one
1822 London – St. James Park
Lady Rebecca Thatcher marched out of The Royal Society where her father was touting his favorite subject: Charles Babbage’s Difference Engine. She’d heard his lecture so often, she could recite it in her sleep. To date, and to her father’s frustration, Babbage’s device had not yet been approved by The Society. Papa’s fascination with a machine that tabulated numbers was, at times, entertaining, and at other times had her wanting to hide in the nearest closet and plug her ears with cotton. It wasn’t that Rebecca was opposed to progressive changes, but the changesshewished to see were those for women and the children they’d borne to protect. Mothers wished to feed and house themselves and their babies. Men seek to suppress. And Rebecca never allowed an opportunity pass of saying so to anyone within hearing to Papa’s utmost regret.
Outside the lecture hall, she was finally able to draw in a breath, revel in the mild afternoon—meaning it wasn’t wet or chilled.
She moved past the shaded stone steps into the sun’s rare appearance. The grass’s lushness had her longing to strip off her kid boots and stockings to let her toes breathe.
Patches of wild flowers dotted the field, coloring the landscape with new growth. Yellow kingcups, powder bluebells, daisies, and corncockles of magenta. It was quite lovely. It appeared she had the rolling meadow to herself, except for three gentlemen who had stepped out of their club.
Or so she’d believed.
A young boy flew at her from his hiding place from behind a huge oak and hugged her legs.
“Mama. Mama.”
Rebecca opened her mouth to ask him what the devil he was about but instantly caught sight of a harsh looking individual bearing down on her—them. She wrapped an arm around the boy’s thin shoulders and waited until she was certain the man was close enough to hear. “Where have you been, young man? I’ve been beside myself trying to find you.”
His blue eyes flashed with gratitude. “I’m sorry, Mama.” He lowered his gaze in a brilliant show of contriteness. His once white shirt was gray and tattered.
“I’ll lock you in the schoolroom, I will, if you ever pull a stunt like that again. Do you understand?” she said, shaking him lightly.
The man pulled up before her and she tightened her hold on the boy. The man’s nostril’s flared from a thin and pointed nose. His cheeks flushed a ruddy-red. Black eyes, small and deep set, narrowed on her. “This ’ere isyerchild?”
Rebecca thrust her shoulders back and pulled to her full height—barely to his shoulders—some inches over five feet. Two, if one were exacting. Keeping a firm grip on the child, she eased him behind her, and faced the man straight on. “Indeed he is,” she said in her haughtiest imitation of one of her most challenging governess’s she’d grown up with, effectively shutting out the ghostly tendril memories of her first and favorite, Miss Lowe. “And just who might you be, sir?”
He reached toward her and she scuttled back out of reach. “That boy don’t belong to ye,” he growled. “Ain’t no one outsmarts Finch Cromwell.”
She committed his name to memory, eyeing the young gentlemen across the park, and raised her voice. “Unhand me, sirrah!” The volume had the intended effect, and the young men hurried in her direction.
The villain sneered. “This ain’t over,” he hissed. Just like that, he melted away.
“What is the meaning of this?” the tallest one asked. “Are you unharmed, madam?”
“Of course, I am,” she said, muting her irritation. Rebecca Thatcher was not a woman usually in need of rescuing. The proof of which she carried in her reticule in the form of a very fine, very sharp dagger.
The young man glanced about, then settled his gaze back on her. “You ought not to be out here alone, ma’am. This here is a dangerous area for a young lady.”There was condescension in his voice that rippled across her skin but she reined in her hauteur. After all, she was the one who had called out.
Still, Rebecca was almost certain the man was a year or two younger than her own age of five and twenty. “Thank you. But I’ve been looking for my… son.” She glanced over her shoulder. Finch Cromwell was nowhere to be seen. His complete and utter disappearance sent a shudder over her.
The man frowned. “Shall I a call for a hack?”
Behind her the boy stiffened and attempted to wrest from her hold. “That won’t be necessary,” she said to the young man, maintaining a solid grip on the child. “My carriage is just in front of the lecture hall.”
“Shall we accompany you? In the event that scalawag returns.”
The boy quit fighting her hold and froze.
“That would be lovely,” she said, smiling. “Shall we, my dear?” she directed to her new charge.
His lips pressed into a petulant line. He knew he was outnumbered if he attempted to run. The troupe reached her carriage and she handed the boy up. “Stay here a minute, Barrett,” she said to her driver. Thanking the young men, she climbed in and took the seat across from the boy. “Would you care to tell me what this is all about?”
Nothing.
All right then. “Where are you from?”
Nothing. Lips tighter, perhaps.
