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  He’d spent that first night on the floor of Brockman’s hotel room. It might be common for six or eight strangers to share a bed in an inn, but Terence O’Rourke slept with no one. His benefactor, on hearing his assertion, had merely nodded and thrown him a blanket. In the morning there’d been a bath, new clothes from the skinside out, and then long days of business. He’d conducted his gent from the Customs House to sailing ships lined up at the docks. From Four Courts on Inns Quay to the Guinness Brewery. And to the finest Georgian homes with their brightly colored doors topped by fanlight windows, with their lace curtains and snobbish servants. He’d managed not to gape, following on Brockman’s heels as if he’d visited half the castles of Ireland during his eleven years on this good green earth.

  And he’d astounded them all when he’d calculated in his head what they were laboring to figure out on paper. Oh, yes, that was very fine, the look on their faces when he’d given them the profit margin for the next five years of whiskey sent to England on Brockman ships. And wasn’t that a surprise? Though he was careful not to show his glee. His gent owned fine sailing ships as well as coal mines and probably a good deal more he hadn’t heard about yet.

  And each day they’d eaten more food than Terence usually saw in a week or two. There’d been more new clothes, though his gent had drawn the line at a beaver top hat in size extra small. And, finally, finally, he’d been told he’d proved his worth. Would he like to see London, be trained for a position with Tobias Brockman & Company?

  Would he?

  He had his sea legs now. Turning his back on the last vestiges of Ireland, he raced toward the bow. Beware, England! Here comes Terence O’Rourke!

  “What is this place?” Terence asked as their coach rumbled past cottages set in as pretty a woods as he’d seen since they’d left the packet ferry and started their journey to London. London. He wasn’t yet sure what he thought about the great city. It was too big. Too loud, too smelly, too rich, too dirty. He’d been glad to get inside Tobias Brockman’s headquarters, into the ordered peace of offices and accounting rooms, with a pub next door which wasn’t so far removed from the familiar world of O’Malley’s. His gent had rooms above the office area but hinted at something better to come. Terence began to discover his benefactor had more than a wee sense of humor. A bit of the whimsical which was almost Irish. Perhaps it was the Welsh in him. In any event, Terence knew the man had plans. But what they had to do with a drive into an area which seemed as if it was deep in the country even though it was right next to the city, he couldn’t say. And, so far, his gent had been remarkably close-mouthed.

  “’Tis called St. John’s Woods,” Brockman told him.

  “You’re buying a cottage here?” Terence prodded.

  “I already own a cottage here.”

  “We’re–uh, you’re going to live here then instead of in the city?”

  “No.”

  “Well?”

  “Part of the problem of being on your own for so long is that you never learned children should speak only when spoken to.”

  “You are speaking to me. Sir.” Terence knew his gent liked his cheekiness, but there was no sense in taking too many chances. He’d known the man less than two weeks.

  Tobias raised an eyebrow, heaved a dramatic sigh. “These cottages are for women, boy. Paid for by men, lived in by women.”

  Terence didn’t have to think about it for long. Life with his mother, life on the streets had given him a highly realistic education. After several moments of silence while he contemplated just how far he could go, he ventured, “I didn’t take you for a ladies’ man, Sir.”

  “I’m not,” the older man shot back. “But I’m no saint either. Don’t have time for a woman in my life, but setting up a mistress was part and parcel of flaunting my wealth. Aye, I had it, wanted everyone to know it. Having a mistress side by side with the Cyprians of the grand nobles tickled my fancy. And paying for a woman means you don’t have to listen to endless complaints if you don’t pay her enough attention,” Brockman added sourly. “Or at least so I was fool enough to think.”

  Terence grinned. He had no trouble understanding that either. He did, however, have a problem with why he was being taken to visit Tobias Brockman’s mistress. Jesus, he hoped he wasn’t destined to be one of those stupid pages, all dressed up in fancy-dancy clothes. No, his gent wouldn’t do that. His gent knew he had a bent for business. He wouldn’t . . . he couldn’t. Terence swallowed hard as the coach pulled up before a large cottage with latticed windows and a finely thatched roof, brightened by a walkway bordered by a spring burst of tulips and daffodils. Sighing, he followed in Tobias Brockman’s footsteps as his employer approached the front door.

