Tom took a shilling from his pocket and extended it to him.
The boy didn’t reach for it. “Don’t need charity.”
“It’s not charity,” Tom said, both amused and irritated by the show of pride from a child who could ill afford it. “It’s a tip for service rendered.”
The boy shrugged and took the coin. He dropped it into the same pouch as the harvested tobacco bits.
“What’s your name?” Tom asked.
“Young Bazzle.”
“And your first name?”
The boy shrugged. “Young Bazzle’s wot I always been. Me farver was Old Bazzle.”
Tom’s better judgment advised him to leave the matter as it was. There was nothing special about this boy. While helping an individual child might satisfy a benevolent impulse, it did nothing for thousands who lived in filth and poverty. Tom had already donated large sums—as ostentatiously as possible—to a host of London charitable groups. That was enough.
But something nagged at him, probably because of Winterborne’s lecture. His instincts were telling him to do something for this urchin—which was a good example of why he usually tried to ignore them.
“Bazzle, I need someone to do sweeping and cleaning in my offices. Do you want the job?”
The child looked at him suspiciously. “Ye hoaxing me, guvnah?”
“I don’t hoax people. Call me ‘Mr. Severin,’ or ‘sir.’” Tom gave him another coin. “Go buy yourself a little broom, and come to my building tomorrow morning. I’ll tell the doorman to expect you.”
“Wot o’clock do ye want I should come, sir?”
“Nine sharp.” As Tom walked away, he muttered ruefully, “If he robs me blind, Winterborne, I’m sending you the blasted bill.”
Chapter 7
ONE MONTH LATER, TOM took the train to the Saffron Walden station in Essex, and then a hired coach to the Clare estate. It was quite a change from the comfort and insulation of his private railway carriage. He preferred to visit people without being at their mercy, maintaining his ability to come and go as he wished, eat whatever and whenever he liked, wash with his favorite soap, sleep without being disturbed by other people’s noise.
On the occasion of West Ravenel’s wedding, however, Tom was going to try something new. He would be part of the gathering. He would stay in a room where housemaids would come in at some ungodly hour of the morning to stir the grate. He would go downstairs to eat breakfast with other guests, and dutifully join them on walks to admire views of hills, trees, and ponds. The house would be infested with children, whom he would ignore or tolerate. In the evenings there would be parlor games and amateur entertainments, which he would pretend to enjoy.
The decision to subject himself to the coming ordeal had been a direct result of Rhys Winterborne’s advice to follow his instinct. So far it hadn’t turned out well. But Tom was so tired of months of numb, empty nothingness that even this panoply of discomforts seemed like an improvement.
In the distance, a classic Georgian manor with white columns occupied a gentle hill dressed with evergreens and low ivy-covered walls. Curls of smoke rose from a neat row of chimney stacks, dissolving continuously into the November sky. The nearby timbered groves had lost their foliage, leaving only stark branches swathed in a lace of black twigs. A heavy evening mist had started to sulk over bare harvested fields in the distance.
The hired carriage stopped before the front portico. A trio of footmen surrounded it, opening the lacquered door, setting out the step, and unloading luggage. Tom descended to the gravel drive and drew in a deep breath scented of wet leaves and frost. The air smelled better in the country than the city, he’d give them that.
Rows of sash windows afforded glimpses of an ample crowd milling in the front rooms. Abundant music and laughter were punctuated by the happy shrieks of children. Many children, from the sound of it.
“Small family affair, my arse,” Tom muttered as he ascended the front steps. He reached the entrance hall, where a butler took his hat, coat, and gloves.
The interior of Clare Manor was spacious and airy, painted in serene shades of white, pale blue, and light green. Wisely, someone had chosen to decorate the house in keeping with its clean neoclassical façade, rather than filling the rooms with an avalanche of china figurines and embroidered cushions.
In a minute or two, West Ravenel and Phoebe, Lady Clare, came to welcome him. They were a handsome pair, the tall and perpetually sun-browned West, and the slender red-haired widow. A mysterious invisible connection seemed to link them, a quality of togetherness that had nothing to do with proximity or even marriage. Puzzled and interested, Tom realized his friend was no longer a completely independent being, but half of some new entity.
Phoebe sank into a graceful curtsy. “Welcome, Mr. Severin.”
The woman had undergone a remarkable transformation since Tom had last seen her at Pandora’s wedding. He’d thought her a beautiful woman at the time, but there had been something brittle about her composure, something frail and melancholy. Now she was relaxed and glowing.
West reached out to exchange a hearty handshake with Tom. “We’re glad you’ve come,” he said simply.
“I almost didn’t,” Tom replied. “It takes all the fun out of going somewhere when I’ve been invited.”
West grinned. “Sorry, but I had to include you on the guest list. I’m still in your debt for what you did past summer.”
“Fixing the boiler?”
“No, the other thing.” Seeing Tom’s perplexed expression, West clarified, “Helping to smuggle my friend out of London.”
“Oh, that bit of business. That was nothing.”
“You took a great risk, helping us with Ransom,” West said. “Had the authorities discovered your involvement, there would have been hell to pay.”
Tom smiled idly. “The risk was small, Ravenel.”
“You could have lost your government contracts, and possibly ended up in jail.”
“Not with all the politicians in my pocket,” Tom said with a touch of smugness. At West’s raised brows, he explained, “I’ve had to grease more palms in the Lords and Commons than you have hairs on your chin. So-called parliamentary expenses are part of every railway developer’s budget. Bribery’s the only way to push a private bill through the committee process and obtain the necessary permits.”
“You still took a risk,” West insisted. “And I’m in your debt more than you realize. I couldn’t tell you before, but Ethan Ransom has close ties to the Ravenel family.”
Tom glanced at him alertly. “What kind of ties?”
“As it turns out, he’s the chance-born son of the old earl—which makes him Cassandra and Pandora’s half brother. If he were legitimate, the title and estate would rightfully be his instead of my brother’s.”
“Interesting,” Tom murmured. “And yet you don’t view him as a threat?”
West looked sardonic. “No, Severin, Ransom has no interest in the estate whatsoever. In fact, he’s so discreet about his connection to the Ravenels, I had to cajole and bully him into attending a family event. He’s here only because his wife wanted to come.” He paused. “You’ll recall Dr. Gibson, I’m sure.”