Scandalously Yours (Hellions of High Street 1)
“Scottie!” His fingers, stiff with cold and fear, fumbled with the knots of the canvas covering the boot of the mail coach.
“F-father!”
Near dizzy with relief, John yanked the cording free and pulled his shivering son into his arms.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” gulped Prescott, his voice sounding very small within the folds of the earl’s greatcoat.
“It’s alright, it’s alright.” Hugging the boy tighter to his chest, he tried to stop his hands from shaking.
“Y-you can birch me until my bum is black and blue, but please don’t take me back to the Manor, Father,” begged Prescott. “I must go to London. I have a very important m-meeting with Lady Loose Screw, and a gentleman m-must always keep his appointments, isn’t that so?”
John felt a lump form in his throat. Until now, he hadn’t truly fathomed the depths of his son’s despair. No doubt, Lady Serena would counsel a firm hand and a firm rod, but at the sound of snuffling against the wet wool he couldn’t harden his heart to the appeal.
A seasoned soldier knew that sometim
es it was necessary to make a strategic retreat before regrouping for the final victory charge.
“What say you to this, Scottie? We’ll both continue on to London tonight. I was planning to return this week in any case, and now, with you with me, we’ll have a chance to spend some time together, visiting the sights, seeing the acrobats at Astley’s—”
“And keeping my meeting for tomorrow in the gardens of Portman Square?”
John drew in a long breath. “I shall make a bargain with you, Scottie. I shall agree to meet your Lady Loose Screw if you will agree to give Lady Serena a fresh start to win your regard. For whatever reason, I fear you have taken an unreasonable dislike to her. Give her a fair chance.”
Prescott raised a tear-stained face. “Will you give Lady Loose Screw a fair chance as well?”
He relaxed. It was an easy enough promise to make. That Scottie’s anonymous letter writer could hold a candle to the poised and polished Lady Serena was absurd. “Yes, you have my word that I shall meet her with an open mind.” He smoothed his hand over Scottie’s damp curls. “So, do we have a bargain?”
His son nodded solemnly. “Yes, we have a bargain.”
Chapter Nine
Unlatching the side gate, Olivia slipped inside the high-fenced gardens. Thick twines of ivy hung heavy on the wrought iron, obscuring the winding paths and leafy shrubbery from the street. The square was quiet at this time of day, and aside from a harried maid walking a pair of lively pugs, the graveled walkways were deserted.
A fool’s errand, she chided herself. She must have bats in her belfry to continue this odd correspondence with a child. Her other writing was far more important.
The letter crackled her hand. Or was it? She knew all too well what it felt like to be subject to a cold, uncaring parent. If she could offer a few words of counsel, well, perhaps she could help ease his pain.
Hell, the boy’s father must be an uncaring wretch, to have so little concern for his son.
Rounding a bend, she saw that she was not the only resident of Mayfair, aside from the servants and dogs, out for a morning stroll. Up ahead, two figures, one tall, one short, were coming from the east entrance and their path were about to cross with hers.
Bloody hell. Olivia hastily tucked the letter into her glove as she recognized Lord Wrexham.
The earl stopped in his tracks, a look of surprise—or was it annoyance—flitting across his face. “Miss Sloane,” he said stiffly, touching a hand to the brim of his high crown beaver hat.
“Milord,” she replied. His position prevented her from moving on.
“You are, er, out awfully early.”
“Yes, I am an early riser and like to begin the day with a brisk walk,” she replied. “And you, sir?”
He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. “My son and I arrived in Town late last night, and he was anxious to, er, get out and see the sights.”
“Yes, well, I can hardly blame him. London certainly has a great many things to attract a young man’s interest.”
Though the earl looked reluctant, good manners dictated that he go through the ritual of introductions before moving on. “Miss Sloane, allow me to present my son, Prescott, Viscount Linsley.” The boy, she noted, appeared far more interested in surveying the surrounding shrubbery than in meeting an adult. It took a discreet nudge from his father to get his attention.
“Scottie,” murmured John, “make your bow to Miss Sloane.”