“I almost forgot, sir. This note came for you a few hours ago.”
Neil lifted it and nodded to the silver-haired Master of the House, who departed quite gracefully, considering he had but one leg. It didn’t surprise Neil that correspondence meant for him had been sent here. He was here more than anywhere else, and anyone who knew him knew that. He broke the seal and opened the paper, recognizing the hand immediately. It was from the Marquess of Kensington. It said simply:
Call on me at the town house at your earliest convenience. I have need of you.
—Kensington
Two
Lady Juliana, only remaining daughter of the Earl St. Maur, could have screamed. She’d had a more abominable morning than usual, and that was saying something.
First, she’d been called away from the Duke of Devonshire’s ball by the appearance of Robbie, one of the orphans from the Sunnybrooke Home for Boys. He’d told her she must come immediately. There was an emergency at the orphanage, and she’d made her excuses and run out, much to her father’s annoyance. It probably hadn’t helped matters that she’d taken the family coach.
Then she’d arrived at the orphanage just as the sun was rising to find that her cook was packing her bags to leave. Julia had known it would happen sooner or later; she’d simply hoped it would be later. Mrs. Nesbit had been complaining for months about the state of the kitchens, claiming she could hardly be expected to work in such conditions. Julia had agreed. The ovens smoked, the roof leaked, and the boys had stolen all the decent knives. Lately, Mrs. Nesbit had also complained the staples she stocked had been steadily disappearing as well—flour, cornmeal, potatoes, and garlic. Julia wondered if perhaps Mrs. Nesbit was cheating her and selling the stock on the sides, but she had no proof and couldn’t afford to lose the cook. She’d begged Mrs. Nesbit to give her more time to ask the orphanage’s board for money and make the repairs.
She’d thought she’d succeeded at persuading the woman, until, of course, the boys had thought it amusing to loose three tame rats in the kitchen as Mrs. Nesbit prepared breakfast. When Charlie had shown her the rats again, just to prove they were harmless, the poor cook had shrieked loud enough to wake the dead—or at least the dead tired, as Juliana thought of herself—and resigned effective immediately.
Which meant Julia had to cook the boys breakfast. One could not simply allow a dozen boys to go hungry, and she did not have the funds to buy them all pies from the hawkers’ carts. Not when each boy ate as much as a horse.
And so, Julia had calmly collected the rats, placed them back in their straw-lined box with a bit of bread for their breakfast, and in her jewels and dancing slippers, heated oats in a large pot she could barely move. She tried not to feel sorry for herself. Even as she rolled and kneaded bread until her arms ached, she pushed memories of walks in the promenade and ices at Gunters aside. And when her once lovely copper ball gown was covered in flour and sticky pieces of dough, Juliana did not allow her thoughts to stray to all the lovely balls where she had worn the gown and danced with countless handsome and charming gentlemen.
Or at least she didn’t allow her thoughts to stray much.
But no sooner had she placed the bread in the oven than Mr. Goring, her manservant, had knocked on the open door and informed her Mr. Slag was waiting for her in the parlor.
Julia had stared at the servant as though the man had gone mad. Sticky white hands on her hips, she’d glowered at Mr. Goring until he’d lowered his eyes. “Why on earth did you seat Mr. Slag in the parlor?” She also wanted to ask where he had been when the boys he was supposed to be watching in her absence were foisting rats on the cook, but she couldn’t afford to lose Mr. Goring too.
“There ain’t nowhere else except the dining room, and the lads is in there making a racket about wantin’ their vittles.”
Julia had heard and ignored the noise. If the boys had wanted to be fed in good time, they shouldn’t have taunted the cook with the rats. “What I meant, Mr. Goring,” she clarified, though she knew he’d understood her perfectly, “is why did you admit Mr. Slag? I told you never to admit him. Not under any circumstances.”
Goring scratched the sparse hair at the crown of his forehead. “Did you want me to close the door on him?”
“No.” She spoke slowly and deliberately, as she often spoke to Charlie, who was four. “I wanted you to say what I told you to say.”
“But, my lady, you are home.”
“Not to him!” Defeated, she removed the apron that was supposed to protect her ball gown and tossed it on the worktable. She’d deal with Mr. Slag then serve breakfast. Before leaving the kitchen, she closed the box with Matthew, Mark, and Luke and perched it under one arm. She did not want to risk the rodents escaping into the kitchen and causing more mayhem.
Order Shana Galen’s next book
in The Survivors series
No Earls Allowed
On sale March 2018
Acknowledgments
I’m so fortunate to have such a supportive group of friends and colleagues to shepherd this book toward publication. I already mentioned Sophie Jordan, who gave me the idea for this series at the RT convention in Dallas in 2015. We were sitting in our hotel room, and I told her I needed an idea for a new series, and she said, “Have you ever seen the movie The Dirty Dozen?” Honestly, I don’t know how she thinks of these things, but as soon as she said dozen, I had that little spark of an idea I know will flame into something bigger.
Joanna Mackenzie and Danielle Egan-Miller fanned the flames by helping me brainstorm and by shaping the series idea into something more tangible and sophisticated. They are two of the most savvy, intelligent, and creative women I know. I’m so proud they represent me as my agents.
Deb Werksman, my editor at Sourcebooks, molded the manuscript further with her wonderful insights and suggestions. Ewan would not be the hero he is without her guidance.
My friends Tera Lynn Childs, Lily Blackwood, Nicole Flockton, Lark Howard, Sophie Jordan, and Mary Lindsey helped brainstorm titles, as they often do, for this book. Beth Sochacki, my awesome publicist, had so many wonderful ideas for the title of the book, the series, and of equal importance, presenting it to readers. Dawn Adams and I had several conversations about the cover, and I count myself lucky to work with the most talented cover artist in the industry.
My friends Susan Knight and Sarah Rosenbarker brainstormed heroes with me, and the Shananigans gave me much-needed encouragement and support.
My husband deserves special mention for doing his best to give me extra time to work when I need it and not complaining when I had to write instead of watching The Walking Dead with him.
Finally, thanks to Gayle Cochrane, who is a friend and my biggest supporter, and who is always ready with a fabulous idea or a word of encouragement.