But in the dream, Chris’s eyes were closed. They’d always been open before. They’d been open, seeing nothing, that day on the battlefield. Neil stared at the face of his dead brother and noticed it was not as defined as it had once been. He was forgetting the small details, not only of that day, but of his dead brother. Before he could decide whether this was good or bad, the corpse opened its green eyes.
Neil woke, a scream lodged in his throat. But that was all it was—lodged in his throat. He hadn’t made an actual sound. His throat was not raw. No one came running to see what was the matter. His hands still trembled, but he clenched them, and the shaking ceased.
Slowly he became aware of the clink of pots and pans, the shuffling sounds of people moving about, and the pinpoints of light that filtered through the dark curtains.
It was morning. He’d slept the entire night. Without drink. Without waking in a cold sweat from nightmares. He wanted to hope and yet he didn’t. He’d had good nights before. One good night didn’t mean anything. But his brother’s eyes had been closed. What did it mean?
And what did it matter? Today he would leave. He would go home, and if he saw Juliana again, it would be for a moment when he checked on the roof repairs or stopped by to ensure the orphanage’s board of directors passed on the funds donated.
He’d never kiss her again, touch her silky skin, make love to her—and perhaps that was for the best. She’d never be his, and he’d be the worst sort of rogue to take her innocence without the promise of marriage.
Neil dressed, and when he stepped out of his room, he met the disapproving look of Jackson. The valet’s gaze slid over the haphazard way Neil had yanked the nearest available clothing on, and the man shook his head.
Neil raised a hand. “Before you decide I’m not up to snuff, let me remind you we are in an orphanage.”
“That is no excuse for poor—”
“And we are leaving this morning.”
That announcement silenced Jackson.
“Pack my things and your own. I want to be off first thing.”
“Leaving, sir?” Jackson asked.
“As soon as I speak with Billy, yes.”
Jackson’s expression was still one of shock. “Does Lady Juliana know this, sir?”
Neil put his hands on his hips. “Not that it matters, as she has no authority over me, but yes, she knows. I believe she will be quite glad to see my back.”
“But I thought—”
“Do not think, Jackson. Pack.”
“Yes, sir.” Jackson trudged into Neil’s chamber, shoulders hunched in dejection. Neil blew out a breath. He’d thought at least Jackson was on his side.
Once upstairs, Neil found Billy easily enough. He was in the dining room with the other boys, waiting impatiently for the morning meal.
“Major!” a chorus of voices rang out, surprising Neil. James ran to him and grabbed one of his legs in a fierce hug. Charlie smiled around the thumb in his mouth. George held up a paper where he’d drawn what Neil thought might be a horse—or a ship—and even Ralph nodded at him, his black eye now just a faded yellow.
“Can I sit by you, Major?” Sean asked.
“I get to sit on ’is other side,” Angus said.
“He sat on that side of the room yesterday,” Michael announced. “He’s eaten on that side five times and only four on this side. That is, if we’re counting.”
“You are always counting,” Robbie muttered.
“When do we eat?” Jimmy asked. “I’m starving, and once Mrs. Dunwitty finds us, we’ll be trapped all morning.”
“Can I sit on your lap, Major?” Charlie asked around his thumb.
“Actually,” Neil said, speaking through the cacophony for the first time, “I haven’t time to eat this morning. I need to speak with Billy.”
Billy, who had been sitting in a corner, looking down at his hands, raised his head. He was clean of soot and ash, but he had a welt on his forehead and his lip still looked swollen. The boy rose slowly to his feet. “What is it, Major?”
“I’d like to speak in private.” Neil motioned to the door. Billy made his way across the now-silent room, and Neil led him into the parlor, where he left the door open slightly. “Sit,” Neil ordered, gesturing to the couch. He tried not to remember lying on that couch himself, Juliana wrapped in his arms. He tried not to remember her in his arms, pushed up against the far wall, her lips hot and eager.
“You have a choice to make,” Neil said when Billy sat. “About your future.”
Billy looked up, his eyes defiant. “What choice? No one ever gave me a choice. I had no choice about living here. No choice about being beaten every day, before Lady Juliana came, no choice about what to eat. What choices do I have?”
“You have to choose between living here or out there,” Neil said, crooking his thumb at the street.
“That’s no choice. If I don’t do what Slag wants, he hurts me.”
“Slag is gone now. That means you do have a choice.”
“And when another takes his place?”
“Walk away. If you can’t, you send for me.” Neil reached into his coat and took out a card. “This is the name of my solicitor. He can always find me, and his offices are not far from here.”
Billy took the card, looking at it as though it were an exotic piece of fruit.
“You can always come to me for help, but if you want to live here, if you want to stay at Sunnybrooke, you’ll have no more dealings with the gangs and the upright men.”
Billy pressed his lips together. “I don’t see the problem with making a little extra on the side.”
“The problem,” Neil said levelly, though he wanted to rage at the boy to stop being an idiot, “is that sort of activity leads to the events of last night. Either I have your word you will walk the straight and narrow, or you pack what meager belongings you have and leave right now.”
Billy’s head came up. “You can’t make me leave. Lady Juliana won’t make me leave.”
“Yes, I will.”
Neil’s gaze shot to the door where Juliana stood in the small opening. She pushed it wider, the skirts of her green dress swishing against the wood. She looked beautiful with her copper hair in a sleek tail down her back and the tight-fitting bodice of the dress molding to curves he wished he could forget. The contrast between her fragile beauty and the dark squalor of the orphanage was stark, but somehow she managed to look regal all the same.
She did not look rested. Her eyes were puffy, her mouth a tight line. If he hadn’t known her well, he might not have noticed, but he knew her now. Knew he was most likely the cause of her tossing and turning.
“Mr. Wraxall is correct, Billy. You do have a choice to make.” She moved into the room, her gaze on Billy and studiously averted from him. “Last night proved to me that every relationship has give-and-take. I can offer you love and safety and a home, but I can’t make you take it.”
She didn’t look at Neil, but he knew she spoke to him as well as to Billy.
“And you cannot have things both ways. You choose this orphanage and me, or you leave. I do not want to give you up, but I have eleven other boys to think about. I won’t sacrifice them for you. And I won’t risk them for you again either. Make your choice.”
Billy looked from Juliana to Neil and back again. The silence in the room was so heavy Neil wished he could push the weight from his shoulders. He wished he could take Juliana in his arms, tell her he’d made his choice for her.
Because he loved her too.
Then Billy lifted a hand and swiped at his eyes, but it wasn’t enough to stem the tears. Juliana leaned forward and stopped herself. She wanted to take the child in her arms—and that was what he looked like again, just a child—but she would wait until he made his choice.
“I want to stay with you, my lady,” Billy sobbed. “Please let me stay.”
And then Billy was in her arms, and she was patting his back and smoothing his hair, and whispering that everything would be okay. Over Billy’s shoulder, Juliana’s gaze met Neil’s. Neil nodded. Everything was as it should be again. She had her lost chick back under her wing.
She’d saved another boy, but Neil was no child who could be soothed with a pat on the back. She couldn’t change the station either of them had been born to.
With a sardonic salute, he walked away—out of the parlor, out of the orphanage, out of her life.
Twenty-one