She stared at the drawing a moment more, before looking at Grace. “Saw a strapper whipping a child at the factory. Couldn’t bear it and interfered. They fired him.”
Grace’s eye widened as she turned to Lucien.
Young Robert curled his lip in disgust. “Even that weren’t enough for ’em. Put out the word so naught in London would hire me da.”
Lucien looked at the picture of Darragh Nolan, wondering if he’d simply left his family to search for work so they could survive. Or had he deserted them like the old woman said?
Grace moved beside him, examining the drawing as well. “I have to admit…he looks a bit like you.”
“Aye, if ye strangled him in one o’ those stupid neckcloths an’ made ’im look like a peacock,” Robert sneered.
The similarities were a trifle disconcerting, but then, it might have been any one of a hundred other dark-haired men in London. However, to a little boy, longing for a father he didn’t remember, it was enough.
“Darragh’s friend Tom O’Malley drew it,” Moira said. “He’s a fair hand with capturing likenesses, when he can get the paper.”
Robert thrust out his thin chest. “O’Malley doesn’t need to be muckin’ about here either. I’ve got things well in hand.”
Lucien felt a pang, seeing the boy trying to be the man of the house.
“Do you, now?” Moira Nolan scolded, not unkindly. She brushed a limp curl away from her forehead. “We’re lucky to have Tom’s help, Robert.” Then, to Lucien, added, “The three of us grew up together in Connemara. He and my husband worked together on the railroad up north for a while before coming here. When my husband lost his job at the factory, Tom wrote a letter for Darragh to give to a foreman in a mine up near Glasgow. Said there was no steadier hand at blasting than my Darragh.”
Another possible explanation for the father’s absence, Lucien thought as he adjusted Scrap in his arms. The mines lost so many men on the job that they were always looking for someone else to send into the warren of caves beneath the ground. One misstep, cave in, or explosion, and no one would ever know.
There was a flurry of noise in the street, then Lucien’s footman, Wells, shouting as a man shoved his way through the door.
Wells was a step behind him. “Sorry, my lord. He just pushed his way past.”
“Moira! There’s a carriage out front…” The man’s face could have been a map of Ireland. He looked like he’d been dragged through hell. “God, tell me Sibby’s not…”
“It’s all right, Wells,” Lucien told his servant. “Wait outside.” Whoever the Irishman was, he obviously knew the family. He saw Sibby Rose on the bed and rushed over to where the child sat. “Jaysus, Mary and Joseph,” he cried, taking in the swath of bandages around her head, “how bad is she hurt?”
“They say she’ll be fine,” Mrs. Nolan said, with a nod toward Lucien and Grace.
The man wheeled on Sibby Rose, his relief changed to anger. “What the devil were you thinking, girl? I’ve turned over half o’ London lookin’ for you! Ye promised t’ leave for home when the crowd went in after intermission!”
“I waited ’til the play was over to see my lady. She’s my friend.”
“Noladyis your friend!” O’Malley all but spat the word. “Jaysus, girl, when I heard some nob scooped you up in a coach, I thought you’d be locked in some bawd’s house an’ we’d never find ye! What the devil happened?”
“The angry men came an’ knocked me over and hit me in the head. My box broke an’ the strap got all tangled and I couldn’t get loose. Then my lady was there and put her arms around me, and people were bumping her and stepping on her an’ tryin’ t’ run right over me, but she wouldn’t let them.” Her voice broke, then she turned a wary gaze toward Lucien. “He grabbed me up an’ next I knowed I was in a coach.”
Scrap had found the chain to Lucien’s pocket watch, and pulled the timepiece free, his chubby hands opening it and closing it.
The Irishman spun to glare at Lucien, no hint of deference in his eyes. “Who the devil are ye?”
“Lord Everdene. My wife became acquainted with the children through one of young Darragh’s misadventures. She was going to speak to Sibby Rose just before the mob overran Drury Lane. We thought it best to take the child to our townhouse until it was safe to bring her here.”
If anything, O’Malley looked as if he trusted them less.
“They’ve a house big as a castle,” Sibby piped up, “An’ a bed with curtains, an’ my lady teaches me letters…S is a snake and I is a candle?—”
“See, Bippy Wo? Pwitty.” Scrap dangled the watch toward his sister. “See?”
O’Malley’s gaze flashed to the boy, and his gaze locked on the gleaming gold. “For Christ’s sake, Scrap!” he swore, stalking over and pulling the child out of Lucien’s grasp.
“Dado!” Scrap flailed, reaching for Lucien, but O’Malley held fast to the child.
“Let go o’ the bauble.” O’Malley pried the watch out of the little hand. “Next y’ know this swell will be tellin’ the Charlies you pinched it!”
