Page 1

Chapter 1

Alexander Allerton, Earl of Bloxley, descended the staircase in his London townhouse and paused. A glance at his pocket watch confirmed that it was barely nine o’clock. If he were quick about it, he could leave for his first meeting at Whitehall before his mother arose for the day.

To his relief—and, very likely, the entire household staff’s relief—his mother chose to spend most of her time at their country home in Berkshire. But when she did deign to make an appearance in London, she made her presence felt immediately. She had been in residence for only one week, and already Lady Bloxley had set to work reorganizing his perfectly adequate social calendar and redecorating rooms that were in no need of change.

Indeed, his mother had sailed into his normally calm, orderly life like a first-rate battleship and had upended his routine without so much as taking a shot. She didn’t need to; she had others who managed the job quite adequately. Her current arsenal included a small army of chimney sweeps who had commandeered the library and music room two days before and had this very morning appropriated the drawing room and his personal study. He could only hope that their early start meant they would be gone from the house by the time he returned.

Crossing the hall in long strides, Alexander was nearly to the front door when he heard a muffled cry. He stopped, tilting his head to one side. “Did you hear that, Hastings?” he asked the butler, who was standing sentinel beside the door.

“Hear what, exactly, my lord?”

In that moment, the unidentified sound came again, but this time, it was accompanied by a resounding thud and a growled curse.

“Yer useless, Archie Dixon! That’s what you are. Utterly useless.”

Hastings cleared his throat uncomfortably. “My apologies, my lord. It would seem the chimney sweeps are making a slight disturbance.”

With a frown, Alexander redirected his footsteps to the nearby drawing room and pushed open the door. The paintings and gilded mirrors that usually hung on the walls had been removed, and dust cloths shrouded the ornate furniture. An assortment of poles and brushes leaned against the mantelpiece, and a middle-aged man dressed in the coarse clothing of a laborer was bent over something in the fireplace.

“What kinda climbin’ boy do ya call yerself?” the man barked. “That’s the fourth chimney ya’ve fallen out of in two days.”

The tangled ball of soot in the fireplace shifted, and with a jolt, Alexander realized it was a small child.

“I tried to stop meself, Mr. Watson. Honest, I did. I got stuck in the flue an’ . . . an’ when I wiggled free like you told me, I lost me grip.”

“I’ll listen ta no excuses!” The man reached for the boy’s arm and yanked him to his feet. “Ya’ve got a chimney to clean.”

“One moment.” Alexander stepped farther into the room, and the man swung around, stiffening when he realized who was speaking.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, me lord.” The sweep inclined his head, shifting slightly so that his boots covered the sprinkle of dark-red blood that Alexander had spotted on the sooty cloth draping the hearth. “Didn’t mean ta disturb ya.”

Alexander’s gaze moved from the man whose narrow-set eyes glistened with barely repressed anger to the quivering child at his side. Coal dust hung in the air between them, but the white streaks running down the boy’s blackened cheeks were clearly visible, as was the gash across his bare and bony shoulder.

“Would you care to explain what exactly is going on here, Mr.—?”

“Watson, me lord. George Watson.” The man offered Alexander an oily smile and a small bow. “Best sweep in all of London at yer service.”

Tamping down his mounting dislike of the man, Alexander stepped closer. “Very well, Mr. Watson. An explanation, if you please. Why is there an injured young boy standing in my drawing room, covered in soot?”

“Archie’s one of me climbing boys, me lord. The little blighter went an’ fell outa the chimney.” The man gave the boy a rough shake, and Archie whimpered. The sweep ignored it. “Don’ you worry though. ’E’ll go right back up and finish the job. It won’t ’appen again.”

“You are absolutely correct, Mr. Watson.” Alexander noted the sweep’s surprise at his steely tone, but he did nothing to temper it. “It will not happen again—simply because this child will not enter another chimney in my house.”

Mr. Watson’s jaw fell slack. “Not enter . . . but how am I to . . . ?”

“I will inform the housekeeper that you may need a few extra days to complete your work,” Alexander said, eyeing him grimly. “But if you are as good a sweep as you claim, I have no doubt you can accomplish the job without sending nursery-aged children through the flues.”

The malevolent look in the sweep’s eyes would have shaken a lesser man. Alexander chose to ignore it. Instead, he turned to the trembling boy, who was looking up at him with an expression that was one part shock, two parts unmitigated fear.

“When was the last time you ate, Archie?”

“L . . . last evening, me lord.”

Alexander nodded. A pair of torn breeches was the boy’s only covering, and despite the camouflaging layer of soot, his ribs were all too prominent. It was unlikely that he saw more than one meal a day—and a parsimonious meal at that.

“If I were to have my cook find you some bread and milk, would you consent to having someone take a look at that sore shoulder of yours?”

Archie shot an apprehensive look at his master’s glowering face before running his arm beneath his nose and leaving a shining streak across his cheek. “I . . . I . . . don’ rightly know, me lord.”