Sir Hugh waved a hand. “Of course. However, Sir Nathaniel has ordered it, and such an order cannot be countermanded.”
Steadman cocked an eyebrow. “He ordered it, you say? At your suggestion, perhaps?”
“Not that it matters now.”
Steadman exhaled a long, slow breath and looked again at the boy, who struggled to meet his attention. “Mr. Brady.”
“Sir?”
“Does your mother know you’ve left the house wearing your father’s suit?”
He expected the young man to wilt further, to fall back with a stuttering explanation while staring at the floor. What happened next, then, surprised him. The boy’s eyes lit with fire. His spine straightened and his jaw tightened. His nostrils flared with challenge.
“As my mother has been dead these past fifteen years, she does not know. And this suit is borrowed from my dead uncle, as my father was buried inhissuit only three months ago.”
Mild shame rippled through Steadman over his misstep. “I am sorry for your many losses.”
Mr. Brady’s jaw unclenched, and he waved a hand. “Think nothing of it. And I’ve no doubt that if she were still alive, my mother would agree with your assessment of the suit. It wears like a miller’s sack.”
“So, you approve of wearing a miller’s sack in public?”
Brown eyes flashed again and regarded his clothing. “Why not? Given the ridiculous dress of London’s dandies, a miller’s sack is no less flattering.”
“Do you consider me a dandy?”
“You appear to dress the part.”
“And you disapprove?”
Mr. Brady’s eyes softened, and the sides of his mouth tipped up to reveal previously hidden dimples. “No, Sir Steadman. You look far from ridiculous. You seem the exception to the rule.”
A light chuckle escaped Steadman’s throat. Despite his intention to dismiss Brady, he liked the boy’s spark. He possessed… a certain quality that Steadman couldn’t quite pin down. Perhaps he could teach the lad a thing or two. “I will take that as a compliment, then. And please, just call me Steadman. Sir Steadman is dead.”
“Then you agree to take along Mr. Brady?” said Sir Hugh.
Steadman’s reluctance battled with growing intrigue. “If I must. He seems lively enough and not above teaching.”
“But I…” The young man cleared his throat, disappearing again into his suit. “ButIhave not agreed to this.”
Steadman grinned. “Afraid of the Beau Monde Highwayman, are we?”
Once again, the spine straightened, and the eyes flashed. “Given that you have pronounced him dead, not likely.”
Steadman laughed. The boy possessed a wicked sense of humor. He reminded Steadman of his former ward, Lucy, who still practiced a sharp tongue. “Very well, then. Pack light. Bring a bedroll and food for the road. I will secure a pair of horses bred for distance.”
Mr. Brady’s eyes went flat. “But I’ve no bedroll and no food to spare without my small brothers going hungry.”
Something about the haunt of his eyes stirred Steadman’s empathy. The warmth with which he mentioned his brothers, perhaps. An ache grew in Steadman for what he himself had lost. He stood from his chair and donned his hat.
“Very well. I will provide a travel kit for you. Can you ride?”
“Well enough.”
“Good. We will be moving at a brisk pace for long hours, covering fifty miles per day for two days. If you do what I say, when I say, and how I say, then we will get along like honey and bread. Do you understand?”
Mr. Brady rose to his feet, fidgeting with his battered hat. “Yes, sir.”
“Where do you live?”