  No haughty butler here. A maid led them into a sitting room, finely furnished as Terence had known it would be. Nothing but the best for Tobias Brockman. A lady rose to greet them, head high, almost regal. Of course she wasn’t a lady, Terence corrected himself, but certainly a very fine female indeed. Obviously, his gent didn’t pick his women off the streets. Blonde, blue-eyed, a dress of the finest silk, and proud as Lucifer, to boot.

  “Rosamund, this is young Terence O’Rourke. I expect him to be a help to me in the ah–matter which brings us here. Something of a bodyguard, you might say. He’s bright and well-educated. Terence, this is Madame Rosamund Rolande,” Tobias said without a blink, though he knew she was as British-born as himself. “She is about to return to a career in the opera, where I expect she will be a leading prima donna in a very short time. Not that she need ever work again,” he added, “for she has rendered me an extraordinary service, but she tells me she wishes it.”

  Absently, Madame Rolande granted Terence a gracious nod. “Tobias, you are charming as ever, I see.”

  Into a sudden awkward silence Tobias Brockman cleared his throat before asking, “Rosamund, is this hard for you? Worse than you’d thought?”

  Madame Rolande glanced down, twisting one of the many rings adorning her fingers. “I’d be lying if I said no, but it’s best for all of us. I know that. As you say, I wish to become a prima donna. I do not wish to live in the country and raise babies. And no child should be raised in St. John’s Woods. You will give her the life I cannot. So it is done. No more to be said.” Rosamund strode to the bell pull, nearly jerking it off the wall. Terence, though not yet fully understanding what was happening, recognized the woman was suffering an anguish she did not wish to reveal.

  A servant, obviously waiting for her cue, entered the room. In her arms was a child of perhaps six months, with nearly bald head, its sex as yet a mystery. Terence lost his hard-won aplomb, his mouth dropped open.

  Tobias Brockman strode across the room, stared straight into the child’s solemn amber eyes, so remarkably like his own. Motioning Terence to join him, he took the baby from the nursemaid’s arms. The child made not a sound. “Terence, this is Elizabeth. Named her after good Queen Bess, even though she was English. Good strong woman, Bess, but I think we’ll call the little one here Beth. Sounds better, don’t y’ think? Beth, this is Terence. He’s going to be your big brother, look out for you, see you grow up to be a fine young lady.” Suddenly, Tobias thrust the baby into Terence’s arms.

  He was terrified. If he held her too tight, she’d cry. If he held her too lightly, she might fall. Terence gulped, shifted his hands for a better grip. She was so tiny. Fragile.

  Beth reached out a chubby hand, grabbing a black curl which dangled over his forehead. She smiled.

  Terence O’Rourke was lost. Forever.

  Chapter Two

  September, 1803

  It was remarkable what money could buy, Miss Matilda Spencer thought as she followed the stiffly correct butler into the library of the house on Cavendish Square. Tales of the immensity of the gambling debts of the Viscount Poynings had reached even Miss Spencer’s sheltered ears. Followed by rumors that the rolled-up nobleman had been bailed out of his self-inflicted misery by the man called the Merchant Midas. ’Twas
said Tobias Brockman had acquired the viscount’s townhouse and all its furnishings for nearly twice what it was worth, thereby securing an ally, however reluctant, in the foremost ranks of England’s nobility. And enabling the hope of something more than cool nods of greeting from his stiff-necked aristocratic neighbors.

  Though she would never admit it to a single soul, Matilda Spencer admired the bold determination of the former coal pit boy. That, and the attraction of twice her usual salary, had brought her today to Cavendish Square. Though no expression was allowed to show on a countenance which had survived the buffets of some sixteen years as a governess, she did not hesitate to admit to herself that she was eager to meet the Merchant Midas, whose name was now known from India to the Americas.

