The Ardent Lady Amelia (12 page)

“No,” Verwood insisted, staying her hand with a firm grip. “If you give alms to one of them, we’ll be so inundated we won’t make it to our destination. The whole street full of people will crowd around the carriage begging for money, and such a group can turn ugly.”

“But they’re so pathetic!” she exclaimed, slipping her hand from his hold but making no attempt to get at the coins in her reticule. “Could we give them something on our return?”

“Perhaps.”

Amelia felt he only said it to placate her. “You think I’d forget, don’t you?”

“No,” he said slowly, “I don’t think you’ll forget, but you can’t help all of them, Lady Amelia. The way you’ve been doing it, through the reverend, is the best way to handle charity. There are any number of unscrupulous villains out there begging, men who would blind a baby or maim a child just to provide a ghastly spectacle for the likes of you. Encouraging that kind of crime doesn’t alleviate the real suffering that goes on.”

Amelia could feel the blood drain from her face. “Surely no one would do such a cruel thing! You’re horridly cynical, Lord Verwood.”

“You’re understandably naive, Lady Amelia,” he retorted. “People who have to fight for every crumb of bread haven’t your sensibility or your refined sense of what is acceptable behavior. And there are wretched human beings among the poor just as there are among the rich.”

Her stomach churned with nausea and she turned her head away from him. Though she felt sure he wasn’t lying, she was upset with him for so bluntly forcing the ugly knowledge on her. Outside of the slowly moving vehicle she now perceived the malevolent or sullen gazes directed to her luxurious carriage and through the glass to her elaborately costumed self. The dirt, the squalor, the suffering humanity— all seemed suddenly frightening to her. Her small efforts to relieve a few families were hopelessly inadequate, the chances of turning the tide of poverty surely nonexistent. Amelia wished fervently that she’d never ventured forth from the house in Grosvenor Square.

St. Giles Rookery was notorious for its distasteful conditions and its criminal activity. The Carsons lived there, in a dismal basement, because the lodging cost so little. When the carriage halted in a dark alley where the smell of rotting garbage assailed her nostrils, Amelia bit her lip and straightened her shoulders. Not for the world would she show Lord Verwood how overset she was by his words and her own observations.

A motley group of youngsters straggled after the carriage and hooted as the viscount assisted her to the muddy street. There was no evidence of the beautiful spring day she’d left behind in the West End. No sun penetrated to warm the scantily clothed children or dry the ooze at her feet.

There was a flurry of movement behind her, accompanied by more raucous cries, and she felt the reticule she had firmly gripped in her hand torn abruptly from her fingers. Before an exclamation could escape her lips, of either pain or surprise, Verwood had spun and collared a minute urchin who now had her net purse clasped tightly under his arm. The boy was sprinting past, and his rag of a shirt ripped under Verwood’s grasp, leaving the viscount with only a piece of cloth in his hands.

It seemed to Amelia that the child would get away then, and she almost wished that he would. There wasn’t all that much money in her reticule. Was this the sort of thing Tommy Carson had done before Reverend Symons had urged his plight on her? Amelia’s hands stung from the ripping of the purse out of her grasp, but she had already seen enough ugliness for one day. In horrified fascination she watched Verwood bound forward so automatically that he doubtless had forgotten his injured knee.

The child was small and wiry and fast, but his pursuer had a tremendously long stride. Before they reached the corner, Verwood had extended one of the gleaming Hessians, its tassel swinging wildly, and brought the child down with a thump. Amelia’s reticule skittered from under his arm and into a puddle, where Verwood immediately rescued it, since the horde of boys was rapidly descending on them.

Robert managed to put himself and his gigantic stance between the two groups, frowning menacingly at the tattered ranks. Not even for one of their own were they willing to test the footman’s size and temper. In a moment they had scattered, leaving only the footman, the viscount, and the cringing urchin.

Verwood reached down and drew the boy to his feet, keeping a firm hold on one arm when the youngster made an attempt to flee. Amelia had walked a little ways toward them, but he stopped her progress with a scowl. There was a brief discussion between Verwood and Robert, none of which Amelia could overhear, and then Robert took hold of the boy’s arm and led him away. Amelia wanted to protest, but the implacable expression on Verwood’s face deterred her. About this time she no longer even wished for the comforts of Grosvenor Square; she would have settled for sitting down in the middle of the muddy road and weeping.

