“I’m sorry, but you really do need to stay still,” she told him. “Here.” She picked up a dry washcloth and folded it into a pad.“Put that over your eyes. This treatment might sting even worse than soap.”
“But what is that? Smells like poison. I don’t want—”
“It’s only poisonous to the pests who plague you,” cut in Lord Cotereigh. “So stop plaguingus, boy, and sit still and do as the lady tells you.”
The boy muttered some undoubtedly coarse oaths under his breath, but he did as Lord Cotereigh commanded, clamping the folded washcloth against his eyes with his good hand. The other arm, in its bandaged splint, still rested atop the bath’s rim, as unclean as it ever had been.
There wasn’t much they could do about that now. It would be a long task, reclaiming this boy from the sewers.
Once his hair was thoroughly wetted, Madelaine poured a little of the oily, stinking treatment into it and worked it in as well as she could. She tried to rinse it out, but even scrubbing with soap made little difference. With a shrug and a conferring look at Lord Cotereigh, who seemed to be of the same mind, she repeated the treatment. Now they had the boy here in the bath, they might as well do as thorough a job as they could. But it proved very hard to wash out the oily substance, and they had to scrub and rinse with soap five times before his hair seemed clean.
It was hard work. Her shoulders, back, and knees ached from leaning over the bath. The boy was complaining, sore and tired now in the cooling water. And no matter their efforts, the stuff did get in his eyes and make him howl. Lord Cotereigh took over the washing and rinsing. They were both soaked and tired when it was finally done.
The boy was just a boy now, all his canny bravado gone, along with most of his filth. He sniffled, shaking, cold despite the fire, and found it hard work to climb out of the bath. Lord Cotereigh lifted him.
Madelaine picked up a towel and started to dry the shivering creature as he hunched, arms folded, all his pains undoubtedly making themselves known. Lord Cotereigh went to the bell pull, and it was only minutes later, as she was helping the boy into the nightshirt his aunt had packed for him that she discovered why.
A glass of warm milk.
“No, don’t sit back on that sofa, it’s dirty,” he told the boy. He pointed to a comfortable armchair by the fire. “Sit there. Drink this. And eat your cake.”
“And the pennies?” The boy’s teeth chattered.
“Here, as promised.” He took them from his pocket, eighteen pennies exactly, which he set down on the table at the chair’s side. The boy gave them an avid study, milk in one hand, cake in the other.
Madelaine suspected the servant had been ordered to bring those coins as well as the milk. The Viscount Cotereigh was unlikely to walk around with mere pennies weighing down his pockets.
She busied herself tidying up, though no doubt a servant would do the job. Lord Cotereigh told her exactly that as soon as he saw what she was doing.
She looked up then laid a finger to her lips. He glanced around and saw what she’d seen. The boy—she couldn’t call himTonks,he must have a real name—had sipped some milk, nibbled some cake, and now sat staring, transfixed, at the fire, his eyelids drooping.
Surreptitiously, she withdrew to the far side of the room, Lord Cotereigh following.
“It’ll do him good to sleep.” She used the lowest voice she could, but one that was not quite a whisper. A whisper was too conspicuous. A whisper was too…intimate.
“That sofa will need to be cleaned.” Lord Cotereigh’s voice was a murmur, as quiet as hers, but his deep pitch made a rumblein the air between them. “This whole room will. My housekeeper said something about burning sulphur candles.”
“He’ll be so much more comfortable now.”
That was easier to say thanthank you. Though she knew she must say it soon. A genuine, heartfelt thank you. It frightened her.
“We can move him to my aunt’s now that we know there’s no internal damage,” she added. “If I call for the carriage now, he can sleep on the way.”
Lord Cotereigh made no immediate reply. His mouth went very flat, and he looked at the boy, his eyes staying there as he shook his head. “No. Leave the boy here.”
“But—”
“I’ve plenty of room. And plenty of servants. He’ll disrupt my household less than your aunt’s.”
“Lord Cotereigh…”
He looked back at the use of his name, but she couldn’t read the expression in his black stare.
“You’ve been more than generous enough,” she said. “I couldn’t possibly impose more on your kindness than I’ve already done. It was my decision to go to the boy’s aid, and it was my insistence on helping him that led him to be brought here. He is my responsibility—”
Lord Cotereigh gave another shake of his head. Short and sharp. “Mrs Ardingly.” He sounded as though he meant to tell her off. Indignant heat prickled over her skin, her hackles going up. Yes, anger was much, much easier than gratitude.
“If my impressions are correct,” he continued, “then I believe you spend the majority of your time in Sussex caring for your brothers, and, quite probably, your father’s parishioners too. And when you come to London for yourholiday, you spend the entirety of your time caring for your aunt and every singleunfortunate soul in the entire city. Leave the boy here. You’ve no need for another burden.”
