Chapter One

London, England July, 1829

T oo Bad for Toogood!

Is there anything quite so pitiable as a woman past her prime without a husband to show for her advancing years? One wonders at the audacity of those ladies too long in the tooth who by all rights ought to retire gracefully from the husband hunt, but who choose instead to continue the charade well past the point of credibility. Alas, modern women are known to be somewhat less well-mannered than their predecessors. One would think, after so many Seasons of abject failure to bring a respectable gentleman up to scratch, Miss Phoebe Toogood would have the courtesy to bow out of the marriage mart, but it seems she yet holds out some hope. The unfortunate woman was observed partaking of far too much lemon cake and champagne at Lady Trowbridge's musicale Thursday last, much to the chagrin of her poor mama. It is no wonder that Lord Windham defected rather abruptly last Season from Miss Toogood in favor of Miss Arabella Whittington, whose manner is in all ways refined and elegant. Perhaps this latest heartbreak will be the impetus for Miss Toogood to mend her ways and correct her course in life. While her age would suggest that Miss Toogood is unlikely to make a brilliant match, this Author supposes she might yet snare a particularly desperate widower—if she can learn to comport herself appropriately.

"You shouldn't be reading that drivel, darling." Phoebe looked up from the paper, a wry smile curling the corners of her lips. "Perhaps you should, Mama. Some days it's vastly entertaining. Did you know that Lord Windham abandoned me for Arabella Whittington? Because this is the first I'm hearing of it." Mama blinked in surprise. "Was Lord Windham courting you?" "Not hardly." It was just that the poor man was painfully shy, and they had ended up more often than not lingering at the edges of ballrooms together. At least until Phoebe had gently nudged him in Miss Whittington's direction instead. Mama's eyes flicked back toward the paper—and to Phoebe's fingers, which would undoubtedly be stained with ink, given that she had snatched up the paper this morning before Baxter had had a chance to iron it. "I wish they wouldn't print such rubbish," Mama said sourly, and Phoebe thought it telling that, even though Mama had not yet read the paper, she had clearly divined the nature of the column that had attracted Phoebe's interest. But then, there had been enough of them already, and a woman in her tenth Season made for an easy target. "It's practically libelous," Mama said, as she carved up a bit of egg and popped it into her mouth. "I do wish your father would—" "Now, now, Mama." Phoebe folded up the paper and laid it beside her plate. "You know what Papa says." Rolling her eyes heavenward, Mama quoted, "To acknowledge such things is to lend credence to them." A sigh followed, punctuated by the scrape of her knife across her plate. "Nonetheless. I hate to see such nastiness in print," she said, with a little moue. "Especially of my sweet, darling, precious—" Phoebe smothered a snort into the palm of her hand. "— beloved daughter," Mama concluded, but the narrowing of her eyes suggested that Phoebe had not been successful in concealing her amusement, and that at the moment beloved was an adjective very much called into question. "I don't mind them," Phoebe said, and despite the doubtful look Mama slanted toward her, it was true. In fact, she had amassed quite the collection of columns, which she carefully snipped from the paper after it had passed through the household's hands and kept them together in a tidy bundle within the drawer of her vanity. It wasn't that they were amusing, per se. But they were useful. Each passing Season represented the furtherance of her goal: escaping the marriage market unscathed—and, crucially, unmarried. Each new column that emerged, every new excoriation of her character and enumeration of her myriad flaws and failings promised the additional dwindling of her matrimonial prospects, which were already dismal indeed. Mama would be disappointed, of course, when the Season passed once again without a proposal and subsequent wedding. Phoebe was the only remaining child of the plentiful Toogood brood to be unmarried, and Mama was certain that one day, the gentlemen of the Ton would somehow collectively open their eyes and realize what a marvelous catch Phoebe was, and then she would simply be swimming in flowers and calling cards and all that nonsense that came with courting. Seven weddings had come and gone, and Phoebe's siblings— older and younger—had all gone the way of spouses. Little Susannah, just three and twenty, had even snagged an Earl a few Seasons past. Of course, Phoebe loved her siblings and their collective horde of plump, squalling children; all twenty-seven of them at last count, and each noisier than the last. She had simply never wanted any children herself. But she had always known that Mama