  Miss Spencer was mistaken in her expectations. The person rising to his feet behind the massive mahogany desk was a slim young man of fifteen or sixteen. Dressed to the nines, he was as impeccably turned out as any young gentleman in the noble households in which she had worked these many years. And handsomer than most. Thin face, waves of black hair which fell just past his ears, eyes as blue as a sunny sky, piercing as a bolt of lightning. Automatically, she responded to an imperious wave of the young man’s hand. Mind racing, wondering what had happened to her supposed employer, Miss Spencer sat down. Her older sister Portia, of Miss Spencer’s Agency for Genteel Employment, had said nothing about a young gentleman in the household. A very young, confident gentleman who proceeded to introduce himself as Terence O’Rourke.

  He was so well prepared with his questions, Miss Spencer, an inveterate teacher, wanted to applaud him as she was successfully interrogated on her skill in history, geography, mathematics, French, and music, even as the young man waved away her skills in embroidery and watercolors. Nodding at last, he directed his attention to Miss Spencer’s references before carefully refolding each one and returning them to her.

  “You are related to Miss Portia Spencer?” the boy inquired, the blue eyes suddenly snapping with the shrewd intelligence of a world-weary businessman.

  “My elder sister. The young lady I have been with for the past eight years will be married shortly, so Portia has been looking for a new post for which I might be suited.” Matilda Spencer straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin. “Portia and I may be closely related, Mr. O’Rourke, but I assure you, if Mr. Brockman should choose to employ me, he will be acquiring the most highly qualified and experienced governess available.”

  The young man examined the polished desktop, flicked off an invisible speck of dust. Miss Spencer could have sworn he was hiding a smile.

  “’Twas I who wrote out the list of qualifications, Miss Spencer. Mr. Brockman is busy earning enough to pay your exorbitant salary.”

  Miss Spencer, who had weathered all sorts of slings and arrows, could not stifle her gasp. “I never asked . . . ’twas the salary stated!”

  The young man was now openly grinning. “Yes, it was,” he agreed amiably. “I am simply repeating what Mr. Brockman said when I told him of it.” The smile faded. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as Tobias Brockman had once done to him. “You are aware this is a merchant household?” he inquired.

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  “This does not bother you?”

  “I believe I will find the change salubrious.”

  “Salubrious.” The young man mouthed the word with relish. “That is indeed why we want the best governess, Miss Spencer. We wish to find someone who will be salubrious for us as well as for you.” He leaned forward, placed his elbows on the desk in a gesture Matilda Spencer found a relief, the first sign he was truly as young a man as he looked. “If you join us, Miss Spencer, I assure you, you will earn your salary. I wish to lay before you the extent of your duties, the problems you will encounter.”

  Terence drummed his fingers on the mirror-polished desk before settling himself to his self-appointed task. “In addition to residing in the home of what the ton calls a Cit, your pupils—and, yes, there are two of us—are both bastards. But we’re bright bastards, Beth and I. And I am old enough to know that being able to read and cipher and follow maps to the distant places our ships go is not enough. More and more, I go into a world for which I was not trained.”

  The young man’s features were suddenly marred by as cynical curl of lip as Miss Spencer had seen on hardened rakes of sixty. “Oh, I can ape my betters with the best of them,” Terence said, “but I want more than can be found between the covers of books. I need to know how to go on. To the point where I can, quite frankly, buy my way, and Beth’s, into this ton which scorns us. And don’t tell me it can’t be done, because I’ve already seen it happen. We merchants can buy and sell most of the ton with a snap of our fingers. Too many so-called gentlemen have neglected their estates, gambled away their fortunes until they have no choice but to sell up. When it’s my turn to hold power, I want to be ready for it.”

  Once again, Terence sat back in his leather armchair, eyeing Miss Matilda Spencer from under his sinfully long black lashes. “Are you willing to take me on as a pupil as well, Miss Spencer? Without reservations?”

  She would never forget the moment, not as long as she lived. Her other positions had been a livelihood, the sad curse of a spinster of good family and little money. Now, at long last, she was being given a crusade. More than that, a family. How she knew it, Matilda could not have said, but it was as if her whole life had been preparing her for this moment. “Yes,” she said, “I would very much like to be part of this household, Mr. O’Rourke.”

