Chapter 2

Now that he was seated and no longer had to worry about his immediate surroundings, Leander’s body began making its complaints known. His bones ached after the long voyage made in the cold of January and his skin was cold and clammy. There might possibly be a return of his influenza after all, Leander realized with dismay.

Perhaps he should have waited until March to sail, as Daisy, Kit’s fiancée, had wanted him to do, but he had been determined to prove he was fit enough to travel. What he didn’t tell her was that he was afraid if he didn’t sail as soon as possible he would dwell too long on what had happened to Kit and Chance and lose his nerve entirely. All attempts by her and her family to dissuade him had fallen on deaf ears. Now he would have to pay for his stubbornness.

Leander looked out the coach window, deciding he ought to accustom himself to the sights of his new city, but knew almost immediately that it would be impossible to do in a single coach ride—there was simply too much to take in. Buildings lined the streets and Leander tried to guess how old they were and what sort of things they had witnessed. Had they survived the Great Fire or only been built after? How many of them were older than the buildings he’d seen in Boston? How many were older than Boston itself? And—“Is that the Tower of London?”

Mayfield looked out the window. “It is.”

Leander stared until the imposing structure was no longer in sight. He’d seen it in several books, but none of the drawings had been able to truly capture the building.

“If you wish to tour the sights of London, I’m sure your man-of-affairs will be more than happy to arrange it.”

Leander overlooked the amused disdain in his cousin’s voice, more curious about his words. “Man-of-affairs?”

“I believe his name is Marlowe. He was hired by the late earl’s man—one last duty before being pensioned off. Of course, he couldn’t ride out to meet you in the Dearborne coach, so that duty fell to me.”

“I see.” Leander didn’t want to appear any more foolish in the man’s eyes, so he refrained from asking more questions. He had a vague idea what a man-of-affairs did and this Marlowe would probably be able to explain the specifics of his job. “I’m sorry to put you to the trouble.”

Instead of saying “not at all,” which is how most people in Leander’s village of Pelham would have replied, Mayfield said, “There are many things you will have to accustom yourself to.”

“Yes, sir.” Leander nodded. He didn’t want to dwell on those things at the moment, however. Worrying about the enormity of his situation would only bring on the melancholy he was prone to. Better to deal with each concern as it materialized, no matter how difficult it might be.

At the moment his concern was staying alert and not giving in to the dizziness that still lingered. In addition to the chills, he was also feverish and his head was pounding. The sea air that was supposed to improve his health seemed to have had the opposite effect. He tried to concentrate instead on the motion of the coach, grateful for a familiar sensation in the midst of his strange new life. The only difference was that the well-sprung vehicle was far more comfortable than the buckboards or wagons Leander was used to riding in, and the swaying soon lulled him to sleep.

Mayfield roused him just as they were rolling to a halt, and before he was fully awake, the footman had the door open and Leander found himself on the sidewalk staring up at an impressive four-story brick building. “This is where we live?”

“This is where youlive,” Mayfield said, cool amusement still apparent in his tone. “I have my own lodgings in Dorset Square,” he added as he descended from the coach.

Having spent most of his twenty-two years in a four-room farmhouse, the idea of so much space was intimidating rather than exciting. He started up the steps when Mayfield motioned for him to do so, wondering if perhaps he was still sleeping after all. The enormous front hall and the line of servants assembled before him seemed unreal. He handed his overcoat, hat, and woolen gloves to the solemn butler as if in a dream.

“His lordship is not well,” Mayfield announced once the introductions were finished. “Be sure there is a good fire in his room.”

“There is, sir,” one of the footmen answered.

“And see to it that he is brought something hot to eat.”

Leander’s stomach rebelled at the thought. “No.” His voice wasn’t as strong as he would have liked, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “No food. Thank you.”

“Have some negus prepared and brought up,” Mayfield amended. “Powell will show you up to your chambers, Lord Dearborne.”

“My box,” Leander protested, wishing his mind would function well enough that he could speak in proper sentences.