The Traitor's Club: Caleb Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2017

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  About Laura Landon

  Chapter 1

  Captain Caleb Parker left his small flat on Queen Street and walked to the second corner from where he lived. As he did every morning, Vince, the hot bun vendor, had his cart set up and was doing a brisk business. Caleb could already taste the gooey bun dripping with butter and honey.

  A smile lifted the corners of his mouth as his tongue licked his lips in anticipation. Vince’s wife made a variety of buns for her husband to sell. Some were warm cloverleaf buns, some were caked with sugar and cinnamon, and some were small lemon-flavored cakes. But Caleb’s weakness was the honey-and-butter bun.

  “Good morning to you, Cap’n,” Vince greeted as Caleb came near. “I’ll be with you in a moment. As soon as this fine lady decides what she cannot go home without.”

  Caleb looked at the elderly woman who was studying Vince’s delectable display. “Take your time, ma’am,” Caleb said. “My appointment with the Queen isn’t for another hour or so.”

  The lady studied Caleb for a moment, then tried to stifle a laugh but failed. So did Vince.

  “The Queen,” she said, giggling.

  Her laugh showed off her missing front teeth but allowed two deep dimples to dent her wrinkled cheeks. Her eyes twinkled with merriment, and Caleb thought she must have been a very pretty girl when she was young. Before the ravages of hard work and poverty had taken their toll.

  “Gimme a sugar-and-cinnamon bun, luv. The biggest one, mind you.”

  “Let’s see.” Vince searched through the pile of pastries. “This one, I think.”

  “No, the one next to it. It’s bigger. Any fool can see.”

  “Right you are, Maggie. The biggest one for you.”

  Vince wrapped the bun in a paper, then handed it to the old woman. She handed him a coin in return.

  “Good day, ma’am,” Caleb said as he tipped his hat. “It was a pleasure to greet the morning in your charming presence.”

  “Cor blimey,” Maggie said, giving his arm a gentle nudge. “My flirtin’ days are done, young man, or I’d give you a run for your money. You’re too handsome by half.”

  “And I’d let you,” Caleb said, bringing Maggie’s rough hand up to his lips.

  “Enough faffin’ around,” she said with a giggle as she walked away.

  “I’ve gotta tell you, Cap’n. You made old Maggie’s day, you did,” Vince said.

  “I bet she was quite the ripper when she was young,” Caleb said.

  “That she was. That she was.” Vince grabbed a paper. “You want the regular—a butter and honey?”

  “Yes,” Caleb said, then let out an oomph. Something small and powerful knocked into his legs. Then a small hand reached out and grabbed the bun Vince was in the process of handing to him. Before Caleb could right himself, the little mite ran off with his bun.

  “Hey!” Caleb took off after the little thief. He caught him before he rounded the first corner, then picked him up and tucked him under his arm.

  That’s when Caleb realized how young the child was. And how small. He weighed near to nothing. Caleb took the bun from his grubby fingers and carried him back to Vince’s cart.

  “You caught our little thief, huh, Cap’n?”

  “I did.”

  Caleb set him on the ground and got his first good look at the lad. He wasn’t sure what color the boy’s hair was beneath all the dirt and grime. Or the color of his skin. It looked between a muddy brown and a sooty black. But his eyes were big and blue.

  Caleb didn’t let loose of the back of the boy’s frayed collar. He knew if he did, the lad would be gone in a shot. “What’s your name, son?”

  The little mite looked up . . . then up some more, until he could see the bottom of Caleb’s chin. His mouth opened as if he intended to speak, but instead his eyes grew wider and filled with tears.

  Bloody hell, Caleb thought.

  “The lad’s name is Robby, Cap’n. His ma was Mary, but she died a week or more ago from gin.”

  “What about his father?”

  “His da was killed in the war.”

  A knot clenched in Caleb’s gut. “Any brothers or sisters?”

  Vince shook his head.

  “Who takes care of him?”

  “No one, Cap’n.”

  The knot pressed painfully against his ribs. “Where does he live?”

  Vince shrugged his shoulders. “On the street, most likely.”

  “Who feeds him?”

  “I let him steal a bun every morning. I don’t know what he eats after that. Most likely nothing.”

  Unease gripped his belly. Caleb knew that between the war and poverty, there were a great many more children without anyone to care for them. But he’d never come into such close contact with one of the starving children who roamed the streets.

  Like a simpleton, Caleb wanted to ask what would become of the lad, but he already knew the answer to his question. Little Robby would die from starvation or sickness or cruelty.

  Caleb didn’t want to look at the lad again, but his gaze was drawn to the tyke. Tears had cleared a path down each cheek, and fear clouded his eyes. Another knot clenched in the pit of Caleb’s stomach when he held the bun out to the boy and saw the tyke’s desperation to grab it. But something held the lad back.

  “Go on. Eat.”

  When Robby snatched the bun back and gobbled it with impressive speed, Caleb turned to Vince to purchase another one, but the vendor shook his head. “Best not to give him more. He’s not used to eating too much, and he might get sick.”

