Sebastian set his jaw and looked out of the window again. It showed nothing but his own immaculate garden.
“It’s ready, my lord.”
He turned at the servant’s voice, noting the steaming water, the pile of washcloths and drying cloths, the little cake of plain soap. He nodded at his man. “Thank you.”
The man bowed, retreating. He closed the door behind him.
“You don’t have to stay.” Mrs Ardingly got to her feet. She gave her attention to brushing the front of her dress, though he was sure none of his floors would have left dust on her garment, only flashing the briefest glance at him. Her voice held a note of apology—she was sorry for the trouble she’d caused him. But there was dismissal too. No doubt she remembered last night, him telling the boy to get to the door.You’re no good at this,her lowered eyes said. This isn’t your concern,said the sweep of her hand on her skirts.
He’d watched the boy all night, hadn’t he? If she could perform at Lady Frances’s picnic, then he could perform at this.
“I’ll stay. I can lift the boy, if needed.”
They both looked at the boy,Tonks, this scrap of human detritus snagged from London’s sewer. He lay very still on the sofa, skin and bones and bruises all covered by the sheet the doctor had laid over him after this morning’s examination. He’d gone very still again, that frightened rabbit trying to evade the falcon’s sight.
He’d had that same sort of animal stillness last night, even when he was panting and sweating with pain. He didn’t cry and wail and plead like another child might, but held it all very still and quiet inside him.
Sebastian remembered that instinct, lying on the stable floor after his uncle had whipped him. He’d refused to ride the vicious stallion his uncle and his drunken friends had thought it would be ever so funny to get the whelp astride.
His uncle never liked to be shown up in front of his friends. You went very small and deep inside yourself at those moments, and you wrapped the pain even tighter and smaller still. You built walls around it and made a big space between it and the world, a big empty space where you could force yourself to smile, blood on your teeth, and refuse to cry in front of a half dozen men twice your age and three times your size. You learned to keep the pain very secret and deep so that the face you showed to the world and the things people thought of you became more important than the things you truly felt.
“Let’s put this cake down for later.” Mrs Ardingly had gone back to the boy, gently taking the precious, untouched cake from his grip.
“There’s plenty more, my little lad,” said Lady Pemberthy, smiling though it looked very much like she was about to cry. “You don’t have to worry, there’s plenty more cake.”
Sebastian winced at thelittle lad. He must be nine, or even ten. Boys his age went to be midshipmen, had worked for years. And boys like this one…they’d never been young.
He came over too, though the three of them staring down was probably an intimidating sight. “You can walk, I reckon.” He nodded at the bath some four or five yards distant. “I bet you three pence you can.”
Mrs Ardingly glanced his way, no doubt remembering last night yet again. But she had brothers. He trusted she understood.
Avid interest mingled with the boy’s suspicion as he stared at Sebastian. “You don’t mean it.”
“By my word as a gentleman, I do. Walking, but leaning on my arm. Those are the terms of the wager. Do you accept?”
The boy scrutinised the offer, like checking an apple for worms, turning it this way and that. He nodded. “All right. If you mean it.”
“Bad manners to doubt me, boy.”
The boy flushed, but only set his jaw, mulish. He pushed himself up on his good arm, the splinted one held stiffly in a cotton sling across his chest.
He tried to keep the sheet around him as he sat up. An awkward task with only one working arm. Sebastian stepped forward and swiftly gathered the sheet, wrapping it around the boy’s skinny back and tucking it inside itself. He took a grip under the boy’s good arm and helped him to his feet.
“On my arm, remember,” he admonished as the boy made to protest the assistance. “Those were the terms of our wager. It’s even worse manners to break terms than it is to cast doubt.”
The boy muttered something that sounded like, “What do I care for manners,” but he got to his feet, not quite masking his grunt of pain.
Lady Pemberthy flapped around them, hand to her chest, to her cheek, eyes wide and fretful as she pressed them to be careful, go slow. Mrs Ardingly walked on the boy’s other side, ready to catch him if he swooned.
As well he might. He was very weak. Sebastian could feel how he trembled, his knees seeming like they could give way any moment. He heard the sharp breaths the boy took through hisnostrils, jaw clenched against the pain. And the arm is his grip… Lord, it might well have been a twig.
But they reached the bath.
“There,” he said. “You did it. I knew you could.”
“Shouldn’t have bet, then. You owe me three pence now, you do.”
“Quite right. And you shall have it.” He looked at Mrs Ardingly over the boy’s head.
