Sex and the Single Earl (5 page)

Mr. Crawford’s mouth twisted into a slash of dismay. “I’m sorry to say they can and do, Miss Stanton. The local authorities believe the conditions must be harsh, else the unworthy poor would surely overrun the very walls of the building.”

He grasped the knob to open the door, but Sophie reached for his arm.

“Do you believe that, Mr. Crawford?”

“No, Miss Stanton, I do not. What man would choose to bring his family to such a place, when he could make a respectable day’s wage by his own hand?”

The tightness in her chest eased ever so slightly. Both his words and his honest, open face reassured her that she had picked the right man to assist her in this task.

She had racked her brains most of last night trying to think of a practical way to find her street urchin. Then she remembered Mr. Crawford, the young curate of St. Michael’s Church. Sophie had heard him preach on her last visit to Bath, and had been impressed with his efforts to raise funds for both the Refuge for the Destitute and the local orphanage. Both institutions seemed like a good place to start looking for the boy.

After breakfast, Sophie had told Lady Eleanor she would be visiting with friends in Laura Place for most of the day. Donning her sturdiest boots and oldest pelisse, she had then made her way to St. Michael’s Church. Mr. Crawford had initially been vigorous in his refusal to accompany her to Avon Street, insisting it was no place for an innocent young woman. It was no place for any human being to step foot in, she had soon found out, but after much debate—and a promise on her part to make a generous contribution to his orphan’s fund—he reluctantly agreed to assist her.

Their search of the small but well-kept orphanage tucked away in a quiet corner of the city yielded no information about the boy. After another short disagreement about the appropriateness of their mission, Sophie and Mr. Crawford took a hackney to the workhouse near Avon Street. A steady rain began falling the moment the coach stopped in front of the prisonlike building looming over the squat warehouses that lined the docks.

As they picked their way across a courtyard littered with refuse, Mr. Crawford tried to prepare her for what she would see. But no words could convey the horror of the place.

Women dressed in threadbare garments huddled against each other in rooms with only one or two smoking lamps and no heat. They stitched away on burlap sacks, their fingers shredded from the coarse material, gaunt faces pale and lifeless. When Mr. Crawford walked between their workbenches, murmuring words of consolation, most of the women didn’t bother to look up.

Sophie had stumbled closely behind, too sick at heart to utter a sound.

“Are you certain you’re ready, Miss Stanton?”

The cleric’s gentle voice simultaneously recalled her to the present and warned her of what lay behind the door. She silently commanded her stomach to behave, and then nodded to the curate.

They stepped into a low, narrow room filled with benches and tables. Perhaps thirty children of various ages, from as young as four or five to as old as fifteen, hunched over the tables.

For a room full of children, the place was unnaturally quiet. A stern-faced matron garbed in pewter-grey bombazine rustled among the tables, a thick switch grasped tightly in her hand. When she passed between the rows, the tiniest ones shrank away from her, fear stamped on their scrawny features. But the older children never lifted their heads from their work.

The matron came to them and curtsied, greeting them in a flat but respectful voice. Sophie inhaled a deep breath to force out a reply and broke into a fit of coughing. An acid, powdery taste filled her mouth.

Mr. Crawford spoke quietly in her ear. “Take shallow breaths, or cover your mouth with your kerchief.”

As she choked back another cough, Sophie noticed the air seemed to be filled with dust, a dust that drifted up from piles of white stones and pale-colored dirt on the worktables. The youngest children were sifting through the dirt for small stones, sorting and then placing them into little piles. The older children took the pebbles and, using larger stones, ground them down into dust. A white film blanketed everything—the children’s faces, the rough clothing that covered their bodies, the cold stone floor. Even the wooden beams of the ceiling were covered in it. It looked like a sifting of dirty flour, bleaching everyone and everything in the room to the same dead color.

“What in heaven’s name are they doing?” Her voice was suddenly raspy, her mouth dry. She dreaded the cleric’s answer.

Mr. Crawford took one look at her face and hesitated.

Sophie shook her head impatiently, forcing herself to face it head-on. “I need to know.”

“They are crushing bones to make fertilizer. The men grind the larger bones down, and the children sift through the dust for the smaller bones. You already saw the women stitching the sacks to hold the finished materials.”

“Where…where do they get the bones?”

