The Pursuits of Lord Kit Cavanaugh Page 13

  Kit reached for Sylvia’s arm, but before he stepped back, he met Mrs. Stenshaw’s eyes. “As you will shortly see from the sign that will go up over the front door of the hall, the school is now operating under my aegis, as well as that of the Dean of Christ Church, with the full support of the Abbey.”

  Mrs. Stenshaw made a scoffing sound and, her glare still in place, waved them off her porch.

  With pointed politeness, Kit nodded. “Good day.”

  Setting Sylvia’s hand on his arm, he turned and steered her down the steps and on toward the gate. He could feel her vibrating with barely suppressed anger.

  Behind them, he heard Mrs. Stenshaw shuffle back and the door close.

  He halted on the pavement.

  Sylvia drew her hand from his sleeve and swung to face him. “You saw her expression—she’s worried her sons were responsible for the fire and hopes that we’ll go away.”

  He grimaced. “We’ll have to hope that when her sons come in, she reads them the riot act, and that they’ll leave the school alone from now on.”

  Sylvia snorted softly. “Youths like that are rarely the sort who pay attention to their mother’s prohibitions.” She crossed her arms, gripping her elbows. “Worse, having set the fire, been suspected, yet not being brought to face any sort of justice will only strengthen the belief her sons likely already hold that they are immune—that they can act like that and get away with it.” She shook her head. “It will be only a matter of time before they try something else—try to damage the school in some other, more drastic way.”

  The hackney they’d taken to Peabody’s and back had halted by the curb a little closer to the river. Kit gently grasped Sylvia’s arm and urged her toward it; as she fell in beside him, her gaze on the pavement, he murmured, “Short of finding more damning evidence, I can’t see what else we can do.”

  She sighed, raised her head, and rather glumly admitted, “I know. I just wish we could be sure there won’t be another incident—”

  “Psst!”

  The sound had them both halting and looking to their left—to where a boy of about ten stood just inside the runnel that ran along the side of the Stenshaw house. The pale oval of his face peered out at them from the shadows. He was dressed neatly enough, suggesting he was a servant at one of the nearby houses.

  Seeing he’d caught their attention, the boy beckoned them closer.

  Curious, they approached.

  The boy cast a swift glance behind him, then, when they reached him, whispered, “I saw them two do it—set the fire behind the school.”

  “Saw who?” Kit asked. “Which two?”

  Impatiently, the boy tipped his head at the Stenshaw house. “Her two—Cedric and James. No others around here as nasty as they are.”

  Kit glanced at the front of the house, but they were out of sight of the bow window. Looking back at the boy, Kit crouched and mildly asked, “What’s your name? And how was it you saw them?”

  “I’m Oliver, but everyone calls me Ollie.” Ollie looked up at Sylvia. “You’re the lady from the school—I’ve seen you over there.” He returned his open gaze to Kit’s face. “I knew Cedric and James were up to no good when they told me to fetch the lamp oil—the whole jar. It’s not as if they’d ever stir themselves to fill any lamps. When I gave them the jar, they took it, and they was whispering to each other and laughing as they went out of the back door. I saw they’d stuffed rags in their pockets, so I followed them. I snuck down this alley after them and across to the school. I crept along the alley down the side of the school, and I peeked around the corner. They was stacking wood from the hall’s woodpile against the back door. Then they pulled out the rags from their pockets and got them all wet with the lamp oil—they used it all up—then they stacked the rags on top of the pile in a ball.”

  Ollie paused, then said, “Could’ve told them that wasn’t going to work, but I didn’t want the hall to burn down, so I kept mum. Then Cedric got out his tinderbox and lit the rags—they went up with a whoosh! That was when I scarpered.”

  He looked up at Sylvia. “I didn’t dare yell out or anything—they would’ve found me and beaten me bloody.” He drew in a breath and said, “So I got back to the kitchen, and they came in a few minutes later, laughing and clapping each other on the back.”

