Notorious Pleasures (7 page)

Mrs. Hollingbrook, the home’s manageress, bobbed a nervous curtsy as she neared. “Good afternoon, Lady Hero.”

Hero nodded, smiling—she hoped—graciously. The fact was that she’d originally become a patroness of the home when Temperance Dews, now the younger Lady Caire, was in charge. Hero had felt an instant friendship with the then Mrs. Dews and had rather enjoyed her interactions with the woman. She’d not found the same rapport with Mrs. Hollingbrook—at least not yet.

Mrs. Hollingbrook was younger and less poised than her elder sister. Her face reminded Hero of a medieval saint—all pale oval solemnity—and like one of those painted martyrs, she seemed to hold a resigned melancholy close to her heart.

“Won’t you come in and have a dish of tea?” Mrs. Hollingbrook asked formally as she always did.

She stood aside, letting Hero precede her into the home. Hero stepped over the threshold, trying not to wince at the cracked plaster on the entryway walls. A cramped room lay at the back of the house, and Hero entered it, familiar now with the rhythm of her visits to the foundling home. Inside, four chairs, a low table, and a desk had been crammed into the small space. Hero took one of the chairs, drawing off her hat as Mrs. Hollingbrook fluttered about, supervising the tea.

Finally the other woman settled to pour the tea. “No sugar, is that correct, my lady?”

Hero smiled. “Yes.”

“Now where have I put the spoons?” Mrs. Hollingbrook held the full teacup in one hand, the hot liquid sloshing perilously near the rim as she searched the crowded tea tray. “But if you don’t take sugar, perhaps you won’t need a spoon anyway?”

“I don’t think so.” Hero took the cup before Mrs. Hollingbrook burned herself. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Hollingbrook smiled uneasily and sipped at her own tea. Hero looked down at her teacup. People were often awkward or shy about her, she knew. Her rank awed them. It was a perpetual problem—how to put others at ease.

She inhaled and looked up. “I understand the home has new residents?”

“Oh! Oh, yes.” Mrs. Hollingbrook straightened and placed her teacup down carefully on the low table. She clasped her hands in her lap as if about to recite a memorized poem. “Since we saw you last month, my lady, we’ve taken on two infants—a boy and a girl—and a little boy of four years. The boy, Henry Putman, is—”

Mrs. Hollingbrook stopped here because Hero had coughed. “I beg your pardon, but I thought all the boys were named Joseph at the home?”

“Well, yes, they usually are, but since Henry Putman already had a name—which, as it happens, he was quite adamant about—we thought it best to let him keep it.”

“Ah.” Hero nodded. “Please continue.”

Mrs. Hollingbrook leaned forward. “I’ve never understood why Winter and Temperance chose to name all the boys Joseph and all the girls Mary. It’s incredibly confusing at times.”

“I should think so,” Hero replied gravely.

Mrs. Hollingbrook smiled quickly and suddenly, the expression lightening her pale face and making her rather beautiful. “Ahem. We also placed two of our girls in apprenticeships this last month. And, with the monies you and the senior Lady Caire gave us, we were able to outfit both girls with new clothes, shoes, stays, a prayer book, a comb, and a thick winter cloak.”

“Very good.” Hero nodded approvingly. Some of her help was working at least. “Perhaps you’d like to show me the home now?”

“Of course, my lady.” Mrs. Hollingbrook jumped up. “If you’ll step this way, the children have been practicing all week for you.”

Mrs. Hollingbrook led the way into the dark little hallway and up a rickety set of stairs. They passed a first floor, given over, as Hero knew from previous visits, to dormitory rooms for the orphans. On the second floor there was a room for the toddlers and infants and a little room used as a classroom. Mrs. Hollingbrook led her here and opened the door with a flourish. Within, a dozen of the older children stood in two rows, faces scrubbed, and hair still slick from water.

As she entered, they spoke in unison. “Good afternoon, Lady Hero!”

She permitted herself a small smile. “Good afternoon, children.”

Her reply elicited a smothered giggle from one of the boys. A sharp glance from Nell Jones silenced the giggle. Mrs. Hollingbrook gave a discreet nod, and the children burst into ragged song—a hymn, no doubt, though Hero couldn’t quite place either the tune or the words. She kept her smile firmly in place even as the most enthusiastic girl went flat on a low note and one of the boys elbowed another in the ribs, making the second squeak.

The song ended on a rather screeching high note, and Hero fought not to wince. She clapped enthusiastically, and the little boy who had assaulted his neighbor grinned at her, revealing two missing upper-front teeth.

“Splendid, children,” Hero said. “Thank you for your song. And thank you to your teachers as well.”

