‘Of course, my lady, it will be my pleasure,’ the enigmatic secretary agreed with the deference he refused his powerful employer.
‘Should I be feeling sadly cast down by your lack of faith in my gentlemanly instincts?’ the marquis mused with a smile in his eyes Polly mustn’t find disarming.
‘Probably,’ she replied and lowered her gaze to her plate in the hope Prue’s cooking would put tomorrow to the back of her mind.
‘You are about as easily cast down as a distant planet, young man,’ Lady Wakebourne muttered into her soup.
‘How well you seem to know me, ma’am—were you a long-standing friend of my godmother?’
‘Oh, no, she belonged to a more sophisticated set than I aspired to. My maiden aunt was one of her bosom bows, but she’s been dead for fifteen years or more now and I doubt you remember her.’
‘Virginia had a variety of terrifying friends who would interrogate me about my morals and intentions in life and the shameful state of my neck and hands when I was a grubby schoolboy. I dare say your relative was a sweet little lady with a doting fondness for small boys and would not dream of such an inquisition?’
‘I never found her heart of gold if she possessed one, which I doubt.’
‘Oh, dear, who was your particular tartar in petticoats, then?’
‘Miss Euphemia Badlerstone,’ Lady Wakebourne said with a shudder Lord Mantaigne echoed, and Polly felt it set off a twinge of heat and dangerous fellow feeling stir deep within her once more.
‘I remember her only too well: a lady of great perception, little patience and a devastatingly frank tongue.’
‘I would think less of you if you pretended she was sweet, gentle or charitable,’ Lady Wakebourne said indulgently.
Polly only just bit back a groan at the thought her friend was about to adopt another lone boy. This one was certainly not in any need of her fierce protection and frustrated maternal love. Lord Mantaigne was clearly able to take care of himself, and Polly couldn’t imagine how any woman would see his all-too-evident strength and boldness and feel in the least bit motherly, because she certainly didn’t.
Something told her he was even more complex than she’d first thought under his shell of indifference, so she tried to let his genial small talk wash over her as she ate her dinner. Then she went through the plans she had for tomorrow in her head in order to put them off for a day that might never come now he was here. This was the true business of her life: ensuring there was enough to eat and a safe place for her family to sleep. Things she grew up taking for granted were a vague memory for Toby and Harry and a myth to Josh and she was all that stood between them and destitution. She would keep standing there, though, and this feral attraction to a marquis could not be allowed to get in the way.
Heaven forbid her boys ever looked like Jago, Joe and Benjie did when Lady Wakebourne lifted them down from the cart she had driven back from London. None of them could blame their new friend for snatching three little exhausted climbing boys from their master one night as he lay drunk in the gutter on their earnings, but for a long time they lived in dread of someone connecting Lady Wakebourne’s last desperate appearance in polite society with their disappearance. She had gone to see if anything was left from the disaster her husband had wrought to add to what they could grow or make from a mouldering castle and its neglected gardens.
It was a reminder Polly must still fight to make sure her boys were never dependent on cold charity. Thank heavens all but Josh were too big for such a trade now, but it took months for the sores on Jago, Joe and Ben’s poor burnt and soot-encrusted feet to heal, longer for their shocked eyes to spark with mischief and to this day Jago had nightmares about being trapped in dark and ever narrowing chimneys. He was still only twelve years old, and Polly caught herself glaring at Lord Mantaigne for having so many chimneys in need of small climbing boys to clean them.
She had no right to judge him, she reminded herself. How would she have been by now if she had lived the life of a lady of quality? Ladies were not supposed to question the grand order of things and even the thought of such a little life made her yawn. Lady Wakebourne misread it as weariness and rose to her feet as if she had been waiting for someone else to wilt so she could too. Gathering her female troops about her, she was gracious as the men sprang to their feet.
‘I think we might as well retire, ladies,’ she remarked. ‘There is a great deal to do in the morning and no point wasting candles if we’re only going to nod over our needlework.’
‘Until the morning then, Lady Wakebourne; Miss Trethayne; ladies,’ Lord Mantaigne said with a bow that made no differences between them.
‘Boys, you might consider yourselves quite grown up and able to sit up half the night plaguing your elders, but I do not. Bedtime, my lads,’ Lady Wakebourne ordered.
* * *
‘Will he let us stay, Poll?’ Toby asked her quietly as soon as his younger brothers were asleep.
‘I doubt it,’ she had to admit because he was too old to be fobbed off with a shrug or a diversionary tactic.
‘We’ll come about somehow, though, Sis, don’t you worry,’ he said with a grave look that ought to be beyond a boy born to comfort and privilege, even if there was little of either in his life now.
Toby was the only one of her half-brothers old enough to fully remember how it felt to wander the world with nowhere to go and an ever-dwindling supply of money to do it on. Polly had tried so hard to make their new life an adventure; to encourage him to look forward to every day as full of hope and possibility instead of fear. She had felt enough of that for both of them and memory of it made her heart thump.
‘We shall be together, that’s all that matters,’ she replied with an attempt at light-heartedness he met with a brave smile.
‘I’m a man this time, Poll,’ he told her sleepily.
‘You are, love, but men still need sleep, and you’ve had a long day, so let tomorrow take care of itself.’
‘You will discuss anything important with me, won’t you?’ he asked, and yet again she had to face the reality her brothers were growing up without much more prospects in life than Jago, Benjie and Joe.
‘Of course, and we’re the bold and bad Trethayne family, don’t forget.’
‘Aye, of course we are,’ he mumbled with a sleepy sigh and slept as suddenly and completely as a boy must after a day of action and excitement.
‘Oh, love, may you dream of better things,’ she whispered softly, dousing the candle before tiptoeing out by memory.
‘Are they asleep?’ Lady Wakebourne murmured when Polly shut the door as softly as ancient oak and a heavy latch allowed.
‘Yes, it would take an army marching about the courtyard to wake them now.’
‘Then come to my chamber and talk while we take some of that claret Barker found in the inner cellar. I dare say you’ll get no sleep without it, despite what I said when we left the great room tonight.’
Polly and Lady Wakebourne crossed the courtyard to the women’s quarters together. No doubt Lord Mantaigne would find it amusing such barriers existed in such a ramshackle household, but it was a matter of pride to confound those who called them vagabonds and misfits—not that many villagers dared say so after they met Lady Wakebourne. Polly bore the lantern to light them to the stout door of the inner courtyard and a suite of rooms that once belonged to the castle steward.
‘Hold still, girl,’ her companion demanded, using both hands to try to raise the latch holding the ancient studded oak door firmly shut. ‘What’s the point of being half a foot taller than you should be if you can’t act the footman once in a while?’
‘None at all I dare say,’ Polly replied placidly, wondering why the lady’s blunt comments didn’t set her