Page 2 of An Uncommon Earl

Alexander bent down so that he could look the boy in the eyes. “How old are you, Archie?”

“I’m comin’ on six years old, me lord.”

The pride most children felt in reaching another birthday fell flat in the weariness of his voice, and the wrongness of it all shook Alexander. The child was but five, and yet he was forced to climb chimneys all around London. Who could guess how many times the lad had panicked because he’d become stuck in the narrow flues or been injured because he’d fallen as he’d done today. At this age, Alexander had been safely ensconced in his nursery at Bloxley Hall, his greatest concern being whether or not he’d be allowed to ride the small pony his father had purchased from a neighboring farmer.

“Well then,” Alexander said, forcing cheer into his voice. “I believe almost reaching another birthday calls for honey on the bread.”

The wonder in Archie’s eyes echoed in his voice. “I ain’t never ’ad honey afore, me lord. But I’ve ’eard tell it’s marvelous.”

“It is indeed.” Encouraged that his distraction appeared to be working, Alexander straightened once more. “Hastings!” Much as he’d surmised, his butler was hovering just outside the door and answered immediately.

“You called, my lord.”

“Young Archie here has taken a tumble. I’d like you to escort him to the kitchen so he can try some of Cook’s bread with butter and honey.”

“Am I to assume the boy is to be cleaned up a bit before eating, my lord?” Hastings asked, eyeing the filthy child dubiously.

“Before, during, or after,” Alexander said. “Just be sure someone tends to his recent wound.”

Hastings nodded. “Very good, my lord.” He turned to leave the room. “This way, young man.”

Archie hesitated, his eyes darting from Mr. Watson’s stony expression to Alexander’s unwavering one, then back again.

“You ’eard the earl,” Mr. Watson barked. “What are ya waiting for, boy?”

On shaking legs, Archie stumbled after the butler. Alexander watched him go, grimly wondering how many bruises were contributing to the child’s unsteady gait.

“Just to be clear, Mr. Watson,” Alexander said, turning to face the sweep once more, “no matter how many young boys you currently employ, none are to climb the chimneys at Claremont House unless they are over the age of ten.” Then offering the man a curt nod, he exited the room without a backward glance.

Alexander entered the hall in time to see Hastings guide his young charge through the servants’ entrance. Confident that his loyal butler would do right by the lad, he reached for the hat and gloves waiting for him at the front door and turned his thoughts to his upcoming meetings. Some were more perfunctory than others, but only three days ago, Jonas Ainsworth, Viscount Langton, had hinted that support was growing for a change in child labor laws and had asked that Alexander meet him at White’s later today. After this morning’s interaction with Mr. Watson, Alexander was even more anxious than he’d been before to hear what his friend had to say.

“Alexander!” His mother’s imperious voice reached him from the staircase, and Alexander stifled a groan. He was within arm’s length of the front door, but he could not escape now. Not without exchanging a casual greeting, at least.

“Good morning, Mother.” He pressed his hat to his head and offered her a slight bow as she moved toward him. The passing years may have caused her joints to stiffen and her hair to whiten, but her flamboyant style of dress and commanding presence remained undimmed.

“You are leaving the house early,” she said.

“Not so early as I had hoped, actually,” he replied. “I have an important appointment this morning and will be hard pressed to arrive on time.”

If his mother grasped the not-so-subtle hint, she chose to ignore it. “Then I am glad that I caught you. I am hosting a small musical gathering this evening and have invited the Moorefields, the Pinnocks, Lady Millward, and the Hadfords. Mr. Reginald Hadford, you may recall, is the nephew who inherited Charwell Park from the late Mr. Hadford. I am told that he and his sister, Lady Millward, visited Charwell Park on occasion during their youths, so they are somewhat familiar with the area.

“Lady Millward introduced us briefly when I saw her at the theatre last week. She has been hosting them while they’ve been visiting London, but as they will soon be our closest neighbors in Berkshire, it seemed only fitting that we should invite them to Claremont House while I am in town.

“There are two daughters—quite pretty—although one of them is crippled, poor thing.” She shrugged. “They appear to be pleasant enough young ladies, but I have yet to hear either string more than two sentences together at a time.”

Alexander refrained from pointing out that few people ever spoke more than a few words while in Lady Bloxley’s presence. In truth, it was as difficult for him to get a word in edgewise as it was for anyone else. And the task was proving especially challenging this morning.

“I have no doubt that each of your guests is looking forward to the evening, Mother, but with my schedule already full, I cannot promise that I—”

She raised her hand. “I will not accept any excuses, Alexander. An evening spent at White’s with your fellow Tories does not constitute vital parliamentary business. You may talk politics to your heart’s content today, but this evening, I shall expect your attendance here.” She gave him a pointed look. “Lady Emma Moorefield and Miss Arabella Pinnock have each promised to sing, and I, in turn, have promised that you will be in the audience.”

Alexander slid on his gloves with a little more force than necessary. There was no denying that Lady Emma possessed a fine voice. The problem was she knew it. Her pride in her musical ability was superseded only by her vanity over her appearance, and Alexander had long since lost any desire to compliment her on either one.

Miss Arabella Pinnock’s remarkable vocal range was the talk of any musical event where she performed. Unfortunately, the high notes she attained with such ease set his teeth on edge and left his ears ringing and his jaw aching.

“I shall endeavor to return in time to hear them perform,” he said. “But that is all. Tomorrow evening, no matter what entertainment you have planned, I shall remain in perfect isolation in my study.” He glanced toward the room in question and frowned. “As long as it is returned to rights by then.”

Lady Bloxley waved away his demand with the flick of her hand. “After tonight, we have no further commitments beyond the Norringtons’ ball on Saturday. So you are free to amuse yourself as you wish.” She paused as though only now registering his concern over the state of his study. “And you have no need to worry. The chimney sweep will have finished his work long before then.”