  Ollie wrung his hands. “I knew it was all wrong, what they’d done. I’ve heard the missus ranting and raving about the school coming to the street, but at least schools like that give boys like me a chance, and it’s wrong of the Stenshaws to try to get rid of it just on account of they don’t like it.” Ollie looked miserable. “But I didn’t dare tell anyone what I’d seen.”

  Kit laid a hand on Ollie’s shoulder. “You’ve been brave to come and tell us.”

  “But if they”—Ollie tipped his head toward the house—“hear I’ve spoken up, I’ll lose me place and be out on me ear quicker’n you can blink. And me ma’s dead, and so’s me da, and I’ve nowhere else to go.”

  Lightly gripping Ollie’s thin shoulder—in case the boy’s courage gave out and he bolted—Kit met Sylvia’s eyes, then looked back at Ollie. “Do you like working for Mrs. Stenshaw?”

  Ollie looked at him as if he was insane. “Lord no! She’s mean to everyone. Folks only work here until they can find somewhere better.”

  “Well, then.” Kit eased his grip. Rising, he patted Ollie’s shoulder. “Would you like to leave Mrs. Stenshaw’s employ and come and work for me at my house? I’m new to the city, and I could use a bright bootboy and messenger who I and the rest of my staff can rely on to run errands and the like. If you’d like to do that, you can tell the truth about Cedric and James and what you saw them do, then thumb your nose at Mrs. Stenshaw and leave with us.”

  “And,” Sylvia put in, “in between running errands and cleaning his lordship’s boots, you can come to the school and learn your letters with the other boys.”

  Ollie’s eyes had widened at the mention of Kit’s title, and his gaze had swung to Kit, but at the word “school,” his eyes grew huge, and his gaze shot back to Sylvia. He stared at her as if she’d offered him the moon. “Cor...you mean it?”

  She nodded. “Indeed. Lord Cavanaugh”—with one hand, she indicated Kit—“is the sponsor and patron of the school, so yes.” She raised her gaze to Kit’s face. “Attending school is part of his offer.”

  Kit hid a smile and looked inquiringly at Ollie.

  The boy’s expression said he wanted to seize the offer with both hands, but fear held him back. After a moment, he swallowed and asked, “Will I have to say what I saw to her face?”

  In light of the trepidation he could see in Ollie’s eyes, Kit shook his head. “No. You can leave speaking with Mrs. Stenshaw to us—and we won’t mention your name to her.”

  Ollie’s fear fell away. His eyes shining like stars, he straightened to attention and looked up at Kit. “Then yes, please, your lordship! I’d like to come and work for you and go to school, too.”

  Kit smiled. “Then you shall.” He glanced down the runnel. “Why don’t you go inside and get your things? Tell anyone who asks that you’ve had a better offer, and you’re leaving without notice. Then meet us back here.” He glanced at Sylvia. “We’re just going to have another word or two with Mrs. Stenshaw, then we’ll come back and fetch you, and”—Kit pointed to the hackney—“we’ll leave in that hackney.”

  Ollie was transformed, his face alight. “Yes, sir, your lordship!” Then he turned and ran down the runnel.

  “Well.” Beside Kit, Sylvia watched Ollie go. “That was a stroke of luck—and the act of a good heart.”

  Kit nodded. “It took courage to lie in wait and tell us. If we leave him in the household, most likely the sons will work out who spoke against them and beat him as badly as he fears before throwing him out. They sound the vindictive sort.”

  “Indeed. But now, thank
s to Ollie, we have the evidence to put the fear of gaol into the Stenshaw boys—at least as far as attacking the school goes.”

  The look Kit sent her was keenly anticipatory. With a graceful gesture, he waved her back to Mrs. Stenshaw’s door.

  After Kit informed the maid that her mistress would not appreciate what they had to say being bruited about in the street, their second interview with the old besom was conducted in her drawing room.

  Courtesy of Ollie’s information, this interview went very much more satisfactorily than the one before. Sylvia listened appreciatively as Kit informed Mrs. Stenshaw that a credible eyewitness had come forward and was prepared to swear that he’d seen her sons, Cedric and James, lay the fire at the rear of the school and set it alight.

