Rules of Engagement

  The big boy being Lord Kerrich, and his antics yesterday being the silliest bit of posturing she’d ever seen in an adult man. Yes, he was handsome, wealthy, and titled. Yes, his smile could charm the birds out of the trees. No, she didn’t care.

  No more than she cared about the whistles and tricks the lads used to assault her ears and call attention to themselves. Kerrich’s charms were as obvious and wearisome as his cousin’s were refined and studious. Kerrich could learn a lot from Mr. Athersmith.

  He would not, of course. Pamela remembered observing Kerrich at Kensington Palace and diagnosing him as a vain-glorious young man with a high opinion of himself. He hadn’t changed. He thought himself above the common run of gentlefolk. She could only hope that someday someone—some woman—would put him in his place. And that she was around to see it.

  One of the eight-year-old boys began to sing in a high, sweet voice. He was gifted, and with training could become a great vocalist, but although Kerrich disclaimed interest in his orphan, Pamela suspected she knew what he wanted: a manly boy, one he could slap on the shoulder.

  A responsible and well-paid governess should try to give Kerrich what he wanted, so she steadfastly ignored the talented boy, and also girls who sat on the stairway with their faces pressed between the banisters. Too bad, for Pamela had a weakness for the unloved, the outcast, the leftover children. She understood them so well.

  “Hey!” One of the larger boys shoved the younger ones aside. “I’m Chilton. I be a good ’un. See?” He rolled up his sleeve and flexed his muscle. “I could carry yer coal and black yer stove better than any o’ these other fellows.”

  “Cannot.” Brave and furious, one of the younger boys shoved back. “Ye’re bigger, but ye’re lazy.”

  Chilton doubled his fist. “Am not.”

  Another boy shoved him from the back, and the toughest boys tumbled to the floor in roiling turmoil.

  “A feisty bunch, aren’t they?” Mrs. Fallowfield, the orphanage director, tried to put a good front on the brawl.

  Without a reply, Pamela stepped back to avoid the fracas.

  Seeing her disapproval, Mrs. Fallowfield clapped her hands and ineffectually shouted for order. The blowsy woman had no control over the children, but only the desperate or corrupt took a position such as this, and Pamela judged this woman to be both. Certainly she had been more than willing to sell Pamela one of the boys without ever asking what his fate would be. She had only demanded her price.

  Pamela’s gaze wandered to the outskirts of the crowd. One boy of perhaps ten stayed back from the rest, watching the fracas with hazel eyes too wide for his thin, smudged face. His dirt-brown hair hung just to his shoulders, he wore a smock of some kind and held a broom, and while the fighting knot of boys hid his lower body, Pamela thought him pathetically thin.

  Raising her voice above the cacophony, Pamela asked Mrs. Fallowfield, “What about that youth?”

  The director looked surprised. “That’s not—”

  But Chilton had heard, and he staggered erect, wiping his bloody nose on his sleeve. “Youth?” Collapsing back onto the floor, he brayed with laughter. His merriment was apparently contagious, for the other boys started sniggering, the girls hooted and stomped their feet, and even Mrs. Fallowfield had trouble controlling her amusement.

  The lad looked as if he’d been slapped, and not for the first time.

  Apparently Pamela had inadvertently made him a laughingstock. She gestured him over, and as he made his way toward her, she understood.

  The lad was a lass. What looked like a smock was actually a rag of a well-worn dress. Her skinny wrists stuck out from the sleeves and the hem had been let down until there was nothing left, and still her stocking-clad ankles were revealed. Why her hair was short, Pamela didn’t know, but the cut obviously had brought other misunderstandings, other mockery. The poor girl was near tears, and fighting not to let the others know they had hurt her.

  Pamela understood. Well did she remember her early, ugly duckling years when everyone mocked her for her gangly legs and incredible clumsiness. She herself had been the butt of many a joke, as well as the celestial joke of all time—she had grown into a beautiful swan.

  She wanted to assure the girl that only too soon the boys would give anything for one smile from her lips, but she couldn’t promise beauty or confidence or strength of character. Not growing up in such a loveless, toilsome environment. So Pamela tucked her hands behind her and asked, “What’s your name, dear?”

