Billy nodded. “How long are you here?”
It was a good question. It was a question Neil continued to ask himself. He’d intended to be here a few hours. Then one night. Now, he’d been here two nights, and those would undoubtedly turn into three. But he didn’t plan to stay after that. He didn’t want to run an orphanage. He’d deal with Slag, see Lady Juliana safely home, then say his goodbyes.
That would be little consolation to Billy, though. A new thug would move into Slag’s place or a thief desperate enough would find a way to break into the orphanage, and the boys and Lady Juliana would have no one to defend them. No wonder Billy wanted the knives.
Neil held out his hand. “Before I go, we’ll find a way for you to defend yourself, if there’s still a need. In the meantime, the new cook will want these.”
Billy scooped the knives up in one large fist and handed them over. Neil nodded. “I have Walter’s knife.” He looked at the room of boys who were still pretending not to listen. “Who else has a knife or a weapon? Turn them over now. If I find them during my inspection later, you won’t like the consequences.”
By the end of the hour, Neil had collected three more knives, two bricks, a sharpened stick, two candlesticks that probably belonged in the dining room, and a half dozen hairpins that Lady Juliana was probably missing. The younger boys had their share of weapons too. Jimmy had a needle he’d swiped from Lady Juliana’s sewing box, and Chester had taken a small pan from the kitchen.
By the time Neil disposed of or returned the items and inspected the boys’ chambers, it was noon and no one had eaten. He made his way to the parlor, through the now-empty entryway. The parlor door was open and an appetizing smell drifted from the kitchen. He stuck his head in the door, finding Lady Juliana with her head bent and a quill in her hand. She was writing quickly, her lip caught between her teeth as she worked.
Neil cleared his throat. She looked up at him and her cheeks flushed. Just as quickly, she looked down again. He would have bet she was remembering their shared kiss.
“What is it, Mr. Wraxall?”
She was all business, but Neil wasn’t put off. Something about the sight of her with her copper hair spilling over one shoulder and that full lip between her small, even teeth made him want to kiss her again.
“I wondered how the interviews had gone, and the boys wondered when they might eat.”
Her head popped up. “Oh no! They haven’t eaten at all this morning, have they?” She rose, dropping her quill. “How could I have forgotten?”
Neil raised a hand. “I’ve kept them busy in their rooms, but as the weather is still unfit for travel, I haven’t been able to go out and procure any foodstuffs. Does that appetizing smell mean you hired a new cook?”
“Yes, a Mrs. Koch. Appropriate, isn’t it? Her husband fought in the Colonial War, and after his death, she settled in England. She has nine grown children and is used to cooking for a crowd, so to speak.”
“She sounds perfect.”
“Yes. I’ll ask if she can have something ready for a noon meal.”
“Good. If you need me, I’ll be in the servants’ quarters. I have a project I’d like to begin.”
She frowned. “What sort of project?”
He felt like an idiot telling her he planned to build a cage for the pet rats. He should have been ordering her to release the rodents. But he knew she would refuse. The boys had become attached to the creatures, and they seemed harmless enough. “It’s a surprise for the boys. I’ll take Goring with me. If you would be so kind, send something down for us.”
“Very well.” She moved in front of the desk, looked toward the door, then leaned toward him as though telling a secret. “You are keeping an eye on Mr. Goring.”
“I don’t want Goring running to tell Slag what we’re up to.”
She furrowed her brow. “We aren’t up to anything.”
“I told you last night.” He moved closer, lowering his voice. “Slag will not touch you. I’ll bring several of my men to the musicale, and we will deal with Mr. Slag.”
“You plan to kill him?” She put her hand to her heart.
“There are worse fates than death. The prison hulks come to mind.”
“But—”
He held up a hand. “Leave it to me. And without Slag in command, his gang will falter. The last thing the men will care about is you or the orphanage. They will be too busy killing each other to determine the next arch rogue. You can go home.”
“I told you. This is my home now.”
Neil closed his eyes. Why had he gone to see his father? Why had he agreed to help St. Maur? It will take an afternoon, his father had said. A piece of cake for a man like you, his father had said. Neil, for one, would have been pleased never to set eyes on cake again.
“You cannot save this orphanage, Lady Juliana.”
“I beg to differ. You just said with Slag gone, the orphanage would be the least of the gang’s concerns.”
“Until there’s a new leader who takes an interest.”
“And then we will have our foodstuffs stolen again.”
Neil waved a hand. She still did not understand. “Turnips and flour are not the real valuables here.”
“Then what is? We have little else.”
“You’re wrong. You have a dozen boys who would make perfect thieves and pickpockets.”
“I won’t allow that to happen. When I came here, I vowed to keep these boys safe. I won’t let them go the way of so many of the former residents.”
“You cannot stop it. You are one woman against deadly criminals and impossible odds.”
Her gaze met his. “You faced death and impossible odds, and you came home a hero.”
“I came home a ghost. I should have died with the men I sent to their deaths.”
“Have you ever considered there’s a reason you survived? What if you were spared because I needed you? What if you lived to save these boys—bastards like you but just as deserving of a chance in this world?”
Neil felt cold seep through his veins. He was no hero. He was not the man to save these children, not the man Lady Juliana seemed to want him to be. “I have one mission, Lady Juliana, and that is to return you home.”
“I told you,” she said tightly. “I am home, and I will never give up on these boys or Sunnybrooke.”
Neil couldn’t help but admire her spirit, misguided as she was. She was stubborn and idealistic, a dangerous mixture. And one he couldn’t quite seem to resist.
Twelve
She didn’t know where Mr. Wraxall disappeared to after their conversation. He’d gone out in the rain and hadn’t returned by dinner. She and the boys had enjoyed a delicious meal together, and Julia had initially been happy it would be just her and the boys at dinner. It would be like old times again—before Wraxall had come.
Except it wasn’t.
The boys had talked of little else throughout dinner. No one could say enough about when Major had done this or when he’d said that or how he’d promised to build Matthew, Mark, and John a new enclosure. Julia had tried to steer the conversation away from Wraxall, but the attempt had been only halfhearted. The truth was that Sunnybrooke wasn’t the same without him. She didn’t know how that was possible when he’d only been there two days, but in that time, they’d all become used to him and come to rely upon him. Now, there was more than an empty chair where he usually sat. There was an empty spot in the boys’ hearts. In hers as well, though she told herself it was a small spot that could be easily filled.
The danger was in allowing the little piece of her heart he’d claimed to grow larger. She had to stop the attachment she felt from becoming any stronger. No more long conversations. No more nighttime eavesdropping. And no more kisses. Definitely no more kisses.