  Kit went on, “The witness’s description matches what was found at the scene, verifying his information. The witness’s testimony is more than sufficient to see your sons taken up for trespass and arson.”

  Seated poker straight in an armchair, Mrs. Stenshaw’s expression had shifted from belligerent resistance and recalcitrance to one of dawning horror. Weakly, she said, “No—I can’t believe it.”

  “If you wish to verify our witness’s information, I suggest you ask to see your household’s lamp oil jar.” Kit’s tone held no hint of softness. “If you ask, you’ll discover it was emptied this afternoon, but not by any of your staff. Indeed, the jar might not even be back in the house.”

  As if finally accepting the seriousness of what her sons now faced, Mrs. Stenshaw’s granite-like façade cracked, and she reached out a hand. “You would take my sons from me?”

  Sylvia watched as Kit held Mrs. Stenshaw’s gaze, then without giving the slightest sign of weakening his stance, he stated, “In light of the school being new to the area, we are hesitant to press charges.”

  Sylvia blinked, but she trusted him enough to make no protest.

  He glanced swiftly at her, read her acquiescence—at least for the moment—then looked back at Mrs. Stenshaw and, his tone hardening, continued, “However, should there be any further trouble visited on the school—of any sort whatsoever—we will assume that you and your sons have failed to learn the lessons of this current incident and are, once again, to blame.” He straightened, his features as coldly forbidding as Mrs. Stenshaw’s had ever been. “In such circumstances, we will have no hesitation in laying the evidence now in our hands before the magistrates and pursuing the matter to the point of seeing both your sons behind bars.”

  Sylvia pressed her palms together to refrain from applauding.

  Kit capped his performance with a direct demand. “Is that clear?”

  Mrs. Stenshaw looked like she’d sucked three lemons, but she swallowed and croaked, “Yes, my lord.”

  “Excellent.” Kit stood and held out his hand to Sylvia. As she grasped it and rose, he nodded curtly to Mrs. Stenshaw. “Good day, madam. We’ll see ourselves out.”

  He escorted Sylvia from the room, and the maid—who from her expression had been listening at the door and had found the exchange heartening—smiled and bobbed them from the house.

  Sylvia paused on the porch, and Kit halted beside her. When the door shut behind them, she drew in a huge breath, then met his eyes and smiled widely. “That was...” She couldn’t find the words.

  He grinned. “Immensely satisfying.”

  “Yes!” She started down the steps, and he fell in beside her.

  He held the gate for her, then followed her through. “I predict the school will have no further trouble.”

  “Not from that quarter, at any rate. Or for that matter, from the rest of the street.” Feeling jaunty and carefree, Sylvia walked toward the mouth of the runnel.

  Sliding his hands into his pockets, Kit ambled beside her. “If one were so inclined, you could view that—the intangible ongoing protection the school has gained—as the silver lining to today’s cloud.”

  Sylvia slanted him a bright smile. “Indeed, one could.” She paused and beamed at Ollie, waiting inside the entrance to the runnel with a bundle at his feet. “Along with this young man. Well, Ollie, are you ready to start your new life?”

  Ollie grinned up at her. “Yes, please, miss.”

  “In that case”—Kit waved him to the hackney—“lead the way.”

  As Ollie scampered ahead of them, Kit looked at Sylvia, drank in the bubblingly happy smile that lit her face, then he offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

  She slipped her arm through his. “Let’s shall.”

  They strode for the hackney beside which Ollie was now waiting.

  Kit helped Sylvia up, then nodded for Ollie to get in and followed. After he and Sylvia had settled Ollie between them, Kit called to the driver to take them to Sylvia’s lodgings.

  Thoroughly satisfied with his day, he sat back as the carriage rocked toward the city. And he still had seeing Sylvia to her door to look forward to, before taking himself and his new bootboy-cum-message-runner home.

  CHAPTER 8

  Sylvia couldn’t resist calling at the school on Sunday afternoon. She told herself she needed to check on stationery supplies and see how much ink they actually required, but in reality, her motivation owed more to a simple wish to reassure herself that no further attack had occurred.