could never conceive of a reality in which the greatest aspiration of any of her daughters' lives had not been to be a wife and a mother. There would be much wailing and gnashing of teeth once Mama was forced to admit that Phoebe's chances of securing a husband had finally run their course. But only because Mama did love her so, and in that way of every good mother, she was convinced that everyone else ought to have loved her, too. Mama cleared her throat. "And what have you planned for today, dearest?" "Mm," Phoebe said, around a mouthful of toast. "Well, I've already penned a letter to Arabella and Lord Windham." Though she doubted she would get much of a response, since they were clearly enjoying their honeymoon. "I thought I would visit with Emma." "Do give her my love," Mama said, a fond smile wreathing her lips. "And remember to take a maid with you. Don't think I haven't noticed your tendency to go about unescorted when you think I'm not watching." The chiding glance she sent over the table suggested that she was always watching. "Mama, I am nine and twenty," Phoebe said on a sigh of annoyance. "You know as well as I that no one will think anything of it." Mama turned her nose up primly and reached for the paper, though Phoebe knew she would studiously avoid reading anything ill that might have been said of her daughter. "That's as may be," she said. "But you do have a terrible predilection for mischief, darling—no, don't bother denying it; I know the truth for what it is." Phoebe seriously doubted that, but she knew when it was wisest to hold her tongue. Instead she directed her gaze to her plate and pushed around the eggs that had long since grown cold with the tines of her fork. "Mama, I—" But Mama stretched her hand across the table and laid her hand over Phoebe's, squeezing gently. "Not to worry," she said lightly. "I'm certain this Season we will find you the perfect husband. A gentleman who will appreciate you exactly as you are." The tines of Phoebe's fork slipped into a yolk, and the contents eked out in a revolting ooze, like blood draining from a suppurating wound. Widowers , she thought. Was it too much to hope that none had read that wretched column? She swallowed down the queasiness that rose in her throat and dredged up a polite smile. And hoped with all of her heart that Mama was dead wrong.

∞∞∞

"I need a wife," Christopher Moore said, to no one in particular, as he stripped himself of his sopping waistcoat and wrung it out with his hands. It smelled like a sewer. No— he smelled like a sewer. That, he supposed, was the consequence of taking an unanticipated dip into the Thames. At least the blokes that had put him there hadn't stuck around long enough to see the job properly accomplished. Possibly they simply hadn't counted upon the probability that Chris was perfectly capable of swimming. Though dawn had broken only a handful of minutes ago, already there were a number of mudlarks whisking about the shore, scurrying to be the first to scavenge whatever treasures the low tide might have revealed. In his younger days, Chris had been one of them, and it had been a nasty bit of business to sift through the refuse on the shore on the off chance that some toff had cast off something valuable, something that might fetch a few pence. Several times he had rifled through the pockets of corpses that had washed in with the tide, nicking what scant coin there was to be had off of the bloated cadavers. He'd climbed a long way from that miserable existence, if one could even call it that. A life lived in the rookeries and slums of London was hardly a life at all, and far more descended into it than had ever managed to claw their way out. But the stench of it, much like that of the Thames, had the tendency to cling to a body. A certain odor that lingered, making itself evident in the disdainfully twitchy noses of the upper classes. The sharp light of dawn climbing over the horizon stung his eyes. The sounds of the city rousing began to climb, rending through the stillness with the shrill shouts of street merchants hawking their wares. It would be a long, unpleasant, painful walk back to his residence, given the fact that he doubted he could induce a hack to carry him on the promise of payment. He'd been divested of his coin and other valuables prior to his abrupt admission to the Thames, and he reeked to the devil and back. A wife . It wasn't that he wanted one. Need was a different beast entirely from want. But a wife would solve a number of his problems neatly, provided that she were the right sort of woman. She would have to be well-born, respectable. From a decent family, of good reputation, with a pleasant disposition. Of course, a man of his dubious background could not expect a lady in the truest sense of the word. They were almost to a one secluded away from the riffraff, lest their fragile and delicate constitutions be tainted merely by exposure. And Chris was, without