Mrs. Hollingbrook blushed prettily even as she escorted Hero back down the stairs.

“Thank you for coming, my lady,” she said as they made the front door. “The children look forward so to your visits.”

Hero knew that Mrs. Hollingbrook was bound to flatter her because she was the home’s patroness, but as she took the other lady’s hand, it seemed that the manageress truly meant her words.

“I enjoy my visits as well,” Hero said.

She wished she could say more. Could promise that the children would be out of this wretched temporary home soon. Could tell Mrs. Hollingbrook that the children would have new beds, a new schoolroom, and a huge garden to run in come spring. Instead she smiled one last time and made her good-byes.

She picked her way back up the street with a heavy heart. She had a feeling her next visit of the day wasn’t going to be nearly as pleasant.

“Please take me to Maiden Lane,” she instructed the coachman before climbing in the carriage.

She sat and glanced idly out the window as the coach rolled forward. The home depended on her. Now that—

“Oy!” a male voice—a
familiar
male voice—shouted very near.

The carriage shuddered to a halt.

Hero leaned forward. Surely it couldn’t be—

The carriage door opened and a tall masculine form climbed in the carriage and settled himself against the red squabs across from her as if he owned the vehicle.

The carriage started as Hero gaped at him.

“We meet again, Lady Perfect,” Lord Griffin drawled.

He cocked his head as he smiled at her. “Do I detect a wee bit of sarcasm in your words, my lady?”

Her gaze dropped demurely. “A lady never engages in sarcasm with a gentleman.”

“Never?” He leaned forward as the carriage tilted around a corner. “Even when she’s been sorely provoked by a gentleman who isn’t very, er, gentlemanly?”

“Especially then.” She pursed her lips. “A lady always maintains her composure, always chooses her words carefully, and always takes care to use them with circumspection. She’d never mock a gentleman no matter how provoked.”

She recited her rules as if by rote, her manner so grave that he nearly missed the gentle wryness in her tone. But it was there. Oh, yes, it was there. He had no doubt that she observed these rules with Thomas, but not with him. That was interesting.

And vaguely worrisome.

“Perhaps I should try harder to provoke,” he murmured without thought.

For a moment her eyelashes lifted, and her gaze met his directly, her eyes wide and intrigued, the very frankness of her look, whether consciously or unconsciously, a feminine lure to a man.

He caught his breath.

Then her gaze dropped to her lap again. “What are you doing in St. Giles, my lord?”

“Riding in your carriage.” He stretched his legs in the narrow space between the seats. “This
is
your carriage, isn’t it?”

Her lips thinned. “Of course.”

“Oh, good,” he said easily. “I’d hate to have to take Thomas to task because he’d loaned you his carriage to gallivant about the sewers of St. Giles. Unless”—he widened his eyes in pretend sudden thought—“
Wakefield
gave you permission to come here?”

She tilted her chin haughtily. “I’m not a child, Lord Griffin. I hardly need permission from my brother to travel where and when I choose.”

“Then Wakefield won’t be surprised when I inform him where I met you,” he replied silkily.

Her gaze darted away, confirming his suspicions.

His voice deepened to something approaching a growl. “I thought not.”

Anger rose in him, swift and hot. He was caught off guard by the intensity of the primitive emotion. What did it matter to him if Thomas’s primly perfect fiancée put herself in danger by haring about St. Giles? Common sense said it was hardly his business.

Unfortunately, common sense held no sway with his emotions. Lady Hero in this place was so terribly wrong that he had to restrain himself from grabbing her and bearing her bodily away, ranting all the while about headstrong chits, recklessly oblivious brothers, and the myriad of ghastly fates that could overtake a gently bred lady in London’s slums.

Griffin took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes. God, he needed sleep. “St. Giles is not known for its hospitality, my lady,” he said as gently as possible. “Whatever brought you here cannot possibly be as—”

“Please don’t patronize me.”

“Very well.” He felt his jaw tighten. Damnation, but he wasn’t used to being dismissed so cavalierly by anyone, let alone a woman. “Tell me why you are here.”

She bit her lip and looked away.

He smiled tightly. “It’s me or Wakefield. Take your pick.”

“Since you insist.” She smoothed her skirt with her palms. “I’m going to inspect the building site of a home for foundling children.”

Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t that. “Why?”

She made a quick impatient grimace, so fast he almost missed it. “Because I’m one of the patronesses of the home.”

His eyebrows winged up. “Quite commendable. Why keep it a secret from your brother?”

“It’s not a secret.” She caught his skeptical look and amended, “The part about me being a patroness isn’t a secret anyway. Maximus is well aware that I’ve pledged to help the home. The problem is its location. He doesn’t want me visiting St. Giles.”