  “Elizabeth, ma’am.” The girl bobbed a curtsy. “Elizabeth Hunter.”

  “How old are you, Elizabeth?”

  “I have eight years.”

  Eight? She was eight? For all her pathetic thinness, the girl was tall and promised to get taller. No wonder she slumped her shoulders. Pamela ached to comfort her, and her fingers writhed as she clasped them together to restrain the impulse. “How long have you been at the orphanage, Elizabeth?”

  The room was silent now as everyone listened to the exchange.

  While Elizabeth was obviously nervous, still she met Pamela’s gaze without flinching. “Over a year, ma’am, since my parents died of the fever.”

  “Ah.” Unlike the other children Pamela had met here, this child spoke with a crisp, educated accent, and now she knew why. “Were you sick, too?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  That explained the haircut, for everyone knew long hair sapped the strength, and cutting it was a common therapy to cure a fever. Pamela gave a comforting smile. “Well, Elizabeth Hunter, I apologize for thinking you a boy.”

  Rising from the tangle of boyish arms and legs, Chilton staggered up, running into Pamela on the way, and sneered right into the girl’s face. “Yeah, Beth, you’re such a milk-sop you could never be a boy.”

  “Really?” Quick as a striking snake, Beth grabbed his ear and twisted, bringing the big boy to his knees. “At least I’m not a thief. Give it back.”

  Pamela watched in bewilderment.

  “Ow ow ow.” He clawed at Beth’s hand.

  Beth ignored the pain. “Give it!”

  He struck out at her.

  She extended her arm all the way, stood out of his reach, and gave his ear another twist.

  At last Chilton delved into his pants and brought out Pamela’s silver watch.

  Rage roared through Pamela. When he had bumped her, he had lifted her watch—the one thing she still owned that had been her father’s—from the small pocket sewn into her skirt. The restraining ribbon had been cut, the whole operation done so skillfully she hadn’t even noticed.

  Beth let Chilton go, but something of Pamela’s inarticulate fury must have shown in her expression, for he dropped the watch and scampered backward.

  Beth caught the timepiece before it hit the floor, and wiped it on her apron. “If you’ve got a handkerchief, ma’am, you can place it within the folds until you can properly clean it after being in his pants.”

  Mrs. Fallowfield aimed a blow at Chilton’s head as he sidled past. “Ye little reprobate, now Miss Lockhart will think I’m raising ye to be a pickpocket!”

  Was Pamela such a buffoon, then? Robbed of a month’s wages by a vile footpad, then of her watch by an orphan boy?

  “Ma’am?” Beth held the watch extended.

  Deliberately, Pamela used her handkerchief to reach out for the watch.

  Beth flinched as if expecting a slap.

  Pamela stopped and looked around at the silent crowd. They hated Beth. In her speech and her appearance she was different, and now by her actions she’d made them all look like thieves. Would Beth be punished for her good deed? Flicking a glance at the fuming Mrs. Fallowfield, Pamela knew the woman would blame Beth for revealing the crime, not the boy for committing it.

  Taking the watch, she slipped it and the handkerchief into her reticule, then stripped off her right glove. With her tongue, she wet her thumb and rubbed the smudge off Beth’s chin. Mind made up, she said, “I’ll take this one.”
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  Beth’s eyes grew round and lustrous.

  A flurry of whispers broke out from the orphans.

  “That one?” Mrs. Fallowfield couldn’t restrain her scorn. “Ye came fer a lad!”

  Beth lost that brief luminosity, and she glanced from Mrs. Fallowfield to Pamela.

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  Like a thwarted shop assistant, Mrs. Fallowfield didn’t give up. “Beth’s no good fer ye. She’s insolent an’…an’ proud. Thinks she’s better than anyone else.”

  “Yes. I can see that,” Pamela said brusquely as she opened her pocketbook. “I believe you said three pounds sterling for an orphan under ten years of age.”

  “Fer a lad!”

  Pamela should have known the woman wouldn’t easily yield. Spearing her with a glance, she said, “Girls are worth less. So two pounds.”

  Beth clasped her hands together at her chest, as if hope was taking roost in her affection-starved heart.

