Free Between the Devil and Desire by Lorraine Heath

the night. The fog had grown thicker, hampering visibility. He wondered if he’d find fog in the country. He might have to eventually look over his ward’s estates. Might prove interesting. London was all he knew, but he knew it very well.
    Leaning against the wall, he stuffed his clay pipe, struck a match, lit the tobacco, and began puffing until the tantalizing aroma was swirling through him. It was a much richer blend than he’d had as a lad. Still, it took him back to a time when life had been simple, reduced to collecting a certain number of handkerchiefs per day. Jack hadn’t been content with the silk. He’d preferred watches, jewelry, and other sparkly items that brought a fair price from fences. He didn’t always take his stash to Feagan. He developed his own contacts. If Luke’s grandfather hadn’t taken him in, he had little doubt he’d have become a kidsman with his own den of thieves that would have eventually rivaled Feagan’s for notoriety. That had been his goal, anyway. To become the most famous, to be the one about whom ballads were sung and stories were written.
    He’d planned to teach boys in the artful ways of thievery. And now he was supposed to train a lad to be honest and upstanding, to sit in the House of Lords and help to govern a nation.

Chapter 5
    H enry Sidney Stanford, the seventh Duke of Lovingdon, knew his porridge was growing cold—and he detested cold porridge because it became all slimy going down his throat—but he was afraid if he tried to eat he might choke and die.
    Of late, he was very much concerned with dying.
    He didn’t really understand it. He knew only that his father had died so they’d put him in a nice box, like his nanny did the toys he no longer played with. And he hadn’t seen his father since. But his nanny had warned him that if he ate too quickly, he could choke and die.
    He wasn’t going to eat quickly, but he was very nervous and it felt like he had swallowed the ball his father would sometimes toss to him. It was because of the man. The man who had been in the coach. The man who had come for his mother last night. He was in the nursery now, walking around, looking at things. Every once in a while he would peer over at Henry, and when he did, the ball lodged in Henry’s throat would grow larger.
    â€œHow long have you been his nanny?” the man asked.
    â€œSince shortly after he was born, milord, I mean…sir,” Henry’s nanny answered, with a quick curtsy.
    Henry’s mother called her Helen; Henry was supposed to call her Miss Tuppin. But he always stammered when he tried to say her name, and she would rap his knuckles with a little stick she carried in her skirt pocket, so he never called her by name unless he absolutely had to.
    She only whacked him when no one was around. He knew it was because she cared about him, and the fact that he wasn’t a good boy was their secret. She didn’t want to smack him, but he left her no choice. He didn’t understand that, either. He knew only that he didn’t want his mother to know he did things that earned him a smack. She thought he was a good boy, and even though it was a lie, he wanted her to keep thinking it so she would love him.
    â€œSo this is the day nursery?” the man asked.
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œAnd where he was sleeping last night?”
    â€œThe night nursery, sir.”
    â€œWhen does Lord Henry move to a proper bedroom?”
    â€œHe’s not Lord Henry, sir. Never was actually. He was Lord Ashleigh. Of course, now he’s the duke. His Grace.”
    â€œQuite right. And when does His Grace move to a proper bedroom?”
    â€œWhen he’s eight.”
    â€œThere are rules even for childhood, I see.”
    â€œYes, sir.” Miss Tuppin looked over at Henry. “We don’t always like them, but we must follow them.”
    â€œDo you like rules, Henry?” the man