Under The Mistletoe by Mary Balogh Page A

reproof. “Allan,” she said, “there is a child in my bedchamber. A thin, dirty, frightened, and hungry child.”
    He frowned. “The sweep’s climbing boy?” he said. “But what is he doing there? He has no business being in any room where his master or one of our servants is not. I am sorry. I shall see to it. It will not happen again.”
    â€œHe is frightened,” she said. “The chimneys are dark and he cannot breathe. He gets lost up there. And then he is whipped when he gets back to the sweep.”
    He took a few steps toward her, his hands clasped behind hisback. “They do not have an enviable lot,” he said. “Poor little urchins.”
    â€œHe is like a scarecrow,” she said. “He cannot remember if he has eaten today. But he is not allowed to eat too much for fear he will get fat.”
    â€œThey get stuck in the chimneys if they are too fat,” he said, “or too big.”
    â€œHe gets beaten three or four times a day, Allan,” she said. “He does not have a mother or father to protect him. He comes from an orphanage.”
    He looked at her, his brows drawn together in a frown. “You ought not to be subjected to such painful realities,” he said. “I shall have a word with Stebbins, Estelle. It will not happen again. And I shall see to it that the child is not chastised this time. I’m sorry. You are upset.” He crossed the room to stand a couple of feet in front of her.
    She looked up at him. “He is a baby, Allan,” she said. “A frightened, starving little baby.”
    He lifted a hand to rest his fingertips against her cheek. “I will have a word with the sweep myself,” he said. “Something will be done, I promise.”
    She caught at his hand and nestled her cheek against his palm. “You will do something?” she asked, her dark eyes pleading with him. “You will? You promise? Allan”—her voice became thin and high-pitched—“he is just a little baby.”
    â€œIs he still in your room?” he asked.
    â€œYes,” she said. “I have promised him food.”
    â€œHave some taken to him, then,” he said. “And keep him there for a while. I will come to you there.”
    â€œYou will?” Her eyes were bright with tears, and she turned her head in order to kiss his wrist. “Thank you, Allan. Oh, thank you.”
    He held the door of the study open for her, his face as stern and impassive as usual, and summoned a footman with the lift of an eyebrow. He sent the man running in search of the butler and the chimney sweep.
    A little more than half an hour later the Earl of Lisle was standing in his wife’s bedchamber, his hands clasped behind his back, looking down at a tiny bundle of rags and bones huddled over a plate that held nothing except two perfectly clean chicken bones and a few crumbs of bread. The bundle looked up at him with wide and wary eyes. The countess’s eyes were also wide, and questioning.
    â€œYou are Nicholas?” his lordship asked.
    â€œNicky, guv’nor,” the child said in a high, piping voice.
    â€œWell, Nicky,” the earl said, looking steadily down at him. “And how would you like to stay here and not have to climb chimneys ever again?”
    The boy stared, openmouthed. The countess clasped her hands to her bosom and continued to stare silently at her husband.
    â€œI have talked with Mr. Thomas,” the earl said, “and made arrangements with him. And I have instructed Mrs. Ainsford, the housekeeper, to find employment for you belowstairs. You will live here and be adequately fed and clothed. And you will continue to have employment with me for as long as you wish, provided you do the work assigned to you. You will never be whipped.”
    He paused and looked down at the boy, who continued to stare up at him openmouthed.
    â€œDo you have anything to say?” he