“Most of them are from slaughtered cattle or pigs, but some are human….” He snapped his mouth shut, apparently thinking he had said enough.

She felt the room move away from her in an odd rush. Then, she remembered something she had overheard a few years ago—something her mother and a few of her charitable friends had talked about in revolted whispers. Sophie had forgotten it, perhaps because it was too horrifying to remember.

Human bones mixed with animal bones. Day after day the children ground away, breathing in the dust of men, women, and children, some of whom might have died in this workhouse. Some of them possibly members of their own families.

She stumbled back against a table, the sharp edge jabbing painfully into her hip. Black spots drifted across her eyes. She swayed as her vision began to blur.

A strong hand grabbed her elbow.

“Steady on, Miss Stanton.” Mr. Crawford’s calm voice penetrated the grey curtain threatening to envelope her. “Lean on my arm, and I’ll take you out straight away.”

Sophie took several deep swallows as she willed her vision to clear and her stomach to stay where it was meant to be. After a few moments she dared to shake her head.

“No, I’m fine. We must look first, before we can leave.”

She began to walk between the rows, carefully inspecting the faces of the children. The curate kept his hand underneath her elbow, and she didn’t move to pull it from his grip.

It took only a few minutes to ascertain her thief was not in the room. Sophie forced herself to take another long look before she turned toward the door, imprinting the children’s faces, so void of life, into her memory. Someday, she would…no, someday she
must
find a way to help these children. They had been abandoned by the world, discarded as little better than refuse. And she—who had never been alone, even in the worst moments of her life—would never forget them.

Mr. Crawford led her across the courtyard and out through the iron gates into the street. Sophie peered out from under her drooping bonnet, grateful to see the hackney driver had obeyed the cleric’s instructions to wait for them. She leaned her shoulder against the side of the coach, gulping in deep breaths. The stench from the docks smelled as clean as sea air compared to the horrid dust that befouled the rooms of the workhouse.

“Miss Stanton, are you certain you are well?” Mr. Crawford’s brow furrowed in dismay. “Please, let me help you into the coach. We must get you home.”

Sophie dabbed at her brow with the tips of her gloved fingers, suddenly aware of the sweat beading there despite the icy drizzle that slowly soaked through her pelisse. As she nodded, placing her foot on the step of the hackney, her eyes fell on a ramshackle public house across the way. The door stood ajar, and several small, ragged children darted in and out through the opening.

“Mr. Crawford, what place is that?” She gestured with her kerchief across the street.

A righteous anger darkened his pleasant features. “That, dear madam, is The Silver Oak, the most heinous flash house in Bath.”

Sophie knew all about flash houses, as did anyone who lived in London. Notorious dens of gambling and prostitution, many a foolish young man had reason to regret a visit to their premises. Or at least that’s what Robert had told her over their mother’s vociferous objections.

“Are not the keepers of flash houses often receivers of stolen goods? And do they not often use small children as thieves?”

“I regret to say that is true, Miss Stanton. There are no schools here in the slums, and many of these children are left by their parents—if indeed they have parents—to their own devices. Even in Bath, these places exist, both here in Lower Town and across the river in Holloway.”

He extended his hand, silently urging her to step into the hackney, clearly eager for them to be on their way.

Sophie ignored him, poised on the step as an idea took shape in her mind. Her spirits began to lift as she realized exactly what she must do next. Her street urchin was not in the orphanage or the workhouse, and, if Simon was right, he would not be found through a visit to pawnshops either. But The Silver Oak looked just like the sort of place where her little thief might work, perhaps even live.

She gave the cleric her hand. “I am ready to go now, Mr. Crawford.”

As she settled onto the hard bench of the carriage, a welcoming flush of determination flowed through her veins, warming her frozen limbs. For the first time in weeks she had a purpose again, a reason to rise from her bed in the morning.

Simon could bluster and threaten all he wanted, but she was determined to keep up the search. Now that she had a place to look, Sophie knew she could find her slum angel and rescue him from the depths of hell.

“Do forgive me, madam. I hope I didn’t step on your foot.”

Sophie twisted her grimace into a smile, directing it at the concerned and very large man who had just trod on her toes. Her kid dancing shoes were no match for the gentleman’s sturdily shod feet.