  And when the little girl was brought to her, she nearly cried. A child of five with blond curls, solemn amber eyes ripe with intelligence, and a curtsey which staggered only slightly. As had happened to Terence O’Rourke, Miss Spencer was lost. If these two children were held back by the stigma of being bastards, then it was high time the world revised its attitudes.

  March 1804

  Terence stretched, started to rise after his daily training session in Tobias Brockman’s spacious office. “Stay a moment, boy,” his employer ordered. Terence sat. “How old are ye now?”

  “Nearly sixteen.”

  “More like half fifteen. As you were six months shy of eleven when I met ye.” Terence flashed his cheeky grin.

  Tobias rubbed his jaw, eyed the boy’s finely sculptured features, the waving black hair, oh-so-sharp blue eyes, the shoulders which were beginning to fill out, the new trousers which were already a bit high at the ankle. “There’s matters I’ve neglected,” Tobias grumbled. “Things we’ve not spoken about.”

  “Sir, if you’d told me any more, I’d need another head.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve no complaints about your grasp of the business. You’ll do, boy, more than do. It’s other matters I’m talking about.”

  Terence, for once uncertain where his mentor was heading, kept his mouth firmly shut. Always, he was the supplicant, Tobias Brockman the master. He never let himself forget it, even on the rare occasions when they stood toe to toe and blued the air with their arguments.

  Tobias re-stacked the papers on his desk, peered intently at one particular page which might as well have been blank for all he saw on it. Once again, there was nothing for it except to be blunt. “Are ye a virgin?” he demanded.

  “Sir?”

  “You heard me. Have you had experience with women?”

  “And since when is that any of your business?” Terence didn’t bother to add sir.

  “I may not have had your education, boy, but I’m familiar with in loco parentis. That’s me. I took you on, and you’re my responsibility. You were always a little old man, so it’s been easy to forget your real age. So I’m asking. Can’t have you falling into bad company when a word in y’r ear could steer you in the right direction.”

  “Sir, I don’t need instruction,” Terence ground out between gritted teeth.

  “Well, if you’ve learned from some of the tavern wenches I’ve known, you may have got it all wrong.”

/>   “I’ve had no complaints.”

  The bravado shouldn’t have taken Tobias by surprise, but it did. He choked, coughed, signaled for Terence to pour brandy from a crystal decanter on a small Queen Anne table set against the wall. He downed it in one gulp, watched Terence do the same without so much as blinking an eye. Cheeky little bastard. “By God, boy, I knew you were cocky, but if you think you’ve learned it all when you’re six months shy of sixteen—”

  “And you such a ladies’ man an’ all.” The Irish was back in Terence’s voice as if it had never gone.

  “Hell and damnation!” Tobias roared. “I want to do you a favor and you fight me, you misbegotten brat. As if I didn’t have enough to suffer with that Miss Prim and Proper you brought into my house. That woman! . . .” The Merchant Midas sighed, brought his thoughts back to the problem at hand. “I’ll make arrangements. Perhaps one of the Wilson girls. Teach you a little finesse along with the other. Can’t have you turning out like me. Yes, yes, I grant you’ve got the mechanics of it well in hand,” Tobias hastened to add, “but there’s nothing a little expertise can’t improve. And discrimination. Didn’t spend the best years of my life teaching you what I know, only to have you go mad with the disease those demmed Spaniards brought back from the Americas. So you’ll go where I send you in this, as you do in business matters. And no arguments.” Tobias Brockman glared at his fifteen-year-old chief assistant.

  “Yes, sir,” Terence agreed with remarkable meekness, saving his triumphant grin for the empty hallway outside.

  April, 1807

  Hatchards bookstore was not as fine a treat as a balloon ascension or Astley’s Amphitheater, Beth thought, but surely it was a grand and wonderful place. Miss Spencer said she should be grateful Terence deigned to escort them, but Beth couldn’t see why. Terence took her everywhere. Well, perhaps not to all the places she wished to go but, after all, she was not quite nine, and Terence wasn’t likely to go away. There was plenty of time for her to grow up and discover what other wonders the world had to offer.