CHAPTER ONE
Holland Square
London, England
Late April 1842
Thomas Oliver Maxwell Strickland, newly minted sixth Earl of Storne, opened his armoire to pull out a fresh linen shirt only to see his shirts dumped in an untidy pile at the bottom. He started to call for Manfred, his valet since his first year at Oxford a decade before, but then, to his astonishment, the shirts shifted, just a bit.
A varmint in his grandfather’s precious mahogany armoire? No, more likely beneath the pile of shirts was Clotis the cat, usually found napping in Max’s mother’s sewing basket, his orange tail flopped over the side, the occasional twitch to give proof of life. At least half a dozen shirts now would have to be ironed again by Manfred, who would certainly make his displeasure known. How had Clotis managed to even get in the armoire?
Max went down on his haunches, reached out his hand, and lightly rubbed the pile of shirts. “Come on, Clotis, show me a whisker, tell me how you managed to pull down all my shirts. Will I find claw marks?”
He didn’t hear Clotis’s high-pitched meow—he heard a human sort of squeak, ayounghuman sort of squeak.
How had a stray child gotten into his bachelor stronghold while he’d been out? He said to the shirts, “I believe there must be a trapped rodent beneath my shirts. This calls for drastic action—ah, yes, the fireplace poker will dispatch the varmint.”
He waited.
Nothing.
It had been a long time—too long a time, really—since Max had felt engaged. He was engaged now. “All right, let’s see first exactly what’s hiding here in my once perfectly ironed shirts.”
The top shirt moved. Two terrified eyes appeared; the rest of the face remained covered by white linen.
“Ah, so what I have is neither Clotis the cat nor a rat, more like a small human varmint. May I inquire why you are currently residing under my shirts in my armoire?”
A very young voice whispered, “How could a rat get into an armoire? The door was firmly closed until I opened it, and it was hard, the door was sticking. You should see to it.”
A well-bred voice—a scared, well-bred, very young voice. Male? Female? He couldn’t tell. Max said, looking into those gray eyes, “I’ve heard rodents are very wily, their teeth sharp. Give them wooden handles and they’ll turn them into sawdust. I’ve also heard they’re partial to white linen shirts.”
Now the young voice sounded aggrieved. “That is nonsense and you know it. I would have been gone if you hadn’t come into the room at this particular moment. All I needed was another two minutes to borrow one of these lovely white shirts since my own shirt is in disrepair and I’d have been out the window and gone. I promise I wouldn’t have stolen anything. I mean, what is there to steal? Very well, I’ll not lie, I did look, but there wasn’t a single shilling on your dressing table.”
“Why would you want one of my shirts? It would be a tent on you. You would look like a ghost.”
“I have trousers, I would tuck it in. I would make do. You need a shirt too. Your upper works are bare.” A pause, then, “I’ve never seen a gentleman’s bare upper works before.”
There, a flash of a white cheek before it disappeared beneath a shirt.
“My bare upper works aren’t the subject here. Tell me how you got into my bedchamber?”
“I climbed up the oak tree outside. Your window was open and I jumped. It would have been easier if you hadn’t had the branches cut back.”
“That was the whole point. Who wants an oak branch sticking into their bedchamber? Do you have a name?”
Silence, then, “Li—Crispin.”
“Li-Crispin? Now that’s a new name to me.”
“No, just Crispin.”
“You’ve a fast wit. Is Crispin your first name or your last?”
“I don’t think I should tell you. You might spit it out to a bobby when you’re in your cups.”
There was some movement as Crispin rearranged—itself.
“If you’re uncomfortable, why not come out and let’s have a nice chat, face to face?”