Instead she stood poker-straight, trying to summon up the courage to accept her disgustingly dirty reticule from the viscount. He didn’t offer it to her, however; but slipped it somewhere inside his blue superfine coat and led her to the Carson’s door. There was no knocker, of course, and he rapped on the unpainted wooden panel with his knuckles, since he carried no cane, despite the bad leg.

A thin woman with spectacles and an astonishingly long nose answered the door to them. Clustered behind her were all four of the Carson children, exhibiting various degrees of anxiety and hope. Tommy came forward to introduce Amelia to Mrs. Didling, who dropped a startled curtsy and looked unsure as to whether to invite them into the dilapidated building.

“I’ve just come to see if you need anything for the children, and to bring you a basket of food,” Amelia said kindly. “Is there any further word of Mrs. Carson?”

“Doctor says she be better,” the woman replied, stepping back so Amelia and Verwood could come into the one low-ceilinged room. There were no decent chairs to sit on, but Mrs. Didling drew up a stool, wiped it with a decently clean cloth, and offered it to Amelia, who took it more out of thoughtfulness than any real desire to sit down. “‘Twas something she ate, he thinks. Perhaps a bit of meat gone bad that poisoned her system.”

“Butcher gives us bad meat sometimes,” Tommy explained. “Charges just the same for it. We always have a bit of meat on Sunday, if there’s the money.”

And not a day goes by when I don’t have all the meat I could wish, Amelia thought helplessly, her eyes straying to Verwood’s face. She could read nothing there. He stood at his ease, allowing the youngest child to play with the muddied tassels on his Hessians. When the baby lifted his arms to be picked up, Verwood stooped down and lifted him with one arm.

Though she had intended to visit with the children, get to know them, she found now that she only wanted to leave. She turned back to Mrs. Didling. “Have you enough money to see that they’re well taken care of for a few days, ma’am?”

“Oh, yes. The man Robert left enough for a week. You’re not to worry, milady. We’ll get along just fine.” She appeared a little nervous in Amelia’s presence, eyeing her gown with only partially disguised awe. Amelia looked about the room, where there were simple pallets on the floor and an open hearth for cooking. The smoke from many fires had blackened the open beams overhead, but the walls had been washed down sometime recently. All was ragged, but clean, and Amelia rose to leave. “You have only to send word if you need something, Mrs. Didling.”

“Thank you, milady.”

Verwood transferred the bouncing child to the woman’s arms and followed Amelia to the door. Her one last look around the room nearly overcame her, at the discrepancy between the way the Carsons lived and the way she did. Why, even the poorest of the cottagers at Margrave lived a great deal more comfortably.

Tommy blinked wide eyes at her, saying formally, “Thanks for helping my ma, Lady Amelia.”

She nodded, unable to speak, and squeezed his shoulder before stepping out into the rank alley once again.

The carriage had remained unmolested, with the coachman sitting warily on the box, his eyes shifting from side to side. There was no one else in the alley at the time, except Robert, who strode toward them from the direction in which he’d left.

“What have you done with the boy?” Amelia asked.

“I left him with the reverend, as his lordship requested.” He turned to face Verwood before continuing. “Mr. Symons said he knows the boy and will keep him until the family can be contacted. I told him you’d be in touch with him.”

“Thank you, Robert.” The viscount motioned him back onto the box and addressed the coachman. “To Hyde Park, and stop to put down the hood when we get there, please.” His look was only faintly questioning when he handed Amelia into the carriage, and she felt too drained to question his high-handed treatment of the rest of her afternoon. She allowed him to hand her into the barouche and slumped back against the blue velvet squabs with a sigh of relief.

“You didn’t have Robert take him to the constable.”

“Of course not. If the case came to trial, they’d either hang him or let him go, neither of which is a decent solution, and you’d be called to give testimony.”

“It’s unlikely his family has any control over him.”

“No, I don’t suppose they do,” he agreed.

Amelia studied the hands that lay clasped in her lap. “But you aren’t going to pursue the matter further?” she asked, hopeful.

