul weather since the disaster.
“Did you kill him? I hope you killed him.” Oliver said.
“No. But I knocked him silly.” She led them up the stairs to the first level. “Are you hungry?”
“Famished, my lady,” Oliver answered for the two of them.
A niggling suspicion was taking hold, but Rebecca squelched her questions and addressed the butler. “A tray for two hungry boys, Lars. Any messages?”
“Just one, my lady. From Lady Huntley.”
“Gabriella?” Rebecca snatched her friend’s missive from her butler. She’d recently married though Rebecca hadn’t been able to attend. In any event, Rebecca had thought her still on her honeymoon. “Have a bath drawn for the boys,” she said absently.
“A bath?” Oliver’s voice was a high-pitched squeal.
“If I’m to ride in a carriage with you all the way to Somerset, I insist on a bath. Am I quite clear on this?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied meekly.
She looked at Owen, who stared back, his blue eyes watchful, nary a word passing his lips, but nodding all the same. That was something anyway.
“Come along, then. Food first.” She decided the library would hold more fascination for two young boys rather than her father’s stuffy, formal drawing room.
“Blimey,” Oliver said when they walked in.
Bookcases from floor to ceiling covered every wall, and circular stairs went to a second level to yet more books. Rebecca adored books. The heavy curtains were drawn where the French windows opened to the lush gardens, letting in the afternoon sunlight.
Grinning at Oliver’s surprise, she took a seat. “Spectacular, isn’t it? Feel free to peruse about. You’re not going to hurt anything.” She glanced down, reminded by the note she still held and broke the seal.
My dearest Rebecca,
I thought you might come for a visit. I miss our midnight chats and it’s been years. There’s much to share. Please say you’ll come. I’m in Dorchester, and I refuse to take no for an answer. I shall see you soon.
Impatiently awaiting, Gabriella.
Rebecca turned the missive over. The note was cryptic at best. Years, indeed. Their last midnight chat was seven years ago. The night before their joint come-out ball. It had been only six months prior that the two of them were whisked away from Miss Greensley’s School of Comportment for Young Ladies of Quality. And why the devil was Gabriella in Dorchester? Huntley’s, an earl of supposed great standing, lands were located north in Doncaster—Rebecca re-read the note—definitely south, not north, leaving Rebecca more than curious.
Frankly, she didn’t trust any of the nobility when it came to its “upstanding” members.
Dorchester was located south of Somerset, so a visit to her friend should work out nicely after delivering the boys. From there she would return to Exford, her own home, rather than London. She moved to the escritoire and penned a quick note to Gabriella and another to her father, letting him know of her change in plans. Papa would hardly notice her absence besides.
The door opened and the housekeeper entered with a tray.
The boys pounced.
~~~
Sebastian Lynnwood, the Duke of Ryleigh for almost two years now, was tired. Anyone who read a list of his titles that also included the Marquis of Dorset, Viscount Woodsford, and a military rank of Admiral of the Fleet in the Royal Navy would hardly disagree. He was rather proud of that last one as he’d earned it rather than been born to it. Though, he was pragmatic enough to recognize his need for control and structure. Such traits played a key role in why he’d taken so well to the military lifestyle. He abhorred chaos.
Sebastian picked up the note from his sister, Gabriella, the recent Countess of Huntley and read.
Dearest Seb.
I’m in Dorchester and I’ve invited my friend Lady Rebecca Thatcher to visit. You remember her? You refused to marry her after kissing her in the garden during my come-out ball? Incidentally, Seb, I no longer wish to be Countess of Huntley. He is not the husband I thought him to be. Don’t worry in the least about me. I shall be fine.
Your younger and dearest sister, G
“Oh, for God’s sake.” This was a headache he didn’t need. Gabriella was the last of his four sisters he’d seen safely married and settled. A completed task that allowed him to move forward in the tedious process of securing a suitable bride in the begetting of an heir. So he’d believed.
Sebastian flipped the note over out of habit. He could practically hear his sister’s foot stomping in a tantrum. He rubbed his temples, his lips compressed. Oh, yes, he remembered Lady Rebecca, disgust pouring through him, even as the memory of that untutored kiss hit him in the chest like a hammer.
Rebecca Thatcher was a disgrace to her gender. Her reputation far preceded her. For one thing, the few times Sebastian had been called to Lady Greensley’s School for Young Women on some mischief his once genteel and compliant sister had been caught up in, Lady Rebecca’s larger than life presence had been prominent—each and every time. Her lunge for him in the dark gardens Gabriella spoke of had been the last straw. Sebastian had finally put his foot down and forbid Gabriella’s contact with Rebecca from that day forward.
Now that Gabriella had married, his say over her had shifted to her new husband. In most cases, Sebastian welcomed that change. But this was the reckless young woman who had single-handedly led Gabriella off the strict path Sebastian had set forth.
It appeared Sebastian would be facing the hoydenish culprit for the first time since that disastrous night seven years ago. There was no doubt in his mind the woman was one hundred percent behind this latest catastrophe to befall Gabriella, and he had every intention of protecting his sister and letting Lady Rebecca know in no uncertain terms.
He rose and called for Fosse.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Tell Néo to prepare a bag.” He glanced back at the note he still clutched. “It appears a trip to Dorchester is imminent. We’ll leave tomorrow.”
Lady Rebecca Thatcher had chosen the wrong opponent for her little conquest.