Lord John Hughan paced the area between his desk and chair. Though his footfall was muted by the lush Persian rug, his irritation could be felt. Writing had always been a passion of his, and he knew from a very young age that it would be a career choice for him. However, now having been given a deadline to find success in the venture, he found he had little, and possibly nothing, to say.
Lord John had only arrived in London a week earlier determined to prove his brother, the Duke of Ludford wrong. Second born to a disguised dukedom only ensured that next to no decisions in Lord John's life would be of his own choosing if he hoped to keep his living.
Most often, fathers and elder brothers decided the situation of younger siblings in such a case. Ludford had been no exception. Usually, second siblings were pushed to clergy work or military life. Ludford had insisted on the latter owing to Lord John's physique. The late Duke of Ludford, their father, had often commented throughout John's youth that he was lucky to so clearly have skills blessed by God to be successful in life.
Despite a physical form that towered even over his older brother, Lord John had no desire to join the military. In fact, if the truth were told, he abhorred violence. His mother called it a gentle soul, and not with appreciation. His father had insisted that military training would root it out of him.
He wasn't entirely sure that either opinion was altogether correct. Though he did not wish to fire a gun in the face of an enemy, he did not shy away from standing for virtue when the occasion arose. Likewise, he was sure that a stint in the military would never alter his opinions on where his true talent lay.
In black hessian boots, he marched silently across the floor, hoping that some change in his pacing might reignite inspiration within him. He paused at the window, pulling back the thick velvet curtain. The London streets outside were barely visible in the darkness. It had started to rain that afternoon, and like his missing creativity, it hadn't let up once. Visual rings around the streetlamps gave the only view of the fashionable street's inhabitants.
Despite the dismal weather, it was still bustling with activity. He let his mind relax and wander for just a moment. His gaze followed carriages rushing towards destinations and pedestrians struggling, head bent, against the storm.
His eyes focused on a particular couple that came into the light under a streetlamp just next to his garden gate. It was a woman heavily cloaked and soaking wet. He could see wisps of hair that dangled out from her downturned bonnet, dripping water at regular intervals.
Gripped tightly by her hand was a small girl. She too had on a heavy cloak, though clearly much finer than the lady’s. The child's one hand was gripped in her maid’s, the other was tucked tightly in a fur muffler hanging from around her neck.
The lady struggled to move forward in the heavy wet coat and dress while keeping the child at her side and a large carpet bag slung over her opposite shoulder. Lord John let his mind wander for a moment while he watched the two.
What could they possibly be doing out in a storm such as this? That maid is certain to meet hellfire when they return home to not care to protect the child against the weather.
As Lord John watched them, much to his astonishment, they paused just before his own house. Pulling a slip of paper from the folds of her dress, the maid studied it, looked at the house, and studied the writing again. Determined that she was correct, she pushed open the white gate and made her way forward.
Lord John was bewildered by this. He certainly was not expecting company. Few knew of his coming to London as he had made it a point to keep it to himself. He had hoped it would result in fewer distractions from his work. Even if his brother had told of his whereabouts to others, what purpose would a child have to come to him, and at such a late hour?
Lord John left the window and returned again to the space behind his desk. Instead of pacing as before, however, he situated himself in his high-backed leather chair. The knocking on the door followed by the high clicking of the housekeeper's shoes told him he