“I’ll do what I feel is right.”

Hardly a satisfactory answer, she thought, but allowed the subject to drop. They rode in silence through the noisy streets, gradually drawing out of the impoverished neighborhoods into the wealthier sections of the city. When they entered the park it was late afternoon, almost time for the daily promenade. The carriage stopped long enough for Robert to jump down and lower the hood, allowing the full impact of the sun and breezes to bathe Amelia with much-needed refreshment.

Chapter 9

Various members of the ton were beginning to filter through the gates behind them, in carriages, on horseback, some even strolling in the delightful weather. Amelia knew a fair number of them and nodded or spoke as the carriage moved forward at an incredibly decorous pace. Over the past few years she’d driven out with any number of men and not one of them had she had to introduce on two occasions, as she did with Lord Verwood, so little was he known to the ton. He seemed to be making some effort to be charming to the people with whom they spoke, though he said little to her.

Amelia tried to recapture her exuberant mood of the morning, but her daydreams of the man beside her were an embarrassment. In her fantasies she’d pictured him as warm and affectionate, not merely attentive. His fierce black eyes weren’t softened, but gazed about him with apparent fascination, and perhaps a wry amusement, at the ton disporting itself in this unlikely pastoral setting. She was about to tell him she was fagged to death and wished to return to Grosvenor Square when they encountered her brother.

Peter’s curricle was drawn by two high-spirited, well-matched chestnuts, its body painted a gleaming black. The tiger who stood at the back was so small he looked as though he couldn’t possibly handle the ribbons if the need should arise. But what drew Amelia’s attention was not the vehicle, nor the tiger, nor even her brother. It was his companion that caused an involuntary exclamation to escape her lips.

Seated beside him, her cheeks flushed with excitement, was Mlle. Chartier. She wore a demure blue driving gown that merely served to accentuate her sparkling blue eyes and convince one that she had a perfect figure. It was possibly her first drive in the park during the afternoon converging of the ton, and her eyes were wide with the wonder of it all. Amelia found it difficult, in her jaded state, to believe that anyone could derive such pleasure from watching a bunch of grown people parade about in their finery.

Peter drew up beside the barouche and halted his chestnuts, indicating that his coachman should do the same. He was smiling almost as broadly as his passenger, something he hadn’t done much of in the last few years. Amelia was used to seeing him serious, concerned, but rarely lighthearted.

“Amelia, you’ll remember Mlle. Chartier from last evening,” he said cheerfully, bestowing a smile on each of them. “And you, Alexander.”

Verwood was all smiles and rusty charm. Amelia found it disgusting, though she kept a friendly expression pinned to her lips, even managing to ask Mademoiselle Chartier if Peter’s driving made her nervous.

“Oh, not at all. He is very skilled in his handling of the horses, is he not?”

“So he says,” Amelia responded, grinning at her brother. “I’ve known him to take a corner on one wheel.”

“It takes a certain amount of skill to do that and not over-set your curricle,” Peter rejoined. “Amelia, you won’t mind if I don’t escort you to the Bramshaws’ this evening, will you? Mlle. Chartier has kindly agreed to allow me to accompany her and her brother to the Warnboroughs’.”

Verwood spoke before Amelia could open her mouth. “I’ll escort Lady Amelia and Miss Harting to the Bramshaws’.”

Peter immediately said, “Excellent! Rollings would have done it, of course, but I’d prefer he didn’t.” This with a rueful gleam in his eyes.

With this detail settled, Peter gave a jaunty wave of his whip, called a casual farewell, and drove off. His companion smiled shyly at Amelia as they drew away from the barouche.

Disgruntled, Amelia informed the coachman that she was ready to return to Grosvenor Square. What was the use of a perfect spring day if everything seemed to go wrong on it? She leaned back against the squabs and stared at her hands, missing two gentlemen on horseback who lifted their hats to her. “He’s making a terrible mistake,” she muttered.

“In what way?” Verwood asked, his face a polite mask. He had turned to observe her, his knee so close it was almost touching hers.

“Nothing. I was just thinking out loud.”

“Think out loud a little more. Why would it be a mistake for Peter to see something of Mlle. Chartier? Such a delightful girl.”