Chapter Eleven
Benjamin was late in claiming his bed this particular evening.
Everything that had happened today swam through his memory as if it were a play upon a stage in Covent Garden.
In the lulls where he attempted to keep his emotions in check, his head organized how to secure the house next door to make it livable for Miss Whitchurch and the child.
“She likely only has a single room at her boarding house,” he told himself.
“Three rooms will be a luxury indeed. Next, I must convince her to take her meals at Macalhey House, and I must set up appropriate quarters for Mrs. Sullivan. Surely there are pieces of furniture in this house that could be spared for the use of both ladies.”
His ears perked up when he heard the child let out a wail.
He was not dressed to roam the halls of his home, especially with both Miss Whitchurch and Mrs. Sullivan occupying rooms along the same hallway.
He waited impatiently for someone to quiet the boy, forcing himself to continue his inventory of what all must be executed tomorrow.
In addition to assisting Miss Whitchurch, he still wished desperately to return to his search of the Lyon’s Den’s grounds.
The child’s cries became louder, and Benjamin’s dark brow formed a frown.
A sudden revelation had the frown deepening.
Just because Miss Whitchurch was in London to assist her sister did not mean she was not attached to a gentleman in Bath or in Hampshire.
Moreover, Benjamin knew he was far from charismatic when it came to women.
Beaufort and Orson were both like honey to a bee.
Meanwhile, Marksman had a rugged innocence women would consider taking on in a “motherly” manner, and then there was Graham, who even with his scarred cheek and injured leg, could charm any woman he met.
Meanwhile, Benjamin’s mother often professed him to be a giant oaf in a china shop.
The noise of the unhappy baby was becoming jarring to a man who had become accustomed to his solitude. He poured himself a splash of whisky in hopes it would assist him in claiming some sleep, but the muted cries of the boy were beginning to be a real irritation.
Thinking someone was assuredly tending the child, Benjamin returned to his nighttime routine.
He poured water into a bowl and took up a cloth and a bit of soap to wash his face, arms, and chest. He stretched his arms above his head, looking up to the ceiling.
He reminded himself he had not been in the training room at Duncan Place for nearly a fortnight.
No wonder his muscles were knotted along his shoulders.
Duncan had installed the practice area in the house years ago to be used for his sons and Theodora to practice their skills.
Benjamin closed his eyes and attempted to permit the tenseness to slip away.
Unfortunately, the child’s cries had changed to staccato-style bursts, as if he was running out of air.
“Could he be choking?” Benjamin murmured.
Unable to ignore the boy any longer, Benjamin grabbed a pair of loose-style trousers and slid them over his legs and hips, tying off the strings, before claiming a banyan, cinching it closed about his waist.
The boy found his second wind—his volume increased.
With a huff of irritation, Benjamin headed towards the door.
Why could no one else in the house hear the child?
Naturally, the servants slept in a different part of the house, but a footman or Benjamin’s butler should be in the main part of the house on the street level.
When he reached Mrs. Sullivan’s door, it was set ajar.
Benjamin paused, his years of training and investigation taking hold.
Cautiously, he approached the room to tap on the door.
“Mrs. Sullivan,” he called, but not with much volume.
He tapped a second time and eased the door open, but he saw no one, but he could hear the cries of the boy even louder now.
For a few seconds, silence claimed the room as the child caught a second breath. “Mrs. Sullivan?” Benjamin said with a bit of authority in his tone. “Is all well, ma’am?”
Nothing.
Benjamin edged towards the cradle, but he could find nothing suspicious except the child being alone.
He placed his hand upon the boy’s chest, and the child quieted and stared up at him.
Could a baby actually see clearly enough to recognize him?
“You do not enjoy being alone, do you, boy? I understand.”
The child whimpered for the briefest of seconds before he screwed up his face again, set upon expressing his complaints in the only way he knew. However, Benjamin placed his hand solidly on the child’s chest and noted a churning in the boy’s gut.
“Something not set well for you?” he asked as he stroked the child’s midsection lightly. Silent sobs could be felt beneath Benjamin’s fingers.
He heard a noise behind him and turned.
“Oh, my lord,” Mrs. Sullivan gasped.
“The child was crying. I came to check on him,” Benjamin explained.
