and Ash, but he’d admit to doing a little hero-worshipping himself when he was younger, especially when he was this boy’s age and Ash was sixteen or seventeen, a man in his young eyes. And there was far more of an age difference between Francis and his brother. Francis likely had never seen his brother’s feet of clay.
“Maybe he hasn’t had time to pen a letter. Or maybe it got lost. These things happen. Or perhaps he wrote to your aunt and was waiting to tell you in person.”
“No, I’m sure Frederick didn’t write. He’s as bad as our father, always trying to avoid responsibility.” The boy glared at him. “Unless . . . yes, that must be it. Puddington must have known; that’s why he’s been so vague and evasive in his recent letters. And Aunt Viola—she did get a letter right before the blizzard, which she was quite secretive about. Damn it, that’s why she tried to sell me to Mr.—”
The lad stopped abruptly and shot Jack an extremely guilty look.
“Francis!” Jack took him by the shoulders and made him meet his eyes. Surely he had misunderstood, but if he hadn’t, he would be finding the boy’s aunt and making it very clear to her that he would not tolerate trafficking in children. No wonder Francis had been afraid of him at the Crowing Cock. “If your aunt was planning to sell you, I will see that she is punished. You don’t have to worry that I’ll return you to her.”
Francis gaped at him. “Oh no. I didn’t mean . . . that is . . .”
Children often defended their abusers. He’d learned that over the last four years. He’d had no idea how dark the human soul could be until he’d started taking in abandoned children and helping the poor prostitutes. It sounded as if this aunt was the only family Francis had besides his brother and . . .
“You mentioned your father. I had just assumed . . . is he still alive, then?”
Francis shrugged. “As far as I know. I haven’t seen him in years.”
So the father would be no help. Damn it, some men should be castrated—but then Francis wouldn’t be here. That was what he reminded himself whenever he began to despair. Men—and women—did terrible things, but there was always hope for the children.
“And your mother?”
“Died when I was young—” She coughed. “Younger.”
So there was only the aunt and the brother. Or . . .
“Who is this Puddington fellow?”
Oh, damn, now her goose was well and truly cooked. “A, er, family acquaintance. Stodgy old fellow. Knew my father. I’m sure you wouldn’t like him.”
Lord Jack looked skeptical. “Does he live in London?”
“Yes, I believe so, but I don’t know where.” That was true; she had only his office address. “Why do you ask?”
“Because now that your brother has moved—and if what you say is true, I refuse to send you back to your aunt—we’ll need to find a home for you, at least until I can track down your sibling.”
Oh God, that was right. Now that Frederick had gone off, she had no place to stay. It was just like her brother to leave her in the lurch.
“Don’t worry.” Jack started back toward the curricle. “You can stay with me for the time being.”
“What?!” She stumbled, and Jack caught her.
She shrugged out of his hold and kept walking. She couldn’t stay with Jack. Sharing a room with the man had been scandalous, but at least it had been at a small, out-of-the-way inn. No one knew of it except for the Findleys and—
Pettigrew, of course. And Mr. Dantley, but he hadn’t made the connection between Frederick Hadley and Francis Haddon. Pettigrew had, and Pettigrew would spread the story far and wide.
And Pettigrew lived in London. Had likely been just a little behind them on the road.
The story of her stay at the Crowing Cock was bad enough—well, it was hard to imagine how it could be worse—but if she brazenly lived with Lord Jack in London . . . “I can’t stay with you.”
“Of course you can. Greycliffe House
“Maybe he hasn’t had time to pen a letter. Or maybe it got lost. These things happen. Or perhaps he wrote to your aunt and was waiting to tell you in person.”
“No, I’m sure Frederick didn’t write. He’s as bad as our father, always trying to avoid responsibility.” The boy glared at him. “Unless . . . yes, that must be it. Puddington must have known; that’s why he’s been so vague and evasive in his recent letters. And Aunt Viola—she did get a letter right before the blizzard, which she was quite secretive about. Damn it, that’s why she tried to sell me to Mr.—”
The lad stopped abruptly and shot Jack an extremely guilty look.
“Francis!” Jack took him by the shoulders and made him meet his eyes. Surely he had misunderstood, but if he hadn’t, he would be finding the boy’s aunt and making it very clear to her that he would not tolerate trafficking in children. No wonder Francis had been afraid of him at the Crowing Cock. “If your aunt was planning to sell you, I will see that she is punished. You don’t have to worry that I’ll return you to her.”
Francis gaped at him. “Oh no. I didn’t mean . . . that is . . .”
Children often defended their abusers. He’d learned that over the last four years. He’d had no idea how dark the human soul could be until he’d started taking in abandoned children and helping the poor prostitutes. It sounded as if this aunt was the only family Francis had besides his brother and . . .
“You mentioned your father. I had just assumed . . . is he still alive, then?”
Francis shrugged. “As far as I know. I haven’t seen him in years.”
So the father would be no help. Damn it, some men should be castrated—but then Francis wouldn’t be here. That was what he reminded himself whenever he began to despair. Men—and women—did terrible things, but there was always hope for the children.
“And your mother?”
“Died when I was young—” She coughed. “Younger.”
So there was only the aunt and the brother. Or . . .
“Who is this Puddington fellow?”
Oh, damn, now her goose was well and truly cooked. “A, er, family acquaintance. Stodgy old fellow. Knew my father. I’m sure you wouldn’t like him.”
Lord Jack looked skeptical. “Does he live in London?”
“Yes, I believe so, but I don’t know where.” That was true; she had only his office address. “Why do you ask?”
“Because now that your brother has moved—and if what you say is true, I refuse to send you back to your aunt—we’ll need to find a home for you, at least until I can track down your sibling.”
Oh God, that was right. Now that Frederick had gone off, she had no place to stay. It was just like her brother to leave her in the lurch.
“Don’t worry.” Jack started back toward the curricle. “You can stay with me for the time being.”
“What?!” She stumbled, and Jack caught her.
She shrugged out of his hold and kept walking. She couldn’t stay with Jack. Sharing a room with the man had been scandalous, but at least it had been at a small, out-of-the-way inn. No one knew of it except for the Findleys and—
Pettigrew, of course. And Mr. Dantley, but he hadn’t made the connection between Frederick Hadley and Francis Haddon. Pettigrew had, and Pettigrew would spread the story far and wide.
And Pettigrew lived in London. Had likely been just a little behind them on the road.
The story of her stay at the Crowing Cock was bad enough—well, it was hard to imagine how it could be worse—but if she brazenly lived with Lord Jack in London . . . “I can’t stay with you.”
“Of course you can. Greycliffe House
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