That was when Lloyd saw the other boy. A lad of about Lloyd’s own age, his dark red hair and golden eyes marking him as the duke’s son, was climbing down from the coach. The boy wore a kilt of blue and green plaid, a black coat, an ivory silk waistcoat, ivory-colored wool socks, and shoes that were as finely made as his father’s boots.
No one was looking at the boy except Lloyd. All eyes were on the duke, the footman lending a beefy arm so the duke could climb back inside.
The other boy, as arrogant as his father, walked up to Lloyd, but Lloyd swore he saw a gleam of satisfaction in the boy’s eyes. The boy brushed past Lloyd, pretending not to see him, but Lloyd felt the coldness of a coin against his palm.
The duke’s son said nothing at all as he headed for the coach. The duke bellowed down at him. “Hart, get your arse back inside. Hurry it up.”
The footman held out a hand to the boy called Hart, but Hart ignored it and leapt with agility back into the coach. The traffic cleared, and the coach pulled away. Hart Mackenzie looked out the window as the coach passed, his gaze meeting Lloyd’s. The two boys stared at each other, one on either side of luxury, until another coach passed between them, and traffic swallowed the duke’s carriage.
“Come on, lad,” the constable said, his hand still firmly on Lloyd’s shoulder.
Lloyd closed his hand around the coin until the ridges of it creased his palm. He walked away with the constable, so numb that he went all the way inside the police station before he remembered he should try to get away.
Chapter Two
April, 1885
“Louisa, dear, just see that the bishop isn’t left alone, will you?”
Louisa looked down the sloping meadow from Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ Richmond house to watch the Hon. Frederick Lane, Bishop of Hargate, enter one of the tea tents. Hargate was in his forties, young for a bishop, marginally handsome, and lately had made no secret he was hanging out for a wife.
Lady Louisa Scranton, unmarried, her father dying in scandalous circumstances which had left the family nearly penniless, must be, in Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ eyes, in want of a husband.
Hargate fit the criteria for an aristocrat’s daughter—wealthy, second son of an earl, successful in his own right. Hargate had reached his status young, but he had connections, many of whom were here at this garden party, attended by Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ handpicked guests.
A bishop’s wife would have money, respect, and standing. Louisa was highly aware she needed to marry well—in fact, she’d entered the Season this year with every intention of doing so. So why, when it came to the sticking point, did she feel a great reluctance to be alone with Hargate?
“Of course, Mrs. Leigh-Waters,” Louisa made herself say. “I’ll look after him.”
“Thank you, my dear.” Mrs. Leigh-Waters beamed at her. I’ll have Louisa married off in no time, the lady was no doubt thinking. Quite a feather in my cap when I do.
Louisa gave her a kind smile and hurried after the bishop.
Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ house commanded a view down a hill to the river. The April day was a fine one, the weather not too hot, clouds in the sky but not threatening rain. The land stretched away on the other side of the river to be swallowed in haze.
The expanse of lawn had been commandeered for the garden party, with seats and little tables scattered about, pathways lined with ribbon, a croquet set being brought out by the footmen. Ladies in blues, greens, yellows, golds, lavenders, and russets moved about, the spring breeze stirring feathers, ribbons, braid, and false fruits stuck into the ladies’ hats. Gentlemen in casual suits of monochrome gray or tweed filtered through the ladies. Tea had been served in the tea tents at the bottom of the hill, and many guests still carried cups and little plates of treats. An idyllic English afternoon.
The guests chatted to each other as they waited to begin the croquet match, which would be cutthroat and rather expensive. Members of high society gambled fiercely at everything.
Louisa ducked away from them into the white canvas tea tent, which was empty except for the Bishop of Hargate and white-draped tables holding tea things. The elegant china cups and saucers were patterned with sprays of roses, as were the three-tiered trays with the remains of petit fours and profiteroles. As most of the party had already refreshed themselves, only a few clean plates and cups remained.
“Ah, Lady Louisa,” Hargate said, sounding pleased. “Have you come to join me?”
“Mrs. Leigh-Waters did not want you left on your own.”
“She’s a kind lady, is our hostess.” Hargate looked at Louisa with every eagerness, which Louisa found odd in a man her father had done his best to ruin.
Louisa’s father, Earl Scranton, had convinced other men to give him money for investments, which were either never made or failed utterly. Earl Scranton had been paying the first investors with what the others had given him, pretending the money came from his cleverness at buying the right stocks. Finally when his true investments failed, he had to confess he could pay none of the money back. In the space of a day, Earl Scranton had moved from respectable and wealthy to complete ruin. A good many other gentlemen’s fortunes had gone with his. Hargate hadn’t lost everything, but he’d lost much, though he’d managed to build it back in a relatively short time.
Louisa moved calmly to a table, trying to behave as though none of it had happened. A lady wasn’t supposed to know about or understand such things, in any case. “Tea, Your Grace?”
“Of course. Thank you.”
Louisa had been taught to be an expert at pouring tea. She trickled the soothing liquid into two china cups, dropped a lump of sugar and dollop of cream into the bishop’s tea, and handed him the cup.
She left her own cup sitting on the table and lifted two dainty, cream-filled profiteroles, which hadn’t wilted too much in the April warmth, onto one of the petite china plates. Louisa had a weakness for French pastries, even those that looked a bit limp.
“I’ve been meaning to speak to you, Lady Louisa,” Hargate said, an odd note in his voice. “What a fine chance that we are here alone.”
Chance, my foot. Hargate and Mrs. Leigh-Waters had contrived this meeting between them, they must have.
Hargate reached out his free hand and seized Louisa’s. He closed his fingers so tightly she’d never be able to release herself from him without jerking away. Hargate looked into her eyes, his full of something like glee. “You will do me much honor to let me speak to you, Louisa.”
Oh dear, he was about to propose.
Louisa could refuse him, of course, but she knew she risked great disapproval if she did—Haughty creature, turning down such a fine match; did she truly think she’d have the opportunity at another? A girl from a scandalous family cannot afford to be so high and mighty.
On the other hand, if Louisa accepted Hargate, she’d have to marry the man. He was everything a young lady should want in a husband, as Mrs. Leigh-Waters no doubt thought, but Louisa had never much liked him. Hargate was pompous, talked at length—usually about himself—and was quite hopelessly, well . . . dull.
“Your father and I had business dealings,” Hargate was saying. “And you of course know what happened with those.”
Yes, Louisa was reminded of it every day. When everything had fallen apart, Lord Scranton had died of the shame. Louisa and her mother, on the other hand, had to continue to live with the shame.
“Water under the bridge,” Hargate said. “I assure you. I’d never hold it against you, Louisa. That is, I won’t, if you consent to be my wife.”