a doubt, riffraff. But even riffraff might secure a decent woman; a woman at the fringes of society, whose family might lack the coin to secure a better match. A woman who had been on the marriage mart too long, and whose opportunities were dwindling. His boots squelched in the muddy bank as he made the arduous climb toward the streets, his cursed knee aching with every damned step, since he'd been relieved of his cane along with his coin and his pocket watch. There—a tug at his pocket. His hand flashed out, seized upon a skinny wrist. "Away wiv you," he snapped roughly to the towheaded child whose arm he'd grabbed, irritated enough to be taken for a mark that he'd let his natural accent leech into his words. The child gave an indignant squawk, wrenching futilely at his wrist. "Lemme go!" he screeched shrilly, but whatever help he had hoped to garner from his fellows lurking about the shore was not to materialize; they had scattered like insects at the very first hint of a conflict. "Choose your victims with more care," Chris advised, striving to enunciate more clearly. "You'll be locked up in the clink quick as a blink otherwise." He gave the youth a hard shake. "And stop that screeching. Ain't no one listening." The lad shut up so swiftly that it was nearly comical, squinting through his disheveled, shaggy hair as if sizing Chris up for a fight. "You a buggerer, then?" the boy asked, firming his jaw. Chris choked on a startled laugh. "No, and children don't interest me, either. What's your name? How old are you?" Mulishly the boy set his chin and flexed his wrist in Chris' hold, no doubt considering his options and judging the likelihood of breaking free. "I wouldn't advise it," Chris said. The boy's wrist relaxed. "Albert," he said. "I'm fourteen." Chris would have bet the entirety of his bank account that both were lies. The boy was twelve at the very most. "You want to earn some honest coin?" "No." Another fierce glare. "How come ye look like a gent?" "I am a gent." Mostly. More often than not, just lately. At least he could pass for one when he didn't let his temper get the best of him. "There's a house not too far from here. Huge white one with columns out front and a door painted blue. It's just at the edge of a park. Do you know it?" "Mebbe. What's it to ye?" "It's my house," Chris said. "Bet you and your little band of thieves have thought about burglarizing it a time or two." By the stubborn silence, Chris suspected he had guessed right. "I wouldn't recommend it. It's locked up tight, and my staff keeps a close watch. But there's coin in it for you if you run there quick as you can and have my butler send the carriage for me. His name is Brooks." "Ye ain't gonna turn me over as a thief?" "What for? You didn't manage to steal anything." It came off more mocking than he'd intended. "A sovereign," he said, "if my carriage is here in the next half hour." He'd half expected the child to dart off the moment he released his hand, but the promise of the coin had proved itself too tempting. Though the boy skittered back a few steps, still he lingered there on the bank. "A whole sovereign? Swear?" It was a fortune to a street urchin. Ready coin was hard enough to come by, and a sovereign, provided it could be secreted away from whoever employed the child, would sustain the boy far better than whatever meager crusts of bread or moldy vegetables he might otherwise be offered. "A whole sovereign. If my carriage is here in half an hour. Tell Brooks to send a purse with the driver. And some damned towels." The very last thing he needed was for his carriage to smell like the Thames, too. "You got it, guv." At least the lad was lighter on his feet than he was with his fingers. He turned and sprinted up the bank and toward the street, his small feet slapping the pavement as he ran. As he disappeared out into the distance, a cloud overhead blotted out the peachy dawn and gave an ominous rumble overhead. For once the drenching rain was a blessing. Chris turned his face to the deluge and scraped his hands through his hair, rinsing out the worst of the grime that had collected there. His clothes were still ruined—not even a good, thorough wash would exorcise them of the smell. But at least he felt marginally cleaner than he had been. The irony of his position did not escape him. He had ended up exactly where he had started in life; in the mud and muck, stinking of the sewers. No matter how far he had risen, no matter what sort of name he had made for himself, how much blunt with which he had lined his pockets, here was precisely where he was meant to be. He had escaped it by the skin of his teeth, the sweat of his brow, and a great deal of luck and cunning—but it was always right here waiting for him. The simple fact was that he could take himself only so far. He could not enter the Ton through sheer dint of will alone. He needed a foot in the door, so to speak. He needed a damned wife.

