lock of the girl’s hair, mumbling, “Nanna,” and she smiled at him. “I’ll put little Lord Mercer down for a nap. Come along now.” She gently pulled her hair free, and then urged Harry toward the other side of the square with a hand on her arm.
Harry gave him a pleading look over her shoulder. “Please come, Roger,” she said, and then she hurried back to her house.
He followed more slowly, limping again. “Your arm is bleeding, sir,” a footman said at his side. Roger twisted it to see a hole in his jacket and shirt, revealing a scraped elbow. “We’ll fix it right up,” the footman said, as Roger realized this must be another of Harry’s servants.
He couldn’t help but wonder, with all of these people surrounding her, how had the kidnapper gotten to Harry and her boy? And why?
Chapter Six
Roger had some time to think about what had happened as he waited for Harry in the drawing room. A middle-aged housekeeper had appeared with more vinegar and mopped him up, and a maid took his jacket to “Just sew it right up proper, sir,” and he now sat with tea and biscuits and time on his hands to consider Harry’s new life.
Servants who clearly doted on her, a mansion in Manchester Square, a little boy she obviously adored. The house was well kept, the furnishings fashionable, new, and quite expensive. Roger couldn’t even afford one of her chairs. This room was clearly meant for day visitors and was newly decorated in the latest fashion, with red silk on the walls and marble around the fireplace.
Harry was new to London, had few friends, yet her recent escapades had put her name in the papers, gossip mongers and ne’er-do-wells all privy to her situation. And today was a result of that: a kidnapping attempt on her little boy surely meant to extort money from a helpless widow with no family or protection.
Roger’s anger with himself grew the more he mulled it over. Harry hadn’t known about the consequences of her actions, but Roger had. He’d seen the papers, heard the talk. But she was naive and new to the city. He should have told her, helped her. He should have spoken to her sooner. He had treated her most shabbily. Hil was absolutely right, damn him.
Just then the door opened, but it wasn’t Harry. “In here?” Roger heard a woman’s voice ask. “Who is he? What happened?”
An older woman walked in and Roger immediately stood, setting his tea down. She was clearly a lady, her dress and manner impeccable. She looked at Roger, noting his attire with a speculative glance. He blushed when he realized he wore no jacket, just his waistcoat and torn shirt. At least he’d left his cravat on, though it was probably a mess. He must look like a laborer, or worse. “My apologies, madam,” he said with a slight bow. “I did not realize I would be having company.”
He looked at the butler, who seemed unfazed by his rude attire. “I shall check on your coat, sir,” the butler said with a bow and retreated, leaving the door open.
“Oh, please, do not stand on ceremony with me,” the elderly lady said. She looked older upon closer inspection than his first impression. Her hair was white under her cap, and wrinkles scored her cheeks as she frowned. She waved him back onto the sofa. “Who tried to take little Mercy? Is he all right?” She seemed genuinely upset.
“We don’t know, ma’am, but the boy is fine,” Roger told her, sitting down gingerly. “I arrived just in time to foil the kidnapper’s plans. When I took the boy from him, we tumbled to the ground and my coat tore. It was taken away to be fixed …” He stared at the open door, willing his repaired coat to appear. He was decidedly uncomfortable sitting here half clothed with a stranger.
“I am Lady Lockerby,” she explained, holding out her hand to Roger. “I am Mercy’s aunt, the sister of the late Lord Mercer.”
Roger shook her hand. “How do you do?” he asked politely. “I am Roger Templeton. I’m an … old
Harry gave him a pleading look over her shoulder. “Please come, Roger,” she said, and then she hurried back to her house.
He followed more slowly, limping again. “Your arm is bleeding, sir,” a footman said at his side. Roger twisted it to see a hole in his jacket and shirt, revealing a scraped elbow. “We’ll fix it right up,” the footman said, as Roger realized this must be another of Harry’s servants.
He couldn’t help but wonder, with all of these people surrounding her, how had the kidnapper gotten to Harry and her boy? And why?
Chapter Six
Roger had some time to think about what had happened as he waited for Harry in the drawing room. A middle-aged housekeeper had appeared with more vinegar and mopped him up, and a maid took his jacket to “Just sew it right up proper, sir,” and he now sat with tea and biscuits and time on his hands to consider Harry’s new life.
Servants who clearly doted on her, a mansion in Manchester Square, a little boy she obviously adored. The house was well kept, the furnishings fashionable, new, and quite expensive. Roger couldn’t even afford one of her chairs. This room was clearly meant for day visitors and was newly decorated in the latest fashion, with red silk on the walls and marble around the fireplace.
Harry was new to London, had few friends, yet her recent escapades had put her name in the papers, gossip mongers and ne’er-do-wells all privy to her situation. And today was a result of that: a kidnapping attempt on her little boy surely meant to extort money from a helpless widow with no family or protection.
Roger’s anger with himself grew the more he mulled it over. Harry hadn’t known about the consequences of her actions, but Roger had. He’d seen the papers, heard the talk. But she was naive and new to the city. He should have told her, helped her. He should have spoken to her sooner. He had treated her most shabbily. Hil was absolutely right, damn him.
Just then the door opened, but it wasn’t Harry. “In here?” Roger heard a woman’s voice ask. “Who is he? What happened?”
An older woman walked in and Roger immediately stood, setting his tea down. She was clearly a lady, her dress and manner impeccable. She looked at Roger, noting his attire with a speculative glance. He blushed when he realized he wore no jacket, just his waistcoat and torn shirt. At least he’d left his cravat on, though it was probably a mess. He must look like a laborer, or worse. “My apologies, madam,” he said with a slight bow. “I did not realize I would be having company.”
He looked at the butler, who seemed unfazed by his rude attire. “I shall check on your coat, sir,” the butler said with a bow and retreated, leaving the door open.
“Oh, please, do not stand on ceremony with me,” the elderly lady said. She looked older upon closer inspection than his first impression. Her hair was white under her cap, and wrinkles scored her cheeks as she frowned. She waved him back onto the sofa. “Who tried to take little Mercy? Is he all right?” She seemed genuinely upset.
“We don’t know, ma’am, but the boy is fine,” Roger told her, sitting down gingerly. “I arrived just in time to foil the kidnapper’s plans. When I took the boy from him, we tumbled to the ground and my coat tore. It was taken away to be fixed …” He stared at the open door, willing his repaired coat to appear. He was decidedly uncomfortable sitting here half clothed with a stranger.
“I am Lady Lockerby,” she explained, holding out her hand to Roger. “I am Mercy’s aunt, the sister of the late Lord Mercer.”
Roger shook her hand. “How do you do?” he asked politely. “I am Roger Templeton. I’m an … old
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