  Mrs. Fallowfield’s mouth flopped open. “Naw,” she squawked. “Five pounds. Five fer that little hussy.”

  Pamela pressed three pounds into Mrs. Fallowfield’s hand, and for all the woman’s denials her fingers closed eagerly over the coins. “Three pounds, as we agreed.” Taking Beth’s hand, she led her toward the door.

  Mrs. Fallowfield hurried after them. “Ye’ll be sorry. Ye’ll bring her back in a day complainin’ about her.”

  Beth flung open the outer door as if sweet freedom itself waited in the misty morning air.

  As Pamela stepped onto the narrow steps, she smiled her chilliest smile at Mrs. Fallowfield. “Then you would have the undoubted pleasure of telling me ‘I told you so.’ ”

  Chapter 5

  My God, what have I done?

  The footman held the umbrella as Pamela urged Beth up the steps into Lord Kerrich’s carriage. She followed Beth and seated herself on the forward-facing seat, where her doubts assaulted her full force. How could she have so impulsively taken a girl from the orphanage, when she knew quite well Kerrich desired a boy? Her reckless act of defiance might result in her dismissal—a dismissal she and the Distinguished Academy of Governesses could ill afford.

  In silence, she stared at the dirty, badly groomed and gawky child before her.

  But the silence lasted only as long as it took for the coachman to set the horses in motion and Beth to fall to her knees in the cramped space. Snatching Pamela’s gloved hand in hers, she kissed it, and in a timid, earnest voice she said, “Thank you, miss. Thank you for your kindness in taking me away from that place. I never thought I could hope again, and now I can and I swear, miss, swear on the graves of my mother and father that I will do everything you want. I’ll be good. I won’t cause you any trouble. You won’t even know I’m there, I’ll be so good.”

  “Oh, please get up!” Appalled by the child’s lavish gratitude, Pamela tugged her fingers away. Once again, Beth had reminded Pamela of herself as a child, endeavoring to be whatever her father wanted, to do whatever her father wanted. Not even the constant lessons he taught—that nothing she did could please him for long—had ever stopped her from trying. For her mother’s sake, she strove desperately to make him happy, and for her own sake, too. She had lived in the hopes of hearing his praise and desiring his smile.

  She wouldn’t subjugate this child to that kind of torment.

  “If you knew what I’ve got you into, you might not be so grateful.”

  Awkwardly, Beth sidled onto the seat opposite. Her hazel eyes were big and fearful. “I know. The master wants a lad.”

  “That, too.” The master doesn’t really intend to adopt you. The confession hovered on the tip of Pamela’s tongue, brought forth by the guilt her deception caused her. Guilt she hadn’t experienced until she’d put a face to the girl. The hopeful eyes. The pale lashes. The broad forehead and sweet chin. The teeth, new and too large for the childish face. The cheeks, meant to be round and full, but thinned with omnipresent hunger.

  But what was the use of telling Beth of the consequences that might be visited on her so far in the future? They’d be lucky to make it through this day without Kerrich demanding Pamela fetch him a different child. “Actually,” Pamela said bracingly, “he never told me he wanted a boy. That was an assumption on my part. Your qualifications make you a much better candidate for His Lordship’s purposes than any of the other children.”

  “Qualifications, Miss Lockhart?”

  Pamela smiled at the child rocking with the motion of the carriage as it traveled the rainy London streets. “Yes, indeed. You are polite and well spoken. Lord Kerrich will be able to display you to his friends without fear you will embarrass him.”

  Beth’s grubby fingers twisted in her lap. “He’s going to want to display me to his friends?”

  “Lord Kerrich will be proud of you,” Pamela explained. “He’ll want to introduce you.”

  “Oh.” Beth bit her lip, then confessed, “I’m rather shy. The other children make fun of me because of it.”

