Ten Ways to Be Adored When Landing a Lord

The boy had an air of seriousness about him—a wariness in his brown eyes that was far beyond his years—Nick noticed as James tracked his movements, unable to keep his thoughts from going to Isabel; the seriousness was hereditary, it seemed.

“What can I do for you, Lord Reddich?”

James shook his head. “No one calls me that.”

“They should start doing so. You are the Earl of Reddich, are you not? ”

“Yes—”

“But?”

James chewed on one side of his lower lip. “But I don’t really do the things that earls do. I’m not old enough.” “What things are those? “ “Things my father did.”

“Yes, well, I’m not certain that I am old enough to do the things your father did,” Nick said, crossing to the opposite side of the room and splashing cold water from the basin set there onto his face. He pulled a linen cloth from the nearby towel stand and dried himself before turning back to the boy, who was now seated at the foot of the bed, watching him.

“I shall learn soon enough, I suppose,” James said, and Nick noted the lack of eagerness in his tone. “Isabel says that when you are through with your work in the statuary, we shall have enough money to send me to school.”

Nick nodded once before making a point of lifting a shaving pot that had been left beside the basin and soaping his face. He turned to the looking glass in the corner of the room, aware that the boy was watching his movements, fascinated. “How old are you? ”

“Ten.”

The age he had been when everything had changed.

Lifting a straight razor from the table, Nick pretended not to notice the boy’s intent stare. He set the blade to his cheek carefully and said, “My brother is a marquess, you know.”

It took a moment for the words to reach James, so focused was the boy on the movement of the steel blade across Nick’s skin. When they did, the young earl’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Really.” Nick focused on his task for a few seconds before adding, “And he learned most of the things he knows about being a marquess at school.”

Silence fell between them, with only the sound of water on Nick’s razor in the room as James considered the words. “Did you go to school?”

“I did.”

“Did you like it?”

“Sometimes.”

“And the others?”

Nick paused, using the delicate task of shaving his chin to buy time to consider his answers. He had much in common with this boy—a strange history that set him apart from his peers, an uncertain future, an unfortunate past. Nick considered his mother’s desertion, the maelstrom of gossip that began soon after her leaving, the way his father had shut down and packed Nick and Gabriel off to school without preparing them for the way others would talk … the way they would tease. As the second son, without a title, Nick had received the brunt of the teasing; and on those days he had thrown himself into his schoolwork.

That was before he’d learned to retaliate with his fists. Before he’d realized that his size and stature and physical power could open the door to a life that was more than the one he’d expected to live as second son of the Marquess of Ralston.

No, he had not liked school much. But it would be different for James. He was not the son of a weak marquess and his marchioness of questionable morals. He was an earl, and due the respect of the title.

“Sometimes men must do things they do not enjoy. It is what makes us men.”

James considered the words. Nick watched him closely in the mirror, wondering what the young earl was thinking. Finally, the boy lifted his head. “I should like to be thought a man.”

“Then I am afraid school is a must.”

“But what about …” Nick did not press the boy, instead drying his now clean-shaven face and waiting out the long silence. “What about the girls?”

Something burst high in Nick’s chest then—a warm tightness that spread at the plaintive question. The boy was worried about his sister. And, considering the woman’s recklessness over the past two days, Nick did not blame him for it.

Not that he would say that.

“Your sister seems to do quite well on her own, don’t you think?”

James shook his head. “Isabel hates being alone. She would be sad if I left.”

Nick resisted the image that flashed of Isabel sad and lonely. He did not like it.

“I think she would understand your duty.”

The boy was back to chewing on his lip—an endearing habit of which Eton would break him immediately, Nick thought, a pang of disappointment flaring at the thought.

“What of my duty here? To the girls?” James asked.

“Isabel and Lara shall be here when you return, James. And they shall be better for all you will have learned of being an earl.”

James shook his head vehemently. “They are not—” He stopped, collected his thoughts, and began again. “I cannot protect them when I am away at school.”

Warning flared in Nick at the words. “Protect them?” he repeated, keeping his voice casual even as he moved closer to James. “Protect them from what? ”

The boy looked away, out the window of the bedchamber at the acres of green land beyond. “From … everything.”

Nick knew immediately that James was not referring to a general, overarching worry, but to a specific concern. He also knew the boy would not share it easily. “James,” he said, not wanting to scare him away, “if there is something worrying you—I am able to help.”

James looked back and his gaze fell to Nick’s scar, surprising him—not because the boy was looking, but because he was looking for the first time. James’s attention shifted away almost as quickly as it had landed there, this time to Nick’s shoulders, where they strained the fabric of the too-small, borrowed dressing gown. “I think you might be able to help,” the boy said softly, finally. “I think you are big enough to help.”