“I applaud his intelligence,” Griffin said drily. “Then why sneak out?”

“Because I’m the patroness!” Lady Hero frowned at him like an offended queen, the look only slightly dampened by the freckles scattered across her nose. “It’s my duty to make sure the new home is built properly.”

“All by yourself?”

“There is another patroness—Lady Caire. But she is out of the country at the moment.” She bit her lip. “I would go to Lord Caire, her son, or his bride, the younger Lady Caire—she is the sister to the manageress of the home and used to run it herself—but they have recently married and have retired to Lord Caire’s country estate for the next several months.”

He stared at her incredulously. “So you’re overseeing the building of the home all by yourself at the moment?”

“Yes.” Her chin tilted proudly, but her pretty mouth trembled.

He raised his eyebrow at her and waited.

“It’s not going very well,” she said after a second’s hesitation. Her voice was a breathless rush, her hands twisted in her lap. “Actually, it’s going terribly. The architect we hired appears to be untrustworthy. That’s why I’m going to visit the site today—to see what he’s accomplished in the last week.”

“Or what he
hasn’t
accomplished?” How odd that her small show of trust should make his chest expand with warmth.

She inclined her head. “That, too.”

Griffin shook his head. “You must tell Wakefield about your problem. He or his agent can deal with this for you.”

She lifted that damned proud chin again. “
I
am the patroness, not Maximus. The duty is mine. Besides,” she added a bit less autocratically, “Maximus would probably forbid me from the position of patroness if I told him of my troubles. He was quite unreasonable when he learned of my decision to help the home.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t like his money being spent for him.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “It’s
my
money, I do assure you, Lord Griffin. An inheritance from my great-aunt quite apart from my dowry. I own it free from any interference from Maximus—or anyone else for that matter. I may do with it as I like, and I like helping the children who live at this home.”

“I beg your pardon for my misassumption.” Griffin held up his hands in surrender. “Why does your brother hate the thought of you helping orphans so much?”

She winced. “It’s not the orphans he hates—it’s where they live. Our parents were killed on the streets of St. Giles. His loathing for this place is quite deep.”

“Ah.” Griffin laid his aching head back against the squabs.

“I was eight when it happened,” she said softly, though he hadn’t inquired. “They’d been to see a play and had taken Maximus—he was just fourteen. Phoebe and I were much too small to go to such adult entertainments, so we stayed at home.”

He frowned, interested despite himself. “What were they doing in St. Giles? There’s no theater here.”

“I don’t know.” She slowly shook her head. “Maximus never told me—if he even knows. I remember waking the next morning to the sound of weeping. Our nanny was quite fond of Mama. All of the servants were terribly distressed.”

“As were you, no doubt,” he said softly.

She shrugged one shoulder, the awkward movement unlike her usual graceful gestures. “Maximus was in his rooms—he wouldn’t talk for days—and there was no one to take charge. I remember that I ate cold porridge in the nursery that morning while the adults tramped about and talked on the floors below. No one paid me any mind at all. After a bit, the family lawyers arrived, but they were strange and cold. It wasn’t until Cousin Bathilda came a fortnight later that I felt safe again. As if someone was there to take care of me. She wore a terribly strong, sweet perfume, and her black skirts were stiff and scratchy, but it was all I could do not to cling to her as Phoebe did.”

She smiled almost apologetically.

The thought of her as a little girl, pale, solemn, and freckled, worrying that there was no one in the world to look after her—to
care
about her—was almost too much to bear.

He looked out the window and noticed absently that the neighborhood had gotten worse, if that was possible. “Will you come here again?”

“Yes.” She said the word without hesitation.

“Naturally,” he muttered, and scrubbed his hands across his face. The stubble on his jaw scraped his palms. He probably looked like a beast. Christ, just last week a woman had been attacked and left for dead in St. Giles. “Look here, I can’t in good conscience let you wander about the streets of St. Giles alone.”

She stiffened across from him, her lips parting, no doubt in argument.

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and met her eyes. “I can’t and that’s final—no matter your reasons or your arguments.”

She closed her mouth and tilted her chin away from him, staring out the window.

He couldn’t help a small grin—she was so regally offended by him. “But I’m willing to make you a bargain.”

Her brows knit suspiciously. “What kind of a bargain?”

“I won’t tell either Wakefield or Thomas about your jaunts to St. Giles, if you allow me to accompany you.”

For a moment she simply stared at him. Then she shook her head firmly. “I cannot accept.”

“Why not?”

“Because, Lord Griffin, I daren’t be seen in your company,” she said as ice formed along his spine. “You see, I know you seduced your brother’s first wife.”