∞∞∞

It was impossible to tell whether or not the lad had actually made it back in time. Even if Chris had not been divested of his pocket watch before he'd been unceremoniously dumped into the Thames, its inner workings surely would have succumbed to the filthy water. But the summer storm had not yet passed by the time the carriage arrived, and if the time that had elapsed had been a bit over the mark, it had been near enough to it that Chris did not feel inclined to quibble over what had likely been a few minutes at most. The carriage door opened as Chris loped toward it, his stride awkward and hobbled. Brooks had come himself, and he had one hand clenched at the scruff of the boy's neck, holding him by the collar of his shirt. Probably the boy had tried to nick whatever coin it was that Brooks had brought with him. A proficient pickpocket could earn double or more what a mudlark might—if he didn't get pinched. Young Albert would need to be disabused of the notion before he found himself transported for picking the wrong pocket. "Lemme go!" The boy squalled, flailing against the hold as he was dragged bodily out of the carriage. Chris grabbed for the length of toweling that was draped over Brooks' arm, rubbing first at his hair and then at the rest of him. "Tried to nick the coin, did he?" he asked. "Thought I wouldn't notice," Brooks said dryly. Chris barked out a laugh, tossing the towel onto the floor of the carriage as he climbed inside. "Who's your kidsman?" he asked of the boy. Clearly the man wasn't training the children up properly. "Ain't any business o' yers," Albert said, his bare feet sliding along the grass. "Lemme go, or I'll shout!" He'd been shouting already, but he was also smart enough to recognize that help was not forthcoming. Not so early in the morning, and not for a boy who looked like the urchin he was. "Throw ‘im in the carriage," Chris said to Brooks, jerking his head toward it. "We're taking him to Em." He stretched out his hand for the umbrella, which Brooks handed over. "Thought as much." Brooks tossed the wriggling boy over his shoulder and lobbed him back into the carriage. "You'll make a new enemy." "Or a worse one." Hard to tell. Sometimes the children didn't talk. Sometimes they lied. "Can it get worse? You receive at least half a dozen death threats a week." Brooks had had to shout to be heard over Albert's caterwauling. "And I don't suppose you were foolish enough to simply trip into the Thames, which means someone must have actually tried to kill you. What would you call that?" "A perfectly average Tuesday," Chris said. "Quit your bellyaching," he snapped at the boy as he climbed into the carriage. "No one means to hurt you." Brooks slid onto the seat beside the child and fished in his pocket, withdrawing a small purse. "You promised the boy a sovereign?" "I did." A scowl pleated Brooks' mouth as he eyed the boy askance. "Waste of coin." "My coin to waste." "Here, then," Brooks said with a roll of his eyes, extending the coin to the boy. "Take it, and stop that damned whining. It's unbecoming." "What's unbecomin'?" The boy had ceased his wailing the second the cool metal of the coin had touched his palm, and he wrapped his fingers around it, squinting at it in the dim light. "An' who's Em?" Chris watched the boy shove his arm into the loose neck of his shirt, tucking the coin away. Probably his clothes had been sewn with hidden pockets, the better to conceal the fruits of his thievery. Not that it mattered. It would be some time before the boy had the opportunity to spend it. "She's my sister," he said. "She runs a home and a school for children in need. She's right fierce when called to it, so you'd best mind her. And your manners besides, or I'll tell her to beat you good and proper." True horror slid over the boy's face, his jaw hanging agape as his eyes widened comically. "I ain't going to no school!" "No, of course not," Brooks sniffed. "You'll have to be bathed and deloused first." " Bathed !" Albert shrieked the word at the top of his lungs, and the sound fairly rattled the roof of the carriage. "But I had a bath in May!" "By the smell of you, I'd've said February." Chris ducked the small fist that lashed out at him and swiped his arm to the side, effectively pinning the boy in place. "Listen ‘ere, you little pissant," he growled, and paused to rein in his temper once more. "You'll be respectful and call her Lady Emma , or I'll let ‘er wallop you." "Wallop me! A girl!" "A lady ," Chris corrected. "She's walloped me before; I reckon she could wallop you with half as much effort." "Yer shammin' me." But the boy swallowed hard, and he sunk in his seat, his back hunching. His eyes drifted toward Brooks. "Ain't he?" "Not in the slightest. Were I you, I would resign myself to it." The boy gave an audible swallow, his face bleaching of color. "To what?" Brooks stretched his lips into a macabre grin, adjusting his cuffs. "A proper education."