  Caleb knew what it was to be hungry. But starvation had never been his lot. He’d never gone without food day after day after day. Especially not as a child. His father had been a common laborer, a dock worker, so his family never had a lot. But they’d always had food to eat.

  “I can’t leave him here,” Caleb said to the hot bun vendor. “And I can’t keep him. Is there anywhere to take him where he’ll be well looked after?”

  The vendor thought for a few moments, then nodded. “There’s a place on the outskirts of London. Nice place, too. Southern Oaks. Orphanage run by the Countess of Grattling.”

  “A countess?”

  “Yes. Ever since her husband was killed in a carriage accident, she keeps to the country.”

  “Will the boy be taken care of there?”

  “If he’s lucky enough to get accepted, getting into Southern Oaks will be the best thing that ever happened to him.”

  Caleb looked down at the tyke who didn’t quite reach his waist. “Come on, Robby. Let’s go find you a home.”

  Robby looked up at him, alarm in his eyes. Caleb knew he w
as about to run so he grabbed him by the arm. The rascal twisted and fought, struggling to escape. Finally, Caleb had no choice but to pick the lad up and wrap his arm around the boy’s waist. It took nearly three blocks before the imp settled down. The struggling started again when Caleb reached the stable where he kept his horse.

  “Here,” Caleb said, handing Robby to one of the stable hands. “Hold on tight. He’s a slippery one.”

  Caleb saddled his horse, but when the stable hand lifted Robby up, the little tyke wrapped his arms and legs around Caleb’s torso and buried his head below Caleb’s neck.

  “Is this the first time you’ve ever been on a horse?” Caleb asked as they left the yard.

  The boy nodded, but he was trembling so badly, he wasn’t able to speak.

  “Don’t be afraid. His name is Apollo, and he’d never throw anyone to the ground unless they squirm and wiggle.”

  Robby stiffened and didn’t move again.

  Caleb followed the directions Vince had given him, and an hour later they arrived at Southern Oaks.

  It irked Caleb that his day had been confiscated this way. And mostly he didn’t like what had happened to his heart the moment little Robby ran into him. He didn’t like the concern he felt for someone he’d met less than two hours before. Every time the lad’s big blue eyes locked with his, Caleb experienced a tug to his heart he didn’t expect—or want—to feel.

  He wasn’t father material. Never had entertained the idea of marriage. And he didn’t want to experience any of the emotions that went along with being near children.

  Especially a grimy little lot like this one.

  Chapter 2

  Eleanor stood behind her desk and glared at the man in front of her. “How dare you come onto my property and demand that I hand over one of my boys.”

  “The boy’s not yours, ma’am. He’s my son, and I want him back.”

  “He’s no more your son than I’m your mother.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?”

  An angry scowl covered the man’s face, and if Eleanor weren’t so angry, she might consider being afraid. His eyes were dark with anger, and he spoke out of one corner of his mouth, like a sneer, only nastier. She knew who’d sent the man pretending to be Willie Fielding’s father. And she knew why.

  “If you are in fact Willie’s father, then you would undoubtedly know the date of his birth. When was he born, Mr. Bryant?”

  The man pretending to be Willie’s father stuttered.

  “Well, Mr. Bryant. Surely you remember the date your son was born.”

  “Of course I do,” he stammered. “It was . . . it was in the summer. Yes, I remember it was hot when my Willie was born.”

  “Get out.” Eleanor walked to the door and opened it. “The boy you claim is your son was born in January.” Eleanor stepped back to give the man room to exit. Instead, with a movement so swift she didn’t see it coming, Bryant reached out and jerked the door out of her grasp. It slammed shut with a loud bang.

  “Now you listen here, lady. I want what belongs to me, and the boy is mine.”

  Eleanor felt the first niggling of fear. Bryant’s pockmarked face sported an angry scowl, and his watery blue eyes glared at her with such evil she didn’t want to hold his gaze. But she knew looking away wasn’t an option. Not if she wanted to stand up to him.

  “Do you think I don’t know who sent you? Do you think I don’t know you’re one of Virgil Blackboot’s henchmen? I know exactly why you want boys like Willie. To sell to the workhouses or any number of other places that are willing to pay for the innocent children who can’t defend themselves. Well, you’re not going to get him.” Eleanor took a step toward the man. “And I’m going to rescue as many of the children as I can to keep them out of Blackboot’s clutches.”

  “You’re playing with fire, you rich Society whore. Mr. Blackboot ain’t someone you want mad at you. And he’s tired of you coming into his borough and taking what don’t belong to you.”

  “They’re innocent children. They don’t belong to anyone. Certainly not someone as vile as Virgil Blackboot.”

  “You’re going to regret those words. Mr. Blackboot won’t take kindly to you not cooperating.”

  “You can tell Mr. Blackboot he’s not getting any of the children who make it to Southern Oaks. Once they arrive here, they’re safe from his filthy grasp.”

  “You can’t save them all,” the man growled.

