The boy was determined to earn his keep and had polished every pair of Thomas’s shoes and boots to a shine, brushed his jackets, and saw to the fire. He had been trying his hand at tying cravats and neckcloths as well.
“Tomorrow morning, we’ll drive by some more workhouses to see if any look familiar,” Thomas advised. He should’ve done that sooner. But he knew Peter would want to go inside, and that was something Thomas couldn’t allow. Not until he discovered who had sent Peter to America and why.
Peter nodded then clasped his hands together and closed his eyes. Thomas held his silence when he realized the boy was saying a prayer. He could easily guess what it was and added a silent appeal of his own.
A few moments later, the boy cleared his throat. “I can’t s’ank you enough, sir, for all you have done.”
Thomas appreciated the words but did not care for the way his narrow shoulders slumped with hopelessness.
“We are far from done, Peter. We will continue our search. Have no fear.” But once again, Thomas was careful not to make any promises he couldn’t keep. He was starting to feel rather hopeless himself.
“I should go,” Peter said.
Thomas’s breath caught. “Whatever do you mean?”
Peter managed half of a smile. “Stokes is going to show me a few things that he learned when he was a valet. I couldn’t ask for better training than from someone like him.”
“No, you couldn’t,” Thomas managed as his fear that the boy intended to leave eased. That had scared him more than he cared to admit. He was growing fond of the lad and wanted to help him with his future, whatever path that took.
Luckily, the family butler, who had known Thomas since he was a boy, had taken a liking to Peter. When the boy had told the butler that he hoped to be a footman one day, Stokes had started showing him some of the tasks he needed to master.
“Stokes is an expert at most everything.” Thomas patted his shoulder. “We’ll search again in the morning.”
Peter nodded. “Thank you, sir.” With that, the boy departed.
Thomas made a mental note to thank Stokes for taking the boy under his wing. He hated the idea of leaving him alone when he returned to America, but if they couldn’t find his family, he would convince someone to take him and continue his training.
There was nothing he wanted more than to reunite Peter with his family in time for Christmas. And whoever had sent Peter to America would pay for their mistake.
The following afternoon, Frances peeked out of the drawing room window again at the empty drive below even as she reprimanded herself for doing so.
“Whatever are you looking for?” her mother asked from a chair by the fire where she embroidered a handkerchief.
Frances stepped back, dropping her hand, realizing too late how guilty she acted. “Nothing.” One glance at her mother’s raised brow suggested her attempt to lie had failed. “I suppose I’m restless. The ball will be here before we know it.”
“Yes, it will. But we’ve reviewed the details numerous times, and all is ready until it gets closer.”
Frances nodded, staring at the houses across the street without seeing them. They knew the details except for one important item—whether Thomas would attend.
She couldn’t decide if she truly wanted him to. She squeezed her eyes shut at yet another lie. Of course, she did. But wishing so much put her heart at risk. Their brief conversation in the bookshop proved that.
She released a quiet sigh. He was everything she could want as a potential husband and more. His kindness toward her shy stumbling endeared him to her, but it was more than that. She felt as if she was on fire when he was near, hot from the inside out. It was all she could do not to reach for him as if he were her anchor.
How could she have ever believed she cared for Viscount Garland during the house party? What she felt for Thomas was so different. She longed to be with him as if a compass inside her pointed only to him.
She opened her eyes, knowing she shouldn’t long for what couldn’t be. Still...
A glance at the street caused her to gasp. A carriage was pulling up to the front of the house.
Holding her breath, she watched as it drew to a halt and a man alighted. His hat hid his face, but she knew. Somehow, she knew.
Thomas.
She spun away from the window, certain she had to be wrong. A visitor to their home wasn’t unusual—even a male one. Her father had frequent callers.
Yet none of that quelled the excitement bubbling up inside her. She walked to the settee and dropped into it. A glance at her mother showed she was oblivious to Frances’ roiling emotions.
Butterflies fluttered in her stomach as she strained to hear a knock at the front door.