If he weren’t so disturbed by James’s words, Nick would have smiled at the words. He knew his size—knew it was overwhelming to those who were unused to it. “I have never met a danger I could not overcome.”

The arrogant words were only a half-truth, but the child need not know that.

James nodded once. “They will need someone to protect them. Especially …”

Isabel.

The name whispered through Nick’s mind as he registered the obvious worry on James’s face.

Was it possible that she was in serious danger? Was it possible that someone was after her? That she was in hiding? Nick gritted his teeth, a flash of protectiveness overwhelming him. He wanted to rush from the room, to find her and shake the information out of her. What the hell had the girl gotten herself into?

Finally, James whispered, “Especially Georgiana.”

Awareness flashed. Georgiana.

“Who is Georgiana?”

“My governess.”

They had found her.

The pleasure of the hunt surged, and Nick tamped it down, keeping his voice casual. “And how long has she been your governess?”

“Only a few weeks. But she’s a good one. She speaks Latin. And she knows a great deal about being an earl.”

Knowledge that comes from being the sister of a duke.

“What if she needs me and I am not there?”

The innocent question distracted Nick from his discovery. How many times had he asked himself the same thing when he was James’s age? What if his mother had needed him and he had not realized it? How could he protect her when he had no idea where she had gone?

He shook his head once to clear it. This was a boy infatuated with his governess—a different thing altogether. “I know it is difficult to imagine being away from the manor, but I am sure that she will be all right without you.” James seemed to want to disagree, so Nick continued. “She is well now, is she not? ”

“Yes—but … what if someone comes for her? ”

Guilt flared. Someone is here for her a

lready.

“She will be all right.” At least he could promise the boy that.

James wanted to say more—Nick could see it. But he instead dipped his head to the floor and said, “I suppose. Perhaps … if I left … you could stay? Just to be certain that they are safe? ”

Nick considered the young earl, registering the concern in his eyes, recognizing it as the same concern he had seen in Isabel’s eyes the evening before.

What in the hell were they involved in? Who were these girls? Were they all aristocracy?

He sucked in a deep breath. If she had a houseful of daughters of the aristocracy, Isabel was breaking a dozen different laws of the Crown. She was in enormous trouble. More trouble than he could help her out of.

Nick moved to where his clothes had been pressed and a fresh linen shirt laid out for him. Lifting the garment, he turned back to James, who was eagerly awaiting his reply. “I shall stay long enough to make sure you are all safe. Is that sufficient?”

“You give your word? ”

“I do.”

James’s face split in a wide, relieved grin that reminded Nick of Isabel.

He couldn’t help but find pleasure in the boy’s happiness. “Now wait outside while I dress and you can show me your schoolroom. I should very much like to meet this governess of yours.”

A quarter of an hour later, Nick was following James through the upper corridors of Townsend Park toward the schoolroom.

“It’s on the way to the statuary—perhaps you could visit for luncheon. If you think you would like to, that is.” The boy had been chattering since Nick had met him in the hallway outside his bedchamber; it appeared that their earlier conversation had comforted James, and, while Nick had little experience with children, he was happy to provide a distraction for the child’s obvious concern.

Rightful concern.

Nick swallowed back his guilt. “Perhaps. We shall see how much work I have completed by then. But I will try.”

The answer seemed to satisfy James, and he nodded once, turning his attention to a nearby closed door, its dark wood making it barely discernable from the dim hallway. James placed his palms on the wide panel and pushed, revealing a bright, welcoming schoolroom beyond.

Nick followed the boy inside, intrigued. It had been many years since he’d had cause to set foot inside a schoolroom, but the space registered at once both foreign and familiar—from the Latin words posted around the room to the telltale scent of chalk dust playing in his nostrils.

In the corner, Isabel leaned over a large glass rectangle, a young, fair-haired woman looking on. Georgiana. Even if she had not held herself as the daughter of a duke—straight and true as though she were untouchable—Nick would have known her. She had Leighton’s coloring, the fair curls that sent women fawning over him and those honey-gold eyes that marked the Leighton line. She turned at James’s cry of good morning, her gaze instantly settling on Nick. He made a point to hide his recognition, but he saw the flash of fear in her eyes and immediately knew that Townsend Park was not snatching girls—but saving them. Georgiana was terrified of him. She knew who he was—if Isabel had not told her, his scar would have given away his identity—and she likely knew that he was a friend of her brother’s.

With a whispered excuse, she was gone, skirts flying out behind her as she rushed through a nearby doorway into an adjoining room. He watched her go, a strange emotion twisting in his gut.

Guilt.

He did not like it.

With conviction, he turned his attention to Isabel, garbed in gray muslin, reaching deep into a clear glass box, her head and one long arm submerged in the clear case. “Of all the—Why did I ever agree—