  “I can try,” Eleanor answered. “Now, get out!”

  The man took a menacing step toward Eleanor, and when she tried to step out of his reach, he grabbed her. “I think you need to learn just how stupid you’re being,” he said, tightening his grasp on her arm. “Mr. Blackboot doesn’t like people who take what’s his. In fact, he told me to show you what he does to people who take what don’t belong to them.”

  Before Eleanor could protect herself, the man’s other arm shot out, and his hand connected with her cheek.

  Stunned, she tried to twist out of his arms, but he had too tight a hold on her.

  “Get out!”

  “Not until I convince you not to be stealing no more lads from Mr. Blackboot’s territory.”

  “Get out!” she cried again.

  Bryant drew his hand back to slap her again, then halted his arm in midair when a deep voice sounded from behind them.

  “Strike the lady and you’re a dead man.”

  Bryant spun around to face the intruder. The stranger took another step into the room and stopped inches from Bryant.

  Eleanor got a clear look at the man who’d saved her. He was tall. No, not just tall—he was exceedingly tall. And his shoulders were as broad as any she’d ever seen. But it wasn’t his height and breadth that caught her attention and held it. It was his face. The strength of character that showed plainly in the set of his jaw sent unmistakable warnings. This was a man not to be crossed.

  Eleanor’s hand instinctively rose to press against the lace fichu tied at her bodice.

  The man’s hair was swept in unruly waves of deep gold about the fringes of his face—at least the parts that had escaped the tail tied at the back of his neck with a leather band. His cheekbones were high and his skin taut with a ruggedness that was appealing, yet it made her somehow apprehensive. But it was the hard look in his nearly black eyes that told her much about his personality.

  He wasn’t a weak man. He wasn’t timid or indecisive. He was used to being in command. And he was used to being obeyed.

  As these assessments passed instantly through Eleanor’s subconscious, she realized that even the brutish Bryant recognized the man’s dominating presence. He dropped his hands and stepped away from her.

  “You’re going to regret this, ma’am. You’re going to regret that you didn’t cooperate. You were given the chance.”

  And with that, Virgil Blackboot’s henchman exited the room, and Eleanor was left with the man who’d come to her rescue.

  She looked at her savior and realized he hadn’t moved a muscle. He hadn’t even shifted on his feet. She was even more impressed. “Thank you,” she said when she regained her voice.

  “My pleasure,” he answered, then reached out a hand to steady her when her legs threatened to give out from beneath her.

  “Perhaps you’d care to sit for a moment,” he said, then led her to the nearest sofa.

  While his language was proper, his movement was muscled, yet fluid, as if he did not often suffer the strictures of a carefully tied cravat.

  Eleanor sat and breathed a shaky sigh. “No matter how often I have to stand up to one of Blackboot’s men, I never get used to it.”

  “Then why do you do it?”

  Eleanor looked up, then up farther until her gaze locked with his. “For the children, of course.”

  He nodded, a slight acknowledgement that he knew what she meant.

  “Please, sit,” she said.

  The man moved to sit in a chair, and that’s when she saw what he had attached to him. A sma
ll dirt- and grime-covered lad clung to the man’s leg.

  There was an empty chair next to where Eleanor had indicated the man should sit. Before he sat, he reached down and lifted the lad to the empty chair. But the lad slid from the chair and reached upward, as if he wanted to be held. The man rolled his eyes, then lifted the lad to his lap, where the boy wrapped his arms around the man’s neck and buried his face into the man’s chest.

  Eleanor’s heart went out to the lad. “Hello, young man,” she greeted. “My name is Lady Eleanor. And your name is . . . ?”

  The boy burrowed deeper against the giant of a man.

  “Can you tell the lady your name?” the man asked.

  His voice was deep and rich, smooth with an undercurrent of something that nearly resembled cheer. Eleanor felt his words sift through her veins like melting chocolate.

  The lad shook his head.

  “His name is Robby, my lady.”

  “And his mother?”

  “She’s dead, my lady.”

  “And now you don’t want him?” Eleanor felt her temper rise for the second time today, and it wasn’t yet noon.

  “No, my lady,” the man started to say, but Eleanor wasn’t ready to hear more excuses from another parent who was willing to give away a child to a perfect stranger rather than take responsibility for him.

  She tried to stay calm, but she knew the anger she felt was evident in her voice. “Do you know how many children reside here at Southern Oaks, sir?”

  “No, my lady.”

  “Nearly fifty. Fifty children who either have no parents to care for them, or children who have been abandoned by their parents as if they were garbage to be left on the street.”

  Eleanor was getting angrier by the second. How could a father whose child clung to him as if he were the last hope for salvation be so callous as to give his son away? Oh, how wrong she’d been about him. She’d sensed he was a good man. A decent man.

  “The children who have lost their parents need us. They need Southern Oaks to care for them. But Robby isn’t one of those. He has you. He has a father!”

  “No he doesn’t,” the man said without raising his voice.

  Eleanor stared at the stranger as if she hadn’t heard him correctly.