  The wretched colored glasses were sliding down Pamela’s nose, and as she pushed them back up, she remembered—she wasn’t young Pamela, the governess thieves and employers took advantage of. She was stern, no-nonsense Miss Lockhart, so unattractive Kerrich had been openly relieved when she hadn’t responded to his flirtatious advances. The character she played had enough stiffness in her spine to give courage to an entire orphanage of bashful children, and that character wouldn’t allow Beth to succumb to nerves now. Not when the child had just escaped the foundling home and still faced the gauntlet of Kerrich’s examination. Drawing herself sternly erect, Pamela said, “Nonsense. You are not shy. Look at how you calmly introduced yourself to me after I had mistakenly assumed you were a boy. And view your bravery in recovering my watch! No, young lady, you are not shy. You are a lion in the face of adversity.”

  Beth drew back from Pamela’s bracing manner. “I am?”

  “Certainly.” The carriage swung onto Hyde Park Gardens and stopped before Kerrich’s townhouse.

  “Maybe I’m only brave when bad things are happening,” Beth said cautiously.

  Pamela nodded with all the firmness of a seasoned mentor. “A clear indicator of courage.” Young Timothy, the footman, opened the door. He held the umbrella in one hand and offered his other hand. Taking it, she stepped out and turned in time to see Beth tumble out on her heels. “Ah. A chance for our first lesson. One always allows the footman to lend a hand when descending a carriage.”

  Beth looked up at the impassive, liveried servant. “I can get out without his help.” Then, perhaps thinking she had hurt his feelings, she said to him, “But thank you anyway, mister.”

  The footman’s mouth twitched with suppressed laughter.

  Yet he liked the child’s courtesy, Pamela could see that by the stiff little bow he gave.

  Kerrich had to keep her. Pamela fell further into the role of masterly Miss Lockhart. “Very good. One should always thank the servants, by name if possible. He is Timothy.”

  “Timothy,” Beth repeated.

  “Now stand up straight, shoulders back.”

  Beth straightened.

  “Come with me, and remember—you are a lion.”

  “Yes, Miss Lockhart.” Beth answered bravely enough.

  But her little hand crept into Pamela’s, and Pamela looked down at her and smiled with encouragement. “That’s the spirit!” she said, although Beth had paled so much the smudges of dirt stood out on her cheeks.

  The footman with his umbrella sheltered them as they started up the stairs toward the massive double door that was the entrance to Kerrich’s townhouse.

  Beth’s steps dragged. “Miss Lockhart? Is this a boardinghouse or a hotel or…what is this place?”

  Pamela stopped, brought face to face with the massive task she’d set herself—to prepare a foundling for a masquerade to fool society. To fool the queen who, from Kerrich’s throwaway comments, knew him and his mechanisms only too well. Pamela, used
to entering the homes of the wealthy, counted Kerrich’s home and its trappings as among the greatest she’d ever viewed. Beth, raised by middle-class parents, living in a squalid orphanage, was ill prepared to deal with this kind of affluence.

  But Beth was a child. Children adapted easily to change—or so Pamela told herself. With a gesture that encompassed the broad stairway, the Roman arches above each window, the brooding stone eagle carvings set in the brick fac¸ade, she said, “This is Lord Kerrich’s home.”

  Beth lifted her chin and looked up, up, to the roof four stories above the street. “Does he have a large family? Children?” She pleaded for information as if she suddenly realized how little she knew of the man who held her fate in his hands.

  “Never fear, he has only a cousin, whom I met and who seems a good gentleman. I understand from Mrs. Godwin, the housekeeper, that he is staying for a time with Lord Kerrich. I don’t know about any other relations.” She didn’t, she realized. She hadn’t cared about Kerrich’s family, only about herself and how he and his money could serve her.

  And that was fair, she told herself sturdily. She cared about him as much as he cared about her. Although it did seem Beth had a good plan to acquaint herself with her patron before being introduced to him.

  “Is Lord Kerrich nice?” Beth asked.

  That Pamela could answer without qualm. “Very nice indeed, when he decides to be.” She rapped on the door, and nodded at Moulton when he opened it.

  “Is this the child?” Moulton asked as Pamela led Beth into the foyer.

  “Is this the master?” Beth asked in a voice of awe.

  Moulton, stuffy and pretentious, unbent enough to whisper, “No, miss. I am the new butler.”

  “You’re the butler?” Beth examined his austere features and magnificent suit, and she made her admiration known with one reverent word. “Never.”