“No indeed, sir, but I thank you for your kind inquiry,” she reassured him.

The man opened his mouth to reply, but was swept away by the glittering mob that crowded the entrance hall of the Upper Assembly Rooms.

Lady Jane forged a determined path through the crowd, steadily making her way to the ballroom. “Sophie, my dear, don’t fall behind in this crush. If you do I’ll never find you again. I see Mrs. Heathcote and her daughters waiting for us,” she said, glancing back. “We are quite late. I only hope we’ll be able to find seats by the dance floor.”

Their arrival at the Rooms had been delayed this evening. Lady Eleanor had not been well, her habitually troublesome chest aggravated by the October damp. Lady Jane had been reluctant to leave her sister, wanting to send for the doctor instead. With the images of the workhouse still fresh in her mind, Sophie would have been more than content to spend a quiet evening at home. The last thing she wished to do was spend another night dancing on tired feet in a crowded room, listening to the inane chatter of impertinent bachelors.

Unfortunately, Lady Eleanor had insisted that her poor health not stand in the way of Sophie’s fun.

“Besides, my girl, you’re not getting any younger,” the old woman had admonished. “If you don’t find a husband this Season, I don’t know that we’ll ever fire you off. You don’t want to end up an aging spinster like the two of us, do you?”

As Sophie had no good answer to that alarming question, she now found herself squeezing past turbaned matrons and portly gentlemen as she limped after Lady Jane.

“There you are, my dears.” Mrs. Heathcote, an old friend of Lady Jane’s family, waved frantically to them from inside the door. “If the girls hurry they might be able to find seats before the dancing starts. Miss Stanton, you remember my daughters, do you not? They have been excessively eager to see you again, I assure you!”

Mrs. Heathcote’s two youngest daughters, both of them unmarried, barely gave her a glance. Matilda, the oldest daughter, who had wed just weeks ago, ran her narrow eyes over Sophie’s amber-colored mull gown before giving her the briefest of nods.

“How nice to see you again, Miss Stanton. I suppose your gown is the latest from London, is it not? As you must know I am just this month married, and Mamma insisted that all my wedding clothes come from the finest modistes in London.”

“Oh, quite,” trilled Mrs. Heathcote. “My dear Matilda’s husband, Mr. Tuddle, is nephew to the Earl of Rumsley. He couldn’t possibly wish to see his bride dressed in anything but the latest fashions.” Her voice dropped to a penetrating whisper. “He has an income of three thousand a year. What say you to that, Miss Stanton? And he was very generous in his settlements to my darling girl, I assure you. Her pin money is extravagance itself!”

Mrs. Heathcote’s feathered headdress quivered madly, seemingly as excited by Mr. Tuddle’s generosity as its owner.

Sophie murmured her congratulations, hoping she sounded more enthusiastic than she felt. She didn’t want to lack Christian charity, but Matilda Heathcote was a pinch-faced, mean-spirited girl with little dowry. It surprised her to hear she had made so good a match.

“Matilda, my love, why don’t you and the other girls try to find seats inside?” Mrs. Heathcote wriggled her fingers toward the front of the room. “Lady Jane and I mean to try our hands at a round of whist. We’ll join you at the interval.”

“Sophie, will you mind if Mrs. Heathcote and I take in a few hands of cards? If you’d rather I stay I certainly will, but the room is a trifle stuffy for my comfort.” Lady Jane’s thin, fine-boned face looked weary.

Sophie’s heart sank at the thought of spending the evening with only the Heathcote girls for company. “No, of course not, my lady,” she replied, smiling at her godmother. “We shall join you in the tea room during the interval.”

She regretfully watched her chaperon exit the room, and then turned to push her way through the press of bodies.

On any given night the ballroom, huge even by London standards, could hold over a thousand guests, and this year the Season in Bath was very full indeed. Fortunately, the elegant space, painted in muted shades of green set off by white wooden pilasters and trim, had very high ceilings that allowed some ventilation on crowded nights such as this. Five massive chandeliers made of Whitefriars crystal hung from the ceiling, each of them holding dozens of candles. They threw a dazzling incandescence over the guests, who in their finery glittered like crystal shards themselves in the reflected light.

