Barbara Metzger Read Online Free Page B

Rosie.”
    “And Rosie is…?”
    “Our pig. We were bringing her acorns.”
    His son was throwing slop to pigs? Deuce take it, the child should be at lessons, learning to be a gentleman, not a hog farmer. Wisely, Rockford held his tongue. All that mattered was getting William back, and getting Mrs. Henning to put down that blasted pistol. He gestured toward the weapon. “Do you always keep it loaded? It seems an odd way of greeting guests.”
    She pointedly glanced toward the outline of the gun at his waist. “Do you? That seems an odd way to pay morning visits.”
    “But I do not have children in the house.”
    “And you might never have, if that pistol has a hair trigger.” Then, to Rockford’s amusement, Mrs. Henning blushed for speaking such warm thoughts out loud. He could not remember when he had last seen a mature woman—a widow, no less—color up. At his answering smile, she hurried on: “There is no danger anyway. The boys all know the rules, of course.”
    Since when did little boys follow rules? Rockford might not recall much of his own childhood, but he knew enough to question Mrs. Henning’s confidence. Besides, the children were supposed to leave loaded weapons alone, but not stay away from ill-tempered and unpredictable swine? Her rules were absurd. Why, William could have been trampled or gored or—
    “Papa!” The shout came from down the corridor, and was followed by rapid, running footsteps, and then a small dust storm blew into the room. Mrs. Henning stepped out of the way as a half-naked halfling, wrapped in a towel and a coat of mud, launched itself at Rockford’s legs, almost staggering him. What the sudden onslaught did not accomplish, the stench nearly did.
    Spindly arms reached up, and Rockford had no choice but to lift the boy to his chest. Now his entire set of clothing—his last set until his valet and his trunks arrived—would have to be destroyed, not just his breeches and his boots.
    This one was William, all right.

Chapter Three
    “I tried to catch him,” a pretty young girl said from the doorway, clutching another towel to her. Mrs. Henning was biting her lip to keep from laughing at the expression Rockford knew he must be wearing, along with a good measure of mud. “I know you did, Amy, dear,” she said, while carefully hanging the pistol back on its high hooks. “Lord Rockford, may I introduce my sister, Miss Aminta Bourke. Amy, this is Billy’s father, the Earl of Rockford.”
    The sister was about seventeen, sweet innocence personified in her sprigged muslin and ribbon-tied hair. She had Mrs. Henning’s fair skin and green eyes, which she kept lowered to her toes. She made a polite curtsy, then offered her hand. When she noticed that her fingers were as filthy as the earl’s son—and the earl—she raised her hand to her cheek in dismay, which left a smudge across her face. “Oh, no!” she cried, then dropped the towel and fled the room.
    Mrs. Henning calmly retrieved the towel, smiled, and said, “You are her first earl, you see.” She would have retrieved the monkey—surely that could not be a real child under the grime—clinging to Rockford’s neck, but the boy did not let go.
    At least he was not shy, Rockford noted. William did not appear the least daunted by his encounter with Rosie, nor by meeting the father he must barely recall. As for being intimidated by the eminence of the title or the dignity of the earl’s bearing—hah! The lad showed as much respect as the pistol-wielding widow. Who appeared to be silently laughing at him. Well, he’d inform both of them about proper conduct toward their superiors, as soon as he could get a word in edgewise.
    “Papa!” William was babbling. “I knew you would come! I just knew it! I told everyone my papa would come get me as soon as Claymore wrote you about Nanny’s broken arm—”
    Nanny had a broken arm?
    “—and how Susie, that’s the nursery maid, left after Aunt Eleanor found her and Mr.