Page 102 of The Tartan Trap

Callum leaned back in his chair, impressed despite himself. “Did you come up with that apology all on your own, or did someone help you?

The boy slicked the back of his hand beneath his wet nose, and Callum tried not to wince.

“It’s true I had help,” he admitted. “Miss Margaret helped me.”

“Did she now?”

That was information that Callum was interested in, though he kept any sort of inflection out of his voice. He’d already told Stephen far too much, but in his own defense, at the time, Callum had been desperate and hadn’t truly expected to see him again.

Not that he was sorry the boy was here. On the contrary, Callum felt a deep satisfaction when young people showed a propensity for honest work. It was part of what had inspired him to take St. Alban’s under his protective wing. He wanted to encourage more of these advantageless children to have a solid, secure future—one where they weren’t taken advantage of.

“What did you do with the sovereign?” Callum asked.

The boy twitched. His face contorted with his internal struggle. It was as if Stephen hadn’t thought Callum would ask, and now debated whether or not to tell the truth. But this would be the moment that decided how much Callum helped him, for there was little Callum liked less than a liar or a thief.

Granted, the thief part was debatable. Callum understood why the boy had done it. He could wave off such a misgiving under the circumstances, but if the boy stood before him and lied as he endeavored to apologize, that would be the end of it.

Well, that wasn’t precisely true. Callum would still do everything he could to help the boy, but he would definitely give Stephen a stern talking-to first.

Stephen’s nose wrinkled as he finally admitted, “We drank ale and ate meat pies.” His shoulders slumped as if he thought his honesty would cost him dearly.

“I’m a fan of meat pies myself,” Callum said, “and ale, too, now that you mention it.”

Stephen’s head jerked up, his expression hopeful. Without the hard edge of cynicism, for once the boy looked as young as he truly was.

“Are you willing to work for free until you’ve repaid my sovereign?”

The boy nodded. “Yes, sir. It’s only fair.”

“Very well.” Callum picked up a piece of paper, dashed off a note with his instructions, folded it, and handed it over. “Give that to the groomsman. He’ll see to it that you are taken care of.”

The boy took the paper from Callums’s hand and stared at it. Then he raised his eyes and said, “That’s it?”

Callum arched a brow. “Did you expect there to be more?”

“No, Your Grace. Thank you, Your Grace.”

He bowed lowly again and turned for the door, but Callum held up a finger. “One more thing before you go. What precisely was your conversation with Miss Margaret Preston?”

“She said that you wouldn’t have me arrested.” The boy shrugged. “She told me you were honest. That you was a good man.”

“When?” he demanded, his eyes narrowed. “When did she tell you this?”

“This morning.”

Callum leaned back and blinked. For the first time since that disastrous morning in the park, hope fluttered in his chest. Perhaps Ellis was right, and they should attend the final ball this evening after all.

CHAPTER 37- MARGARET

Margaret had lost count of how many balls she’d attended this Season. Many of them blurred together—a watercolor wash of silk, pretty music, and fake smiles in her memory.

Of course, several had been more memorable than others. Margaret had spent nearly the entirety of one ball beneath a table in an empty room with Rachel Warrington, Sylvia Barrows, Lily, and Beatrice, for example. That had been far more fun than the telling would convey, even though Margaret’s thoughts had been as full of Callum as they were now—just in a different way.

However, of the many balls Margaret had attended this Season, tonight’s promised to be the most memorable of them all.

Margaret had dressed with the significance of the evening in mind. Chloe seemed to appreciate the magnitude as well—she had attacked Margaret’s hair with all the focus and solemnity of a general the morning of a great battle.

Margaret didn’t know if it was Callum’s persistence in telling her she was beautiful, or whether her appearance was now among the least of her concerns, but for the first time she could remember—at least since she’d reached adulthood—Margaret lifted her chin at her reflection and was perfectly pleased with it. In fact, she thought she’d never looked more beautiful.