The Heathcote sisters jostled their way to the front, securing four seats—two before and two behind—right by the dance floor. Sophie brushed past two red-coated officers to reach them. Their insolent stares made her neck sting with heat before she could finally squeeze by and drop into the chair next to Matilda.

“Oh, Miss Stanton,” cried the young woman, “have you ever seen such a delightful crush in your life? Mr. Tuddle says the balls in Bath are quite as mobbed as any he has ever seen in London.” Maltida didn’t wait for an answer, but twisted around to speak to her sisters, shouting to be heard over the appalling racket that surrounded them.

For once, Sophie agreed with Matilda. The balls and assemblies in London were as disagreeable as the balls and assemblies in Bath. She had attended so many over the last three Seasons she had lost count.

She thought that after all these years in the fishbowl of the marriage mart she would have grown used to daily inspections by eligible suitors and matchmaking mamas. If anything, though, she hated it more than ever. The constant need to be on her best behavior, the ever-present awareness that the eyes of judgment were upon her, grew more difficult to endure as time passed.

And always Sophie lived with the knowledge—as did every other unmarried woman—that she must avoid at all cost the grinding stones of the rumor mill.

She surreptitiously rubbed one tired foot with the other, growing gloomier by the minute. What was the point of it all, anyway? She would never be with the man she loved, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t bring herself to imagine marrying anyone but Simon. In truth, she had given up trying to fall in love with anyone else months ago.

“I say, Sophie, you look as crabbed as an old hen with gout. No one would ever know you were in the middle of such a bang-up ball.”

“Robert!”

“Hallo, sis, how are you?”

Sophie leapt to her feet. “When did you get here?” she cried, throwing herself into her sibling’s arms.

“Just this afternoon, and a bloody wet drive it was from Swallow Hill. If Annabel hadn’t insisted, I don’t know that we would’ve come until next week.” Her tall, fair-haired brother gave her a grimace, but a smile lurked in his eyes.

“I’m so grateful you did.” Sophie pushed by him to reach for Annabel. Her new sister-in-law enveloped her in a fierce hug.

“Sophie, darling, I’m so glad to see you.” Annabel’s porcelain complexion flushed pink with excitement. “I told Robert that if he didn’t bring me today I wouldn’t speak to him for a week.”

“Aye, she did, and a pretty way for a bride to speak to her new lord and master.”

Annabel rolled her eyes at Sophie, but reached over to squeeze Robert’s hand. Her delicate features were alight with love and, for a moment, she seemed to forget her surroundings as she met her husband’s adoring gaze.

Sophie fought back the jealous pang lancing through her chest. As much as she rejoiced in Robert and Annabel’s happiness, she sometimes found it painful to be with them. Until Annabel had entered his life, Robert and Sophie had been as thick as thieves for as long as she could remember. That, quite naturally, had changed upon his marriage.

“Robert, you know you were just as eager to see your sister as I was,” Annabel said. “Truly, Sophie, he wouldn’t be satisfied with waiting till tomorrow to see you. Nothing would do but that we must drop our bags at our townhouse and rush to the Assembly Rooms to find you. He barely gave me time to change my dress. I’m sure I look a fright.”

Sophie gave Robert another hug. “And I’m so happy you did.”

“Well, old girl, you did seem to be suffering a case of the blue megrims when you left Swallow Hill. I’m not sure if spending the Little Season in Bath with a couple of crotchety old invalids instead of staying in London is really the way to go.”

“Robert,” Sophie hissed, “you must hush. Someone will hear you. In any event, how could I refuse when Lady Jane begged me to visit? Besides, she and Lady Eleanor have been kindness itself.”

“Of course they have, dear,” Annabel soothed, all the while frowning at her husband. “We’ve just been a bit concerned, that’s all. Who’s to say that a quieter Season in Bath isn’t a good thing? You’ve done so much visiting with family and friends lately that perhaps the rest will do you good.”

Sophie laughed. “You could hardly call this mad crush restful. It’s worse than anything I’ve seen in London.”

Robert winced as Matilda, standing right behind him, brayed something to her sisters. He turned his quizzing glass on the new Mrs. Tuddle, distaste writ large on his face, before swinging around to critically survey the dancers.

“You seem to have the right of it there, sis. What a mob. And a more ill-favoured set of mushrooms I’ve never seen in my life. I swear Bath gets worse every year. Doesn’t look like there’s one person worth knowing in the entire place.”

