Chapter 5
Julian sat up in bed as Proctor, his valet, set a breakfast tray on his knees and proceeded to open the curtains.
After receiving his unexpected inheritance, Julian had bought one of the new town houses springing up in the city and had enjoyed decorating it and choosing all the furniture without interference from his family.
His mother had been offended both by his decision to leave the family home, which she insisted reflected badly on her, and Julian’s resolve not to ask for her help with any aspect of the house.
“It’s a beautiful morning, sir. What do you have planned?” Proctor asked as Julian sipped his coffee.
“I have some business to attend to in the East End and then I might take my phaeton out to the park this afternoon.”
Proctor made a face. “May I suggest one of your older coats for your morning activities, sir? Last time you came home from that place you were covered in jam and other unknown substances. It took me all day to restore your coat to a wearable condition.”
“Whatever you think best.” Julian grinned at him. “I trust your judgment implicitly, Proctor.”
“I always like to see you turned out well, sir.” His valet bowed. “Do you wish to have a bath this morning? Or should that wait until your return?”
“I’ll bathe when I return. That’ll wash off the jam.”
“And the other unmentionables.” Proctor shuddered and turned to leave. “I’m surprised you haven’t caught fleas.”
Julian ate his breakfast in a leisurely fashion and was just perusing the morning papers when his brother burst into the room.
“Morning, Julian.”
Julian lowered the newspaper. “Did you forget where you live again, Aragon? It’s deuced early to be disturbing a man.”
Aragon sat on the side of the bed and eyed the contents of Julian’s breakfast tray like a hopeful dog. “Anything left for me?”
Julian sighed and handed over the tray. “I was just about to get up, anyway.”
“No need to rush on my account,” his brother mumbled through a mouthful of toast. “I wrote that note to Lady Carenza. Took me hours. Had to ask the waiter at White’s how to spell her name properly.”
“Good for you.” Julian stripped off his nightshirt, poured hot water from the jug his valet had left him into the matching bowl, and vigorously washed his face and upper torso. “Did she respond?”
“Not yet. It is still early.” Aragon started on the remains of the eggs. “It occurred to me that you know her quite well.”
“I knew her deceased husband. We were at school together.” Julian put on his shirt and stepped into his breeches. “My acquaintance with the lady herself is of no consequence.”
“You’ll still come with me, though, when I take her riding.” Aragon looked up at him. A sizable amount of toast crumbs adhered to his mustache. “You’re very accomplished at this chitchat nonsense.”
“As I mentioned yesterday, you just need practice, brother. Hiding behind me will not further your suit with the lady in question.”
Aragon drank the remains of Julian’s coffee and then added more to the cup from the pot. “Mother said you’d say that.”
“And yet again, she was correct.”
“She said you wouldn’t choose to oblige me because you lack”—Aragon paused as if trying to recollect her exact words—“filial obligations.”
“As I recently paid for Anton’s promotion, she has a very short memory.” Julian turned to the mirror and tried to concentrate on the arrangement of his cravat. “When are you supposed to go riding with Lady Carenza?”
“I don’t know.” His brother’s mirrored reflection shrugged. “She hasn’t responded yet, and you know what ladies are like. Their social engagements are legion.”
“When she does respond, send me a note, and if I am free, I will accompany you.”
“Excellent.” Aragon stood up, dusted down his waistcoat, and strode toward the door. “I knew you’d do the right thing in the end.”
Julian pinned his cravat in place and picked up the black coat Proctor had left out for him.
It had occurred to him that assisting his brother with his current flirtation with Carenza worked in his favor.
It would give him a perfectly legitimate reason to call more regularly on her, and as his mother would never dream of letting Aragon marry anyone for at least the next ten years, no harm would be done to all concerned.
He put on his rings, stowed his watch and purse in his pockets, and went down the stairs, filled with unusual optimism.
From the odd hint Hector had dropped about Carenza, Julian had assumed she’d tolerated her husband’s advances with the usual lack of enthusiasm of most society wives.
The single kiss Julian had shared with her had dispelled that notion in an instant.
Her response also explained her decision to look for a new bed partner. He was intrigued by the idea of having a lover who told him what to do. He’d never been very biddable. Only time would tell if he would succeed in following Carenza’s orders.
He made his way to the mews behind his house, where his groom had his horse ready to go.
