Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

Holland Square

London, England

Late April 1842

Thomas Oliver Maxwell Strickland, newly minted sixth Earl of Storne, opened his armoire to pull out a fresh linen shirt only to see his shirts dumped in an untidy pile at the bottom. He started to call for Manfred, his valet since his first year at Oxford a decade before, but then, to his astonishment, the shirts shifted, just a bit.

A varmint in his grandfather's precious mahogany armoire? No, more likely beneath the pile of shirts was Clotis the cat, usually found napping in Max's mother's sewing basket, his orange tail flopped over the side, the occasional twitch to give proof of life. At least half a dozen shirts now would have to be ironed again by Manfred, who would certainly make his displeasure known. How had Clotis managed to even get in the armoire?

Max went down on his haunches, reached out his hand, and lightly rubbed the pile of shirts. "Come on, Clotis, show me a whisker, tell me how you managed to pull down all my shirts. Will I find claw marks?"

He didn't hear Clotis's high-pitched meow—he heard a human sort of squeak, a young human sort of squeak.

How had a stray child gotten into his bachelor stronghold while he'd been out? He said to the shirts, "I believe there must be a trapped rodent beneath my shirts. This calls for drastic action—ah, yes, the fireplace poker will dispatch the varmint."

He waited.

Nothing.

It had been a long time—too long a time, really—since Max had felt engaged. He was engaged now. "All right, let's see first exactly what's hiding here in my once perfectly ironed shirts."

The top shirt moved. Two terrified eyes appeared; the rest of the face remained covered by white linen.

"Ah, so what I have is neither Clotis the cat nor a rat, more like a small human varmint. May I inquire why you are currently residing under my shirts in my armoire?"

A very young voice whispered, "How could a rat get into an armoire? The door was firmly closed until I opened it, and it was hard, the door was sticking. You should see to it."

A well-bred voice—a scared, well-bred, very young voice. Male? Female? He couldn't tell. Max said, looking into those gray eyes, "I've heard rodents are very wily, their teeth sharp. Give them wooden handles and they'll turn them into sawdust. I've also heard they're partial to white linen shirts."

Now the young voice sounded aggrieved. "That is nonsense and you know it. I would have been gone if you hadn't come into the room at this particular moment. All I needed was another two minutes to borrow one of these lovely white shirts since my own shirt is in disrepair and I'd have been out the window and gone. I promise I wouldn't have stolen anything. I mean, what is there to steal? Very well, I'll not lie, I did look, but there wasn't a single shilling on your dressing table."

"Why would you want one of my shirts? It would be a tent on you. You would look like a ghost."

"I have trousers, I would tuck it in. I would make do. You need a shirt too. Your upper works are bare." A pause, then, "I've never seen a gentleman's bare upper works before."

There, a flash of a white cheek before it disappeared beneath a shirt.

"My bare upper works aren't the subject here. Tell me how you got into my bedchamber?"

"I climbed up the oak tree outside. Your window was open and I jumped. It would have been easier if you hadn't had the branches cut back."

"That was the whole point. Who wants an oak branch sticking into their bedchamber? Do you have a name?"

Silence, then, "Li—Crispin."

"Li-Crispin? Now that's a new name to me."

"No, just Crispin."

"You've a fast wit. Is Crispin your first name or your last?"

"I don't think I should tell you. You might spit it out to a bobby when you're in your cups."

There was some movement as Crispin rearranged—itself.

"If you're uncomfortable, why not come out and let's have a nice chat, face to face?"

A pause, then, "If you leave for three minutes, I promise to be gone and it will be as if you'd never seen me."

"Now that won't happen. You might as well come out. If you don't, I might be tempted to call my mother."

"Please don't make me." A bit of panic? Then aggrieved again. "It's my ill luck you just happened to come in and open the dratted armoire door and now you're carrying on a conversation with me. Your mother wouldn't be happy to hear about me. May I take this one shirt? I can't pay you for it right now, but once I find employment, I will, I swear it."

Max knew he should fetch his mother or his valet or his housekeeper, maybe even Portia, the upstairs scullery maid who brought a gleam of lust to his valet's eye, but truth be told, he didn't want to relinquish this unexpected entertainment just yet. Who was his young visitor who spoke so very well and was obviously a runaway?

Max sat down, leaned against his father's favorite chair, and stretched out his legs. "Employment? Hire you to do what exactly, Crispin? I ask because I wonder how long I would have to wait before you paid me back for one of my finely sewn shirts. Shirts of this quality don't grow on trees, you know."

His shirt moved a bit more, and he caught a glimpse of a very small dirty hand. That hand . . . Boy? Girl? He simply couldn't tell. Who was this child running from? And why? Holland Square was an enclave of wealthy families who'd inhabited the large mansions for the better part of forever, old stodgy families who knew their own worth and woe be to anyone who did not acknowledge their worth. They had secrets, of course, decade upon decade of dark, gnarly secrets. Had one of these families abused this child? He went through names, trying to remember children, but couldn't since until this moment he'd had no interest.

Of course his mother would know, but if he left he had no doubt the child and a shirt would disappear before he made it down the front stairs. Max sighed. What to do?