  To convince herself that Mrs. Stenshaw had been successful in impressing on her wayward sons the magnitude of the risk they now courted in even thinking of harming the school.

  But all was well at the hall. She checked the rear yard, and it was clear Jellicoe and Cross had been back; the woodpile had been reassembled against the rear fence, the cobbles had been swept, and there was little to show for the previous day’s drama—just a few blackened and blistering streaks on the paint of the back door.

  Making a mental note to have a workman in to strip and repaint the door, Sylvia relocked it, then returned to the hall to do a quick stocktake of the stationery supplies.

  As she sorted and made notes, her mind circled through the events of the previous day. Reviewing her feelings and the way she’d reacted, not just to the happenings but also to Kit and his role in them.

  He’d been...more than supportive. He’d been a rock, unwavering in his commitment to what, in her heart, was her school. Her creation.

  She snorted softly—at herself. When he’d offered to put his name on the school, she’d instantly seen the benefits, but had wondered about what drawbacks might also accrue. Such as him taking over.

  After all, his role in his yacht-building enterprise was very much the mirror of hers at the school. He organized and made things happen.

  She’d been alert to the possibility that he might decide to organize her and the school as well.

  But he hadn’t.

  All through yesterday, he’d referred to her—sometimes with just a glance, yet invariably, he’d checked that he’d had her approval before taking action regarding the school. Indeed, throughout the various incidents and interviews, they’d made an effective team.

  Perhaps through filling a similar role in his own business, he was more sensitive to how she saw her role with the school.

  Regardless, his assistance had been an unalloyed boon; the downside she’d feared hadn’t eventuated in even the slightest degree.

  Of course, he had tried to shield her from the nastiness of Mrs. Stenshaw, but from all she’d learned from Felicia and, even more, from Felicia’s sister-in-law, Mary, that was only to be expected of men of his family—men of his background; apparently, they were bred to be protective to a fault.

  After checking the shelves of the small cabinet Miss Meggs used to store the stationery, Sylvia scanned her notes, then closed her notebook and slipped it into her reticule. She tugged the reticule’s strings tight as she cast a last glance around the hall.

  All appeared in prefect order for Monday’s lessons.

  Satisfie
d—still feeling the buoying effect of their previous evening’s triumph—she walked to the front door and let herself out. After locking the door, she went down the steps and set out along the pavement, heading toward the river. She glanced across the street at the Stenshaw house, but saw no movement, not even of the curtains.

  Smiling to herself, she walked on.

  She’d just turned into the Butts, the street that ran along the west bank of the Frome, when the sensation of being watched raised the hairs on her nape.

  Keeping her expression relaxed, she walked on for some yards, but the sensation persisted—indeed, it grew stronger.

  She halted and pretended to search for something in her reticule, shifting so that she could surreptitiously look back the way she’d come.

  The street was far from deserted; it was a popular place for strolling on a Sunday afternoon. A dozen or so couples were indulging in the last of the afternoon’s sunshine and steadfastly ignoring the three touts, who wore placards front and back and were exhorting all and sundry to attend one or other chapel.

  Such touts were a common sight throughout the city. Being a major center in Methodist country, Bristol played host to literally dozens of chapels, some more sincerely God-fearing than others. Sylvia had heard that some chapels were little more than venues in which charlatans preached fire and brimstone in order to fleece those gullible enough to flock through their doors.

  Lowering her reticule, she straightened and openly surveyed the street and the houses fronting it, but could see no sign of anyone who might have been staring at her. Indeed, the sensation had ceased as soon as she’d swung around.

  Lips primming, she raised her chin, turned, and continued on her way.

  It had to be the Stenshaw boys, watching her from some alleyway.

  “Nasty people,” she muttered and made for the bridge.

  * * *

  As Monday waned and the end of the working day approached, Kit used a rag to wipe his hands, then shrugged on his coat and walked to where Wayland stood studying the bilge board currently taking shape in the framework they’d erected to support their first hull.