have to cough away a few particles, but the air was tolerable. “I am well, madam. But what is that?”
As soon as he asked the question, Crawford moved back to reveal a small boy lying on the floor. “’Tis the climbing-boy, my lord. He had a nasty fall inside the chimney.” The old butler’s face was lined with worry. “If I may say so, sir, you should do as Lady Greystone says. This soot flying about cannot be good for your health.”
As if cued, the boy began to cough as violently as Greystone had just minutes ago on his trip home. A black cloud issued forth from the lad’s mouth, or perhaps his clothing, and then he noisily dragged in a breath.
“Shh.” The young serving girl kneeling beside him eyed Greystone with concern as she patted the boy’s face with a damp cloth. “His lordship’s in the house. Don’t be so much trouble.”
In answer the boy wheezed and gasped again, and his head rolled back and forth.
“Good heavens, he cannot breathe.” Greystone rushed to move the girl aside as memories of his illness made his own chest ache. The poor child might be suffocating. Recalling how it had helped him to breathe when he sat up, he knelt and gently pulled the lad into a sitting position, amid loud protests from Mother and Crawford. “There you go, lad. This should help.”
“Aw, gov’ner, leave him be.” The master sweep peered down at the boy. “’E’s a faker, that’n. Just trying to get out o’ work.”
Rage flooded Greystone’s chest. “Silence, you oaf.” The child’s eyes opened, revealing yellow, bloodshot orbs...and fear. Greystone gulped back his anger, for it would not help anyone. “Give me the cloth.” He grabbed it from the girl and swiped it down the boy’s cheeks and under his nose.
Orders and reprimands flew around him, but the only words he could discern were those of a voice speaking within his soul: help this boy. All he could answer was, Lord, I am Your servant. Doubtless this was the mission God promised to assign to him one dark night last November when Greystone had cried out to him, certain he would soon take his last breath. I still have work for you had been His answer. The irony was not lost on him. How well he knew the terror of not being able to inhale life-giving air. Now this poor climbing-boy, this thin, frail bit of bones barely tied together in human form, struggled to breathe. Yes, this was Greystone’s work, his cause. A strange excitement swept through him even as fear for the moppet welled up beside it.
The boy gave out another violent cough. “Sorry, gov. I’ll get back to work.” He tried to wiggle out of Greystone’s hold, but cried out. “Ow, me arm, me arm.”
“Shh, easy, lad.” Greystone touched the boy’s appendage, bringing forth more cries. No doubt it was broken, if its slight crookedness was any indication.
“Hush, boy.” The master sweep bent over him. “Hush, or I’ll gi’ ya sumpin’ to holler about.” He punctuated his threat with a curse.
Mother gasped. “How dare you?”
“Watch your tongue, sirrah.” Crawford stepped toward the taller, younger man as if he would seize and eject him.
Greystone lifted the boy in his arms and stood, noticing that the brave child clenched his jaw to keep from crying out again. “Crawford, prepare a room for my little friend and fetch a physician. His climbing days are over.”
“Now, see ’ere, yer lordship.” The master sweep had the gall to step in front of Greystone to block his exit. “I bought that boy and ’is brother for a pretty penny. ’E owes me work.”
Barely able to control his rage, Greystone gave the man an icy glare. “You will be paid. That is, after I have investigated your illegal use of this child. He cannot possibly be old enough to work as a climbing-boy.”
“I say you pay me now.” The wild-eyed man must be mad to challenge a peer this way.
Greystone longed to smash the man in his brazen face. But that would not help the boy. “You are fortunate my hands are occupied. Get out of my house.”
“If ya please, sir.” The child’s eyes watered profusely, and his tears formed ragged streaks down his tiny blackened face. “I gotta go with ’im. I gotta take care o’ me little brother.”
Greystone’s eyes burned, the oddest sensation, for he never wept. Perhaps it was all this soot. But he too had younger brothers and would never leave either of them defenseless. He glared at the master sweep. “Bring me the boy’s brother within the hour. If you do not, I shall personally hunt you down, and you will regret it for the rest of your wretched life.”
While Mother continued to protest, he marched toward the front entry. Neither she nor the sweep nor anyone else would keep him from obeying God’s prompting in this matter.
Crawford scurried ahead of him. “The nursery? The footmen’s corridor? A closet in the attic? Oh, dear, where shall we put him?”
Although Greystone knew the old fellow was talking to himself, he offered a hearty answer to set his mind at ease. “The nursery will do.”
They reached the entryway just as a footman responded to a knock on the door. When he opened it, Mrs. Parton bustled in, followed by Lady Beatrice.
“Do forgive us, Greystone. Where is your mama? I should like to take tea with her.” She stopped and stared at his sooty bundle. “Good gracious, my boy, whatever do you have there?”
But it was Lady Beatrice who held his attention. The regard filling her lovely blue eyes nearly made him stumble, nearly made him drop the child. After a long day in Parliament he would not mind coming home every day to that sort of admiration.
No, he simply must not think such things, must get away from her as soon as possible. But how could he when he would prefer nothing more than to sit down to tea with her and stare into those lovely blue eyes?
Chapter Four
Beatrice could hardly contain her laughter at the sight of Lord Greystone holding a bundle of sooty rags. This was the same elegantly garbed viscount she had seen earlier in the afternoon on his way to Parliament. But now his handsome black suit was covered with gray dust, and his once-pristine white shirt and cravat bore black streaks, as did his nose and left cheek. Although she tried to keep her composure, a smile escaped her as she silently echoed Mrs. Parton’s question. Why on earth was the viscount carting about grimy trash when he obviously had sufficient staff for such menial work?
“Good afternoon again, Mrs. Parton, Lady Beatrice.” Standing at the base of the staircase, the gentleman spoke in a nonchalant tone at odds with his scruffy appearance. The aristocrats of Beatrice’s acquaintance would be mortified if caught in such a state. “Do come in. I am certain Mother will be pleased to see you.”
“Gracious, Julia.” Lady Greystone appeared from the drawing room on the right. “What an inconvenient time for you to call.” The lady glanced between her son and Mrs. Parton, and annoyance filled her countenance. “Never mind. You may as well come in. Perhaps you can help me dissuade Greystone from keeping this little gutter rat.” She waved her fan toward the rags in the viscount’s arms.
The rags moved, and a tiny, tear-streaked face turned toward the viscountess. Beatrice’s heart leaped into her throat. It was a child, a filthy street urchin. She had never known another person of any rank who would willingly touch such a creature, much less carry him.
“Why, it is a child.” Mrs. Parton bustled over to the viscount. “My dear Greystone, whatever are you doing?”
The gentleman started to speak, but his mother rushed to join them.
“You see, Greystone, even Julia agrees. The brat has no place in this house. Oh, do come to your senses—”
“Mother!” The viscount sent her a scolding glare, but quickly softened his expression. “Please, madam, permit me to do what I know to be right.”
Once again Beatrice’s heart skipped.