Lady Sparrow by Barbara Metzger

Author:Barbara Metzger
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group

Chapter Sixteen

So Mina had a son. A filthy, foulmouthed, falcon-nosed felon whose pockets were full of Mrs. Strickland’s folderols. What was she supposed to do with George Hawkins? He was too old for her to bathe, too big to sit on her lap, too much a Sparrowdale for her to take to her bosom—which the little heathen was staring at.

Luckily, Lord Lowell took charge. After dropping her at the front door of Merrison House, he had the carriage drive him and the boy around to the mews, where there was a water pump, and young grooms with cast-off clothing. First he shook the boy upside down to dislodge any stolen valuables he might have missed the first time, and then he gave young Hawk a warning.

“If one shilling goes missing in this house, one fork or spoon, one candlestick or chicken leg, you will wish you were sold into servitude after all. Lady Sparrowdale has saved your life, not letting you be sent to the factories, so make sure you repay her with respect and honor. If not, they always need boys to haul those trams in the mines. Understand?”

George understood. There were food and toys and horses here. A chap would have to be a regular noddy to queer this deal. So later, when he was clean and combed and in fresh clothes, after old jaw-me-dead Ochs announced him, Hawk was presented to his new stepmother and the duchess. He made a creditable bow, a promise not to cause any difficulties and to study hard at his lessons. Harkness, who had rehearsed the boy, winked from the doorway before Ochs shut the door in his adversary’s face.

To show his gratitude, and his new rectitude, Hawk handed Mina a gift, a miniature painting that had been tucked among his few belongings. “It weren’t stolen, ma’am,” the boy swore. “But I am right fond of it all the same. So I am giving it to you.”

“Why, thank you, George. That is very sweet of you. I will treasure it always, because I know it means a lot to you. Is it of your mother?” Mina asked, reaching for the small portrait. Then she looked at it. Good grief, she hoped that was not his mother, posing in so suggestive a manner, in so few draperies.

Her Grace glanced over, then reached for her lorgnette and the picture. “Great Heavens, that is Lady Afton-Glower, and she is not wearing a stitch!”

Cousin Dorcas started fanning herself with her handkerchief.

Lord Lowell put down his newspaper and strolled over, behind Mina. “No, Mother, she is wearing a hat. And if I am not mistaken, this is the work of that artist we met this morning, Marcel.”

“He gave it to me, I swear, the time Perry took me to visit. He said the lady didn’t like it enough to pay its worth, so I could have it.”

Judging from the smile on the viscountess’s face, Mad Marcel must have other talents than his painting. Lowell was certain the

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