Neil looked back at the weeping boy, whose sobs and shudders were slowly subsiding. Why would a boy of five have frequent bad dreams? What had happened to him before he’d come here?
“Good night, then, lad. I’ll wait outside the door until everyone is settled again.” He said it more for Lady Juliana’s benefit than anyone else’s, but she ignored him and went on cooing to young Chester.
Neil stepped outside and leaned against the wall. He was tired and his body ached from the uncomfortable position he’d occupied for the last several hours. He missed his bed, and though he rarely had an uninterrupted night of sleep, at least in his flat there was a chance of it. He ran his hands through his hair and rolled his neck to work out the stiffness. Then he paced up and down the corridor. The third time he passed Lady Juliana’s chamber, he slowed and peered inside. He’d seen it earlier, but then the bed had been made—hastily so, but made nonetheless. He could see the slight indentation where her body had lain before she’d been awakened by Chester’s screams. He wondered if her pillow smelled like flowers or perhaps something a bit more sultry…
Neil made himself walk on. Another few passes and he craned his head to see into the dormitory. Lady Juliana stood beside Chester’s bed, looking down at him. The long robe gave her an ethereal quality, and the straight fall of her coppery hair down her back looked like a river of lava. Finally, she bent and kissed the boy’s forehead. Neil tried not to notice her rounded backside when the fabric of her robe tightened over it.
She turned and started for the door, pausing to kiss James as well. Neil moved out of the doorway and stood at attention. A moment later, she emerged and quietly pulled the door closed. She’d tugged her hair over her shoulder, and when she faced him, it fell between her breasts. They were generous breasts. The robe had opened enough for him to see the edges of the lace cupping her form. At his glance, she pulled the fabric closed, holding it securely with one small, white hand.
“You could have gone back to bed,” she told him in a whisper.
“I don’t have a bed,” he whispered back.
“That’s your choice. As you can see, I’m needed here.”
He did see that, although if he could hire the right people, that wouldn’t be the case. “James says the lad often wakes screaming.”
She nodded. “He dreams of men yelling and hurting him. I don’t know what his life was like before he came here. He says he doesn’t remember in the daylight. I think he must have been born in…well, a place no child should be born.”
“A brothel?” Neil didn’t frequent them, but he’d seen his share on the Continent. They were places men gathered, which made them good places to gather information. Neil hadn’t been interested in the services the ladies were selling. When he looked at the women, he saw frightened or numb girls forced to sell the only commodity they possessed—themselves. He’d seen the children too. Boys and girls as young as three or four, not peddling their bodies, but fetching and carrying and witnessing all sorts of lewd behavior.
If what Chester said was true and his mother was a harlot, it was likely he’d seen all sorts of activities he didn’t understand and that might frighten a toddler.
Juliana lifted the lamp and motioned him away from the closed door, closer to her room. “That is what I suspect, although I don’t know for certain because the woman who ran the orphanage before I took over kept very poor records. Only a few of the boys—Robbie, Billy, and Jimmy—have any sort of file with information as to when and why they were left here. Some of the boys, like Ralph and Sean, have nothing at all. I have no idea how long they’ve been here or if those are really even their names.”
He wanted to ask her if that was why she’d come to live at the orphanage, to straighten out paperwork, but that didn’t really matter to him. What mattered was convincing her to leave so he could complete his mission.
He should have told her good night then, but he waited too long, his gaze fixed on the copper trail of silky hair winding through the valley of her breasts. He would have liked to brush it over her shoulders and brush the robe off in the process. By the time he met her gaze again, she was looking at him expectantly. He cleared his throat, searching for something to say. “And is it true about Jimmy then?”
“That his parents are in debtor’s prison? That is what his file says and what he claims as well. I’m sure they will be back for him, but of course, they have to find a way to pay the debt first.” She stepped back, closer to her open door. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Wraxall, I’ll say good night again. The boys are awake early, and I’d like to rest a few more hours before I attempt to make them breakfast.”
“I’ll take care of breakfast,” he said before he could stop himself. He should quit making her life easier. Yesterday, he hadn’t known the situation he’d stepped into. Now, he did. She had made her bed. Why not let her lie in it?
“I couldn’t ask you to do that, sir.”
He frowned. “You didn’t ask. I offered.” And he’d be damned if he would retract his offer now. The pie man would be back, and to supplement, they had a whole house full of able-bodied children. “Besides, the boys should learn some self-sufficiency.”
Her dark eyes rounded. “You intend to have the children cook their own breakfast?”
“Why not? I did it during the war.” If he could do it, so could these boys. More to the point, if a man like Rafe Beaumont, who could charm a woman into pretty much anything and probably never had to cook or sew or even shave himself before joining Draven’s men, could cook his own porridge, so could these boys. Even little Charlie would do a better job than Rafe’s first laughable attempt.
“It must bring back fond memories,” she said. When he raised a brow, she added. “You’re smiling.”
“Just send the boys to me when they wake,” he told her. “I’ll take care of breakfast.”
The look she gave him was one he could only characterize as confusion. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
He let out a choked laugh. “You think I’m nice?” If only she had even an inkling of what he’d done during the war, she would probably run from him, screaming all the way. Shaking his head, he strode down the stairs, back to his hard chair and his cold post.
*
In the morning, Julia did as Wraxall had suggested and sent the boys down to the kitchen. With Wraxall in charge of the boys—and the scent of something cooking—she had extra time in the morning for the first time since she’d come to the orphanage. She took her time washing all over with the cold water in her basin, dressed carefully in the best of what she thought of as her work dresses. Those were the ones she had pulled from her dressing room and taken with her—she swallowed the lump in her throat—when she’d come here.
Her work wardrobe amounted to four or five dresses, although she had finer garments here as well. She could not return to Mayfair dressed like a maid. Of course, now that she no longer had Mrs. Nesbit to help her dress, she was rather limited to what she could manage to don without assistance. The dress she wore—a pale-blue muslin day dress with pink roses on the hem and bodice—was probably too fine for the orphanage. The material was too light in color and would show every stain. It would probably be soiled by midmorning. She’d have to tie an apron over it. And, Lud, but she hoped her mother did not look down from above and see her dressed in an apron.
Julia often tucked her hair in a mobcap, but though it was practical and modest and kept her hair out of the way, she could not make herself do it this morning. She didn’t want to think too much about why she wanted to look pretty. She didn’t want to think about who she was trying to look pretty for because the boys certainly didn’t care what she looked like.
She braided several sections of her hair and was almost done winding them into a simple but elegant coiffure when she heard something crash. She dropped the hairpin she’d held delicately between two fingers and listened for more crashes.