Annabel shook her head at her husband, who returned the gesture with a sheepish grin.

“Well, it’s true,” he protested. “I don’t see anyone we know.”

“You sound just like Grandfather, Robert. And it’s not true,” Sophie said. “Lord Trask arrived just the other day.” She did her best to keep her voice unconcerned. “Mr. Nigel Dash is in town as well, visiting his mother.”

“Oh yes, you’re right,” replied Annabel, craning her neck to look at the dancers. “I see Lord Trask now, in a set with Lady Randolph.”

“You do?” Sophie twisted in her seat. She couldn’t help searching the dancers for a glimpse of Simon. “Where?”

“Over there. Just under the portrait of the king,” Robert supplied helpfully.

There Simon was, looking magnificent as he always did when attired for a ball. The stark black of his beautifully cut tailcoat and trousers, set off by his frost-white waistcoat and cravat, suited his dark looks and powerful masculinity. She could have swooned at the sight of him, if not for the fact that his partner for the dance was the equally magnificent Lady Randolph.

Sophie’s heart thumped painfully as she watched Simon’s latest mistress—clad in the flimsiest gown imaginable—trail her silk-gloved hands down his muscular arms. She couldn’t believe his paramour had actually lowered herself to come to Bath. Everyone knew Lady Randolph rarely left London, and certainly not for one of the provincial spas. Perhaps the rumors were true after all—that Simon intended to make her his wife.

Along with her thudding heart, Sophie’s temples began to throb.

“Sophie, are you not feeling well?” Annabel’s quiet voice reached her through the din. “You look terribly pale.”

Sophie cleared her throat. “No, I’m fine. I’m just admiring Lady Randolph’s unusual dress.”

Annabel looked doubtful, but forbore from replying. Robert, unfortunately, did not share his wife’s discretion.

“Well, I don’t admire it. She looks like a demirep with her bosom hanging out like that. Never could understand what Simon saw in the woman.”

A grudging laugh forced its way from Sophie’s throat at the naiveté of her brother’s response.

“Really, Robert. You’ve grown so stodgy since your marriage. Truly, Lady Randolph is a beautiful woman.”

He grunted. “If you say so. She don’t hold a candle to you and Annabel, though.”

She smiled, grateful for her brother’s loyalty. But there was no denying that Bathsheba, Lady Randolph, widow of one of the richest earls in England, was a fascinating and sensual creature.

Petite in stature, she had luxuriant hair styled in the latest fashion, almost the exact shade as Sophie’s. In fact, now that she thought about it, the countess looked quite a bit like her—or at least she would have if Sophie had larger breasts and fuller hips, and wore her gowns practically falling to her waist. Even the woman’s large, expressive eyes were the same clear hazel as hers, although Lady Randolph’s were more green than brown. And, of course, she didn’t have to hide her gaze behind spectacles.

The countess was just the kind of woman Sophie wished to be and, certain physical attributes aside, knew with a depressing certainty she never would be. Rich, charming, and beautiful, Lady Randolph held the world of the ton in her dainty grasp.

Including, it would appear, the Earl of Trask.

The flush of heat on the back of his neck came not from the closeness of the room or from Bathsheba’s attempt to seduce him. Rather, it alerted Simon to Sophie’s presence in the ballroom.

And to her eyes on him.

Some months ago he had become aware of his uncanny ability to sense whenever she came near him. Regardless of the size of the room or the crowd, he could feel her presence. It both mystified and annoyed him, and was responsible for the sudden death of more than one flirtation.

“A sixpence for your thoughts, dear Simon.” Bathsheba’s husky voice intruded on his reverie.

“Believe me, dear Countess, they aren’t worth that much.”

“But Simon, you know everything about you fascinates me. There was a time, not long ago, when you were as interested in me as I am in you.” Her purr held a faint trace of bitterness.

Fortunately for him, the movements of the dance separated them for several minutes.

Nothing this evening had transpired as planned. He had arrived early with the intention of claiming Sophie for the first dance, thus securing her to his side for the rest of the night. But there had been no sign of her, and the dancing began before she arrived. Then Bathsheba had unexpectedly appeared—dressed for battle in her flimsiest décolletage—and had practically dragged him onto the ballroom floor.