“What?” Atlas pushed past the boy and into his chamber, shutting the door behind him and hiking the fellow up under one arm.
“Hey!” Young Mr. Bronwen thrashed and kicked, a pup wiggling about. “Put me down!”
Atlas did, setting him onto a chair near the fireplace and kneeling before him. “Your grandfather locked you up?”
The boy fisted his hands at his sides and glared. “I’m not a package. Or a cat. You can’t haul me around.”
“Apologies. Now tell me about your grandfather.” Something violent rumbled through Atlas that he hadn’t felt since Waterloo,a sense of fate striking like lightning. And the accompanying need to wrestle that fate to his own designs no matter the means.
The boy’s hands loosened, and he bit his lip. “He wasn’t mean about it. He just wouldn’t let me go anywhere if I might see Mama. But I escaped one night.” He grinned. “That’s how we got here. We ran. And if you don’t hire Mama, we’ll have to run again, but Mama doesn’t know where.”
Atlas rocked back on his heels, his body so heavy he almost rolled right back onto his arse. He knew most of what the boy spoke of already, but to hear it from the boy’s lips—such facts faced with such casual certitude from such an innocent face—seemed a heavier thing. Darker. The child did not run blindly at his mother’s side. The child knew, and he fought as well as he could.
“I’ve got a slingshot.”
“Pardon?”
The boy rolled his eyes. “I’ve got a slingshot. I took it with us when we ran, and I know how to use it.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Might be.”
“I see. I’ll keep that in mind. You’re an admirable lad. A clever one.” The boy was a warrior, but Mr. Alfred Simon Bronwen should not have to fight. No child should.
“She’sgood,” the boy said. “With wood and such. Very good. Better than anyone. The table she’s working on is in the stables, and she helped with the molding in the breakfast room. You should go look at them.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re a horse’s arse if you don’t hire her.”
Should he chide the child for such language? Like mother like son, apparently. Both possessed foul mouths when it suited them. And both… both had charmed him.
“I would like to help you.” But even if he offered to hire her now, she’d be wary of his extended hand. She likely wouldn’ttake it. He’d ruined any chance of helping her with that mad proposal. He should have hired her to begin with and promised to keep his cock in his pants. What a mess he’d made of things. He bunched his muscles to rise, and the wound on his thigh wailed. He ignored the scream of pain as he stood. It would dissipate soon enough. “But perhaps your plight is better addressed by any one of the numerous charitable souls residing in this house. My brother and sister-in-law can find you a new home. The woman who owns this house, Baroness Balantine—she will help, I know it. I can ask my mother to find your mother a position. Or?—”
“Bah. You might be a coward.” Mr. Alfred bounced to his feet and strode across the room. “We don’t need your help.” He opened the door and slammed it behind him in one smooth jerk.
Atlas scrubbed his palms across his face. He growled, an irritation like sandpaper rising up his throat. He’d certainly acted cowardly toward Mrs. Bronwen, denying her a position because he was afraid of his own reaction to her.
Atlas tore out of the room. Few steps, it seemed, took him to the mews behind the house, to a large stable, perhaps two combined, outfitted to a be a sort of carpentry shop. In the middle of the space a pedestal table. Dark wood. Mahogany? Elegant, certainly, the central spire well crafted and sanded to a satiny sheen, a pretty bit of art. Delicate. Yet sturdy.
A chair in the corner with an empty seat. An arm appeared to be broken, but she was clearly fixing it. The back fanned out in a shield design. She’d mentioned Hepplewhite, and the chair screamed his influence. When she finished, it would be good as new. Better. He returned to the house, to the breakfast room, and craned his neck back. Damn it all. The molding up there fitted with more finesse than anything the dower house at Briarcliff had ever known. Delicate, too, many-layered, and it ringed the room like a king’s crown.
Perhaps he should make that offer after all. The proper one, the one she’d wanted—a position as cabinetmaker, not the many positions he could find for her in his bed. As his wife.
Otherwise, he might end up with shit in his boots and a rock sling-shotted into an eye.
More burdensome, he’d harbor a mountain of guilt in his heart, and he knew better than most no doubt, how difficult guilt made it to live.
Five
Clara trod the long way back to the art school, her steps as heavy as the gray sky above. Rain had long since seeped past the stitching of her boots. Soggy stockings were a little bit of hell, weren’t they? Still, she kept trudging despite her icy toes. Same as she had been for five days.
Five days of searching and not a single opportunity had presented itself. For servant positions, Clara had been considered too well spoken, too ladylike. She lacked the necessary skills to be a seamstress. She’d been propositioned by a drunken lad in Hyde Park, and while she did not wish to be any man’s mistress, she would if it meant security outside of London. Yet she had Alfie, and men didn’t like children, liked to think their women pristine. What would that foxed buck think if he’d seen the stretched skin across her belly, the marks on her inner thighs and breasts? Turn away disgusted, likely.
Fool. He’d probably done the same to his mother when he’d come into the world. Women earned such marks with their own power and strength. She’d always loved hers.
She also loved books, but that did not make her eligible to work in a bookshop. Nor had she been able to find a position as a barmaid. The trouble was, it took time to get to the edgesof London where she looked for jobs, time to get back. When she’d finally decided to follow Lord Atlas’s advice and ask Lord Andrew for help securing a position, he and his secretary had already left for Manchester. And she could not look for jobs in the country in the middle of town. What if she and Alfie jumped aboard a mail coach and traveled just… anywhere? A risk, certainly. A poor plan. But better a poor plan than none at all.
And she was not averse to taking risks.
Sleeping under the same roof as a man who’d admitted to wanting to bed her for instance. Three nights she’d lain awake, Alfie tucked beside her, waiting for the creak of the opening door. Men took what they wanted and discarded the rest.
