Page 6 of Better Than a Duke
He picked up one of the books, paging through it, until something outside the window caught his eye. A wall on either side of the garden and around the back divided Raines House from his neighbors’ properties, the brick broken up by generous window-tall openings every five feet, which were decorated with ornate wrought-iron spindles that enabled everyone to spy on everyone else’s privacy.
It was one of the spindled gaps that caught his attention. A small face peered through it into his garden from the Grove House property next door. Lord Harold and Lady Margaret Baverstock, the longtime residents of Grove House, were a couple in their fifties, and had never had children as far as he knew. Hmm.
Wide hazel eyes met his, and then the face ducked out of sight again. A light-haired boy somewhere between nine and ten—though with only a face and rough height estimate to go by, thatwas a very liberal guess. A family friend, perhaps? Or an orange thief, after the bounty he could see hanging from the pair of trees at the rear of the Grove House garden?
“Papa!” Rebecca’s yell echoed all the way up the stairs and down the hallway. “Come see the garden!”
Ah, the dulcet tones of his delicate, fainting violet. Snorting, Beckett replaced the book and headed back downstairs. This morning would have been perfect if his mother hadn’t already called, hadn’t already left a note—which he would read after dinner. Or first thing in the morning.
Once he read it, he would have to meet the woman who was going to become his wife. Rebecca’s stepmother. He would agree to a partnership that would be good for his daughter, good for his lineage, and good for his household. And beyond that, it didn’t matter. He’d been a husband, though not an exceptional one. Now he was a father. And a good one, he hoped, who would do whatever was necessary to see that Rebecca had the best chance of succeeding and being happy and well-loved in her life, and in doing whatever her heart wished. His own heart had been exceedingly foolish and impulsive ten years ago, and he had no intention of ever listening to it again. Rebecca wasn’t just his most important concern. She—and her future—had become his only concern.
Despite the custom of sleeping in during the Season, Beckett was up and dressed as rose and peach began coloring the eastern sky. A cup of tea and a scone later, he retrieved his hat and gloves and walked out to the stable where his head groom, Nat Parsley, walked his big chestnut gelding.
“How is Charlie this morning?” he asked, pulling on his gloves.
“Happy you’ve arrived in London, my lord,” Parsley said witha smile. “I’ve been trying to keep him exercised, but he’s worn me out. It was good you had him sent up early, though; it took a bit to remind him that all the work carts ain’t trying to run him down and eat him.”
Beckett nodded, patting the chestnut on the withers. “He sees carts all the time in Lincolnshire, but there’s more space to get around them there.”
“His name’s Charlie?” a small voice asked from the corner of the stable building. “He’s prime.”
Turning his head, Beckett spotted the face that had peered through the garden wall yesterday, this time attached to a slim-shouldered boy with a shock of unruly blond hair and a coat that looked a bit too large on him. “It is. Charles Llewelyn Biscuits being his formal name.”
The boy laughed. “Biscuits? You’re bamming me.”
“I would never. My daughter helped name him when she was five. She decided he was the color of honey biscuits, hence the name.”
“Where does Charles come from? And Llewelyn?”
“Charles was from a book we were reading, and Llewelyn was my contribution because it sounds grand. I think it helps elevate his standing, placed between Charles and Biscuits as it is.”
Cocking his head, the lad took a step closer. “You’re funny.”
He had been witty, at one time. These days, Rebecca seemed to appreciate his humor, but she was a very generous listener. While Parsley chuckled, Beckett put a booted foot into one stirrup and swung up into the saddle. “Thank you. What might your name be?”
“Me? I’m Edmund. Edmund Silbern. My middle name is Scott, because my mama loved to read Sir Walter Scott. She’s dead now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Beckett wheeled the impatient Charliein a tight circle. “You’re staying at Grove House, are you not? With the Baverstocks?”
Edmund nodded. “They’re my aunt and uncle, removed a few times. They keep me prisoner there, but I got out this morning to see your Charlie. He’s a beauty.” He squinted one eye in the light of the rising sun, looking up at Beckett. “You’re Lord Hentrose.”
“I am. You’re a prisoner, are you? What about your father? Is he about?”
“He’s dead, too. I’m an orphan. I get table scraps not fit for a dog, and I have to rub Aunt Lady Margaret’s feet every afternoon.”
Beckett glanced at Parsley, who shrugged. “I’ve seen him about the last few days, my lord. Don’t know anything about him.”
“Well. I have to go exercise Charlie, but if you’re hungry, Edmund, Mr. Parsley here will introduce you to Mrs. Alliday in the kitchen and she’ll make you some eggs.”
“Oh, that would be grand, my lord. Thank you!”
“You’re welcome. See him back home safely, will you, Parsley? With a bit of friendly conversation, perhaps?”
“Aye, my lord. I take your meaning.”
Kneeing Charlie, Beckett sent him out to the street and west toward Hyde Park. He didn’t know the Baverstocks well, but he did have a difficult time believing they would let a boy in their care starve. It seemed more likely that young Edmund was lonely or bored, and he’d gone to meet the neighbors. Even so, depending on Parsley’s findings, he would make a few discreet inquiries when he returned. In the meantime, as skinny as the boy was, a good breakfast would do him good.
After three days in the coach, and as welcome and amusing as the company had been, he relished stretching his muscles and feeling the wind in his face again. A dozen turns up and downRotten Row later, and he left Hyde Park to head up Hill Street toward Bruton Place.
