And as Bram neared the front door, he saw why.
Stationed in front of the entrance was a man in a black suit, flanked by henchmen. Greenwell. He’d bet on it.
Blast! Bram stopped in front of the man. “Mr. Greenwell, I presume?”
“Indeed.” Greenwell’s dark gaze swept over him, assessing him as he might a bolt of fabric to be purchased. “And you are?”
“Of no consequence. Allow us to leave, and that will be the end of it.”
A smile lifted a wafer-thin moustache above the man’s mouth. “You cannot take my workers. That is theft.”
“Slavery was abolished fifty years ago, so there is no theft involved. These children are not your property.”
“They are my legal charges. I purchased them.” With a snap of Greenwell’s fingers, the needle-nosed clerk came running and produced a portfolio of documents. “Would you care to see?”
“You may have some fancy paperwork, Mr. Greenwell, but it will not stand against what I intend to see published in the newspaper smearing your name.” Bram sharpened his tone. “Unless, of course, you let us pass.”
Red spread like a bruise up the man’s neck. “That is blackmail.”
“That”—Bram grinned—“is correct.”
Sneering, the man stretched himself to full height. “Fine. Children are a penny a dozen. These will be easily replaced.” His brows drew into an ominous line. “But tell Mrs. Mortimer I am finished with her.”
“Oh, I assure you, I have a great many things to tell Mrs. Mortimer.” Bram sidestepped the man, nerves on edge, but he reached the front door without any more fight. He shoved the scarred wood open with his fist and held it wide, silently counting as children filed by.
There were ten.
Ten young lives.
All in his care.
And he hadn’t a penny left in his pocket.
29
This was probably a mistake. Even so, Bram rang the bell on the elegant Bath-stone town house, knowing full well the boy on his shoulder and gaggle of children huddled at his back didn’t belong here in Mayfair. Not at the home of one of the wealthiest men in England. He’d always been welcome here, but now? With a collection of raggedy waifs? A sigh poured out of him. What other choice did he have?
The heavy oak door swung open to a perfectly liveried butler. He was a youngish fellow, not a grey lock daring a glint from his slicked-back hair—certainly not the same man Bram remembered from years ago when he’d visited this house.
“May I help you?” A kind enough question, but as the butler’s gaze drifted from Bram to the disparate troop of children behind him, a distinct twitch near his left eye came to life.
Despite the weight of the boy he carried, Bram straightened his shoulders. “Is Mr. Price at home? I should like a word with him.”
“Mr. Price donates to the Lowry Street Charity Home. I suggest you seek aid there. Good day.” The door swung.
Bram shot out his foot, stopping it before it could shut. “Iam not seeking charity. What I seek is my old friend Mr. Price. Please let him know Mr. Bram Webb is on his doorstep.”
The man eyed him through the thin space between door and jamb—a look that could rival one of Grimwinkle’s. “Very well,” he said at length.
This time Bram allowed the door to close.
And as soon as it did, Eva stepped up beside him. “What are we doing here? We should be seeing about getting these children some food. It was a long walk here for those who did not fit in the pony cart, and the younger ones are tired.”
“Soon. Very soon. Trust me.”
The lines of her face softened, the blue of her eyes warming to a summer sky. “I do trust you.”
Heat kindled in his chest, her words stirring something deep inside—a sense of purpose, responsibility, of being the protector she needed most in this unpredictable world. In that moment, surrounded by weary children he’d taken under his wing and the woman he loved with all his heart, he knew with absolute certainty he’d move mountains to ensure their safety and well-being.