∞∞∞

It was a struggle to evict the boy from the carriage. Of course, he wasn't the first recalcitrant child that Chris had delivered to the orphanage, and he wouldn't likely be the last. But this particular child apparently viewed the threat of an education as something akin to torture, and he'd dug his grimy fingernails into the richly upholstered seat of the carriage and refused to be budged. "Kit," Emma chided, every ounce of her exasperation evident in her voice. "You have got to stop threatening them. Some of them have been terrified of me for weeks upon arrival. What did you tell this one?" "The truth." Chris grunted as the boy's foot caught him in the midsection. "That you walloped me good." "I was eight!" "Still the truth." Somehow he pried up the boy's fingernails, and he and Brooks dragged the struggling child out of the carriage at last. "This one's a runner. You'll have to convince him it's worth staying." "A task rendered somewhat more difficult when you threaten them." Emma blew out a breath, stirring a lock of bright hair that had slipped free of its hastily-tied ribbon. "Who is his kidsman?" "Dunno. ‘E won't say." Chris dodged a flying elbow and together he and Brooks managed to wrestle the lad upright once more. "Tried to nick my purse. Wouldn'ta got it even if I'd had one to nick." He grabbed a fistful of the boy's collar, holding him in place. "Got m'self tossed into the Thames early this morning." "Ah." Emma's nose wrinkled. "The smell. I had wondered. Hawkins?" Chris shrugged, but watched the boy's face carefully. "Could've been Reeves. Or Fletcher." No reaction, so probably none were his kidsman. "They roughed me up and tossed me in. Didn't make any bother over introductions." "They took your cane?" "'Fraid so." And that was the one true tragedy in all of this. He'd loved that damned cane. It had been a gift from Em, after all; a lovely ornate thing, with a sword concealed within the shaft. It was too bad the blighters had caught him by surprise, or he might have had a fighting chance. "But your knee!" "Won't suffer for it. Don't concern yourself." It wasn't quite true. Already the muscles were aching, the cold water of the Thames rendering them stiff and painful. But the injury was as healed as it was going to get, and there was no sense in speaking of it further. He'd kept his words light, but Emma's brow creased with worry anyway. She looked as if she badly wished to say something, but her gaze flitted to the boy writhing at the business end of the shirt collar and held her tongue. "His name?" she asked. "Says it's Albert, but I wouldn't place a wager on it." Another weak jerk from the lad; a token protest. From the way the boy's gaze darted about, he'd taken stock of his surroundings and correctly deduced that not only was rescue unlikely to be found, but that a break for freedom would be ill-advised. Emma dropped into a crouch, the better to be on a level with the boy, who shrunk away from her as if she might carry some infection. "Albert," she said. " Is it Albert, truly?" The boy made an uncouth sound in his throat and hawked a mouthful of phlegm at her feet, earning himself a cuff from Brooks, who hadn't the least patience for such antics. "Ain't gotta tell you nuffin '." "No, but I should like to address you by the name that belongs to you. You may call me Emma, if you like." "' E said you was called Lady Emma." The boy jerked his chin toward Chris. A canny look stole over her face, quickly stifled. "I am, but I don't mind if you call me Emma instead. Some of the younger children prefer it." Clever girl; she'd pricked the boy exactly where it would hurt the most—his pride. "I'm fourteen!" he snapped with a pugnacious jut of his chin. "Rubbish. You're ten, perhaps eleven. My son, Danny, is just recently eleven, and I'd put you at the same." She squinted, affecting a contemplative air. "Unless…well, I suppose you could be fourteen, if your kidsman hasn't been feeding you properly." "Russell feeds us jes fine!" A flush stained his grubby little face as he realized what he had admitted, and his shoulders hunched, making him appear even smaller than he was. His mouth pursed in anger, fingers flexing. Russell. It was a name that was new to Chris; probably a new kidsman entirely. It would explain the boy's lack of proficiency in thievery, at the very least. Perhaps his little crew had been recently-assembled, culled together from the ones at the bottom rungs of the others, possibly even children who had been forced out of their gangs for failure to earn their keep. Could be nothing. Could