Scandalous Desires (Maiden Lane #3)(13)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

She couldn’t help but wonder if Mickey O’Connor was entirely oblivious to his people smuggling her food against his express command. She shivered at the thought.

What was the pirate’s punishment for mutiny?

WINTER MAKEPEACE WOKE the next morning with a groan at his aching muscles. His room was still dark—the new day wouldn’t dawn for another hour or more—yet he knew it was exactly half past five of the clock, for that was the time at which he’d trained his body to wake. He sat up in his narrow cot, feeling the twinge of thighs and buttocks, the result of spending all yesterday riding a horse.

Since he lived in the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children and the day school where he taught small and not very disciplined boys was only a stone’s throw away, he had no need to ride a horse usually. However, his trip to Oxford had necessitated the renting of a nag. He rubbed his legs for a half minute or so and then stood, pushing the aches from his mind. They were of no consequence and would fade soon enough.

He had to duck his head as he bent over the washbasin to sluice his face. His room was under the eaves and the roof sloped sharply. But months of living in the cramped space had accustomed him to the irregularities of the room, so now he could move about without knocking his head on a beam, even in the dark.

Winter dressed in white shirt, black waistcoat, black breeches, and black coat and threw open his attic window to toss the wastewater from his ablutions into the alley below. The sky was turning a pinkish gray, silhouetting the haphazard rooftops of St. Giles. He gazed at it only a moment before shutting the window firmly and lighting a candle. For the next hour he worked steadily at a narrow desk, writing and reading. Some of his work was in preparation for the day’s lessons, but he also was in correspondence with scholars of philosophy and religion both in England and on the continent. In fact, his recent trip to Oxford had been to call upon an old acquaintance—an elderly philosopher who was on his deathbed.

When the sky had fully brightened, Winter stood and stretched before pinching the candle out. Picking up the pitcher, he locked his bedroom carefully behind him and paused for a moment to glance at his sister, Silence’s, bedroom door. No light shone beneath it. She was probably still abed. He contemplated waking her, then decided against it. Silence could use the extra minutes of rest.

He clattered down the stairs, nearly running into a small boy lurking rather suspiciously on one of the turns.

Winter grabbed him by the collar—he’d learned early in his career of teaching young hellions that it was best to catch and then ask. “Why are you not at breakfast with the other boys, Joseph Tinbox?”

Joseph, his freckled face cowled by the jacket Winter held, rolled his eyes up at him. “I was jus’ now goin’ down, Mr. Makepeace.”

“Indeed?” Winter inquired skeptically. He set down the pitcher and made a lightning fast snatch at the object Joseph had been attempting to hide behind his back. “And what plans did you have for this sling?”

Joseph’s eyes widened in what was a very good imitation of innocence at the leather strap dangling before his eyes. “I found it on the stairs, truly I did.”

Winter cocked his eyebrow, staring at the boy.

Joseph’s gaze slid away from his own.

“Joseph,” Winter said quietly. “You know that I do not condone lying in this house. A man’s word is a treasure he holds within himself no matter how poor his outer garments. To squander it recklessly is the mark of not only a fool, but a cheat as well. Now tell me. Is this sling yours?”

The boy swallowed, his small throat working. “Yes, sir.”

“I am displeased to hear that you’ve been playing with a sling,” Winter said calmly. “But pleased that you have spoken the truth to me. As punishment for the former, I would like you to sweep out the kitchen hearth and scrub clean the outer tiles around the fireplace.”

“Aw!” Joseph began, but gulped back his groan at a look from Winter. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Winter let him go, pocketed the sling, picked up the pitcher, and gestured for the boy to precede him down the stairs.

They descended in silence, but as they made the bottom step, Joseph hesitated.

“Sir?”

“Yes?” Winter glanced at Joseph. He was shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“We all make mistakes, Joseph,” Winter said gently. “It is how one acts afterward that distinguishes the righteous man from the dishonest one.”

Joseph’s brow crinkled as he contemplated that statement. Then it cleared. “Yes, sir.”

The boy walked into the kitchen, his habitual jaunty step nearly restored.

Winter felt his lips twitch in amusement as he followed. This was not the first such talk he’d had with Joseph, and he did not expect it would be the last, but at heart the boy was a good lad.

The home’s kitchen was bright and loud with the chatter of children. Two long tables took up the center of the crowded room, one for the boys, one for the girls. Joseph Tinbox went to the boys’ table and hopped onto one of the long benches.

“Good morning, Mr. Makepeace,” Alice, one of the home’s maids said, pausing as she hurried by.

“Good morning to you, Alice,” Winter said, handing her the pitcher.

“Oh, thank you, sir, for saving me the trip upstairs.” Alice flashed a smile that lit up her rather careworn face before rushing to catch a spilled cup of milk.

“Children,” Nell Jones, the head maidservant at the home, raised her voice above the cacophony. “Please bid Mr. Makepeace good day.”

“Good morning, Mr. Makepeace!” a ragged chorus immediately responded.

“Good morning, children,” Winter said as he sat on a bench.

Nell hurried over with a bowl of porridge and a teapot.

“Thank you,” Winter murmured as he sipped the scalding tea. He glanced across the table to a small dark-haired boy sleepily picking his nose. “Did you sleep well, Henry Putman?”

All the boys at the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children were christened Joseph and all the girls Mary—except for Henry Putman. When Henry had come to the home—at the advanced age of four—he had urgently argued to keep his own name. And since unlike most of the orphans he’d been old enough to speak, his wish had been granted.

At Winter’s greeting, Henry hastily dropped his hand. “Yes.”

The older boy sitting next to Henry elbowed him.