“The boy is having difficulty adjusting to my feeding him,” the woman said as she clutched her robe tighter about her.
“I went below to make some pap for him. I thought to alternate the pap with… I am unfamiliar with your kitchen, and I did not wish to leave a mess for your cook. It took longer than I expected.” She held a bowl of the mixture in one of her hands.
“I was not asleep,” he said as he touched the child’s chest again.
“We all must make some adjustments until Miss Whitchurch and the child move into the rooms next door. I am pleased to have my cousin close. She has taken on responsibilities that others would not consider; however, I am grateful she has finally seen reason and has agreed to accept assistance.”
“Yes, your Mrs. Gabriel explained much of what happened,” Mrs. Sullivan said.
“I will leave the boy in your expert hands, ma’am.” Benjamin caressed the child’s chin. “Sleep well, child. You have a busy day tomorrow.”
The following morning, Benjamin tarried at the breakfast table, “reading the paper,” rather than for it to be obvious that he was waiting for Miss Whitchurch’s appearance.
“Good morning, my lord,” she said as Mr. Patterson directed her into the room.
Like it or not, and Benjamin did not like it, his heart hitched higher at the image of her sitting at his table.
Benjamin rose and bowed. “Good morning, Miss Whitchurch. I hope you slept well.”
Mr. Patterson held the chair for her, and she sat on his left. “Tea, miss?” Patterson asked.
Benjamin returned to his seat and set the newsprints aside.
Before he could address her, she said dutifully, “I wish to thank you, my lord. Your staff has been very welcoming. Someone even pressed my dress while I slept.”
“I imagine they are happy to have someone upon whom to practice their skills. I tend to be a bit of a hermit. Is that not correct, Patterson?”
“A good servant never contradicts his employer, sir,” Patterson said with a smile. “May I prepare you a plate, miss?” he asked.
Miss Whitchurch’s eyes widened. “Anything you consider worthy would be fine,” the lady responded.
Patterson’s expression indicated his dismay; therefore, Benjamin asked, “How do you like your eggs, Miss Whitchurch? Boiled? Coddled? Whatever means you prefer.”
The woman appeared ashamed, but she said, “In truth, my lord, it has been months since I have had an egg. We rarely had them at the school where I taught, and I have had none since I came to London.”
Benjamin felt as if someone had kicked him in the rear for being an arse. “You will have them here, that is, if you wish them.”
Tears claimed her eyes. “Coddled, Mr. Patterson,” she managed. “And dry toast.”
“There are several spreads on the table, miss.” Patterson’s eyes also indicated the man had been moved by the lady’s honesty.
“I have made arrangements for Mr. Brunswick to escort you to your boarding house. If I send him in the gig, will that be big enough for your belongings?”
“A small trunk and a valise will be all I have. Perhaps a cloth bag with scraps Mr. Sustar always permits me to take home for household use,” she admitted. “And where will you be today, my lord?”
“I must finish my search of the grounds at the Lyon’s Den,” he explained.
“During the day, I generally oversee some of my business interests. I am confident Lord Duncan will wish to learn what he might of your sister either today or tomorrow, depending upon his duties at the Home Office. Everything has been quite hectic with the assassination of the Prime Minister.”
“For what are you searching on the grounds at the Lyon’s Den?” she asked.
“The Prime Minister was shot in May, but someone shot Duncan in mid-March as we were leaving the Lyon’s Den.
The fellow walked right between us, and none of us knew what was happening until it was too late.
Titan found the shooter’s coat. That was why we were at the Lyon’s Den when you first took the acquaintance of my brothers and Mr. Hartley.
The coat had a missing button. If we can find it on the grounds of the Lyon’s Den, it will prove the person’s disguise was thrown away, and he blended in with those exiting the Den after the gunfire.
It is important to all of us that we discover this person, but I feel it deeply, for I told Lord Beaufort to ignore the man.
I thought he was drunk, but he was not. Duncan is fortunate that the bullet only tore away some of his muscle and bone.
Otherwise, we would all be grieving his loss. ”
She reached out to squeeze the back of Benjamin’s hand, and though he wished to interlock their fingers, he did not move—simply enjoyed the feel of her skin against his. “How very terrible for your family.”