be something. A man hungry for a taste of the good life and just starting out in his profession could be twice as dangerous as another. Then again, Chris had a list of enemies a league long anyway. What was one more added to the rest? "Does he, then?" Emma asked, her voice speculative. "If you say so, I'm certain it's true." She heaved a patently false sigh. "I can only offer the children in my care modest meals, I'm afraid, probably nothing so fine as that to which you're accustomed. For breakfast this morning we had only coddled eggs, bacon, toast, and jam." A little shrug of her shoulders. "For luncheon, we'll have meat pasties and whatever fruits Cook scrounged up at market. Probably strawberries." She performed a comical grimace of distaste. "Strawberries?" the boy echoed, his eyes wide. "Oh, yes. And supper—ugh. No doubt it will be braised beef again. Must be the third time this week." Emma gave a delicate shudder of mock-revulsion. "Of course, we have roast duck on Saturdays, so that's something to look forward to. But I suppose you must be quite bored of duck." By the queer expression scrawled across the lad's face, Chris suspected the lad had never even dreamed of attaining the opportunity to taste duck. For all his protestations of being well-fed, Chris knew it was profoundly unlikely that he'd ever managed more than a few scraps of bread and whatever he could scavenge from refuse that hadn't gone too moldy to be palatable. They all knew it, in fact. "I could stay through supper," the boy blurted out. One of his ankles rubbed against the other, and for the first time he ceased trying to wrench himself against Chris' hold. He scratched at the back of his head—a bit too vigorously for it to have escaped Emma's sharp gaze. "Well, if you're certain our fare will meet with your standards, by all means," she said. "But I'm afraid you'll have to have a bath first." The boy scowled. "I'm clean enough! I just had a bath!" "In May," Brooks offered, and then gritted out a foul word as the boy stamped upon his foot. Emma suppressed a grin. "Be that as it may, we have strict standards of cleanliness, and I can't let lice run rampant in my school. But you'll have a fresh and clean set of clothes to go with the bath, and they will be yours to keep." And in the stalwart silence that settled between them, she added, shrewdly, "There will be raspberry trifle for dessert." It was the trifle that clinched it. The boy heaved a resigned sigh and straightened himself to the best of his ability. "I s'pose I could bear it," he said, swiping one hand across his mouth as if he could already taste the trifle upon his tongue. "Just this once." The children had baths at least once a week—and sometimes more, if the need called for it. But by the time the lad learned it, it would be too late for him. Emma would have him marching to her tune within days, provided she could keep him from slipping out a window and nipping off into the night. Emma shooed the boy toward the steps leading into the massive building behind them, and Albert didn't offer so much as a single word of thanks before he disappeared inside, following a beckoning servant stationed near the door. Not that Chris had expected much of anything on that score. It would be years and years before the boy recognized just what a turn his life had taken, all from attempting to pickpocket the wrong bloke. Chris jammed his hands in his pockets. "Where is Rafe?" he asked of Emma. "Sleeping," Emma said on sigh. "Katherine is cutting her first tooth, poor darling. He spent the better part of the night walking the halls with her, trying to soothe her to sleep." "Send him round to mine when he wakes up, would you?" "Oh?" Emma blinked. "What for?" Because Rafe might be able to provide a fairly comprehensive list of what women were available, which might be old enough—desperate enough—to accept a suitor well below their station. But he was damned if he was going to admit as much to his sister. "Does it matter? Surely you can spare him for a few hours." "So long as you do not send him back to me reeking of whisky," she said tartly. "You do know I'll have it out of him eventually. We keep no secrets." "I'm aware." For a man who had, as a former spy, once been amongst the most tightlipped men of Chris' acquaintance, he'd developed a remarkable—and irritating—predilection for spilling every damned secret he held to his wife. But there were things a man could say to his friends that he could not say to his sister. And, damn it all, his pride had taken enough of a beating for one day.