“Thank you, Bert.” Julian mounted his horse and headed out.
It was a clear spring morning, which he was grateful for as he made the familiar ride into an area where the buildings were close enough together to block out the sunlight, and the population increased until he was surrounded by a multitude of people.
He was always relieved that his destination was directly on the London Road and not down one of the infamous back alleys from which some unfortunates never returned.
He reined in his horse at the front of an austere, stone-faced building, and the porter who managed the courtyard gate recognized Julian and let him in with a nod and a smile.
There was a small stable yard to the side of the building where he was able to leave his horse in relative comfort and with the knowledge that it would still be there when he returned.
He approached the open kitchen door, through which the smell of porridge scented the steamy air. Someone was shouting—someone was always shouting here—and he recognized the voice of the cook and fought a smile.
Mrs. Bellingham was a tall woman who commanded her kitchen staff as though she were the Duke of Wellington. Everyone was terrified of her, but they also knew she had a kind heart and would protect the orphans with everything in her power.
“Come ’ere, you little rascal, I—” She paused midtirade, her soup ladle in the air, as she saw Julian. “Morning, sir.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Bellingham. Is Miss Cartwright in?”
“Where else would she be at this time in the morning?” Mrs. Bellingham gave him a bemused look. “Some of us have jobs to do.”
“Yeah, we’re not toffs like you,” the small boy who had raised the housekeeper’s ire piped up. “Swanning around all fancy like.”
“You keep your mouth shut, Tommy, and have some respect in front of Mr. Laurent,” Mrs. Bellingham said. “And get out of my kitchen, you thieving little devil.”
“Where is he supposed to be, ma’am?” Julian asked. “I can escort him back, if you like.”
“In the hall with the other boys having his breakfast.” Mrs. Bellingham glared at the boy. “Not in ’ere under me feet.”
“Come along.” Julian put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Let’s leave Mrs. Bellingham in peace.”
Tommy sighed and allowed Julian to escort him out of the kitchen. “I was just a bit hungry.”
“Then go and have your breakfast.”
Julian braced himself for the noise and sight of twenty boys sitting in long rows eating.
It reminded him of his days at Harrow, except these boys wouldn’t be regularly beaten, at least not while he was on the orphanage’s board of trustees.
His gaze fell upon Miss Cartwright, who was managing the cauldron of porridge.
She looked flushed, her brown hair coming down to create soft curls around her face.
Julian had met Miss Cartwright and her brother Martin through an acquaintance, and after visiting their establishment, he had offered his financial support.
“Mr. Laurent!” Miss Cartwright smiled at him. “How lovely to see you.” She hesitated, glancing at the line of boys in front of her. “If you don’t mind, I’ll finish feeding the boys, and then I’ll attend to you.”
“Shall I wait in the office?” Julian offered as he gently maneuvered Tommy toward the back of the line.
“Yes, please.” She returned to her task.
Julian held out his hand to Tommy and lowered his voice so Miss Cartwright couldn’t hear him. “Give it back.”
“What?”
Julian raised his eyebrows. “You know the rules.”
After a lot of complaining, Tommy returned Julian’s purse and pocket watch.
“Is that it?” Julian asked.
With a martyred sigh, Tommy produced Julian’s handkerchief.
“Thank you.”
Julian left the hall and went into the office Miss Cartwright shared with her brother.
It was a tidy, if somewhat spartan, space due to the orphans’ predilection for stealing things.
Most of them had survived by thieving and had been brought in off the streets.
Teaching them more honest trades and how to read and write took a considerable amount of time and energy.
The Cartwrights didn’t always succeed, but the boys who did stay on benefited from their kind but firm direction and moved on to better lives.
While he waited, Julian used the time to do his monthly audit of the accounts and was reading the daily record when Miss Cartwright came in. Julian rose to his feet.
“Is something wrong?” she asked as she closed the door.
“Not at all. Just my usual monthly visit.” He pointed at the book. “Things seem to be going well.”
“They are, which is why I was surprised to see you.” She sat down heavily at her desk. “I must confess I’d forgotten which day it was.”
Julian, who wasn’t used to being forgotten, smiled. “Is everything all right? You seem rather tired.”
“We took in four new boys last night, and they didn’t settle well. I spent the whole night trying to prevent them leaving.”