by Erica Ridley
“They don’t know.” Graham made an expression of disgust. “Miss Spranklin sends progress reports twice a year, and a handwritten note from the girls themselves at Christmastide. I traced a few of the girls’ origins and managed to see a sample. The letters home are all far too literate for the age of the child—or the fact that they’re receiving no schooling whilst in the scullery.”
Marjorie spoke up. “I think the handwriting matches Miss Spranklin’s signature on Agnes’s admission contract. Miss Spranklin must be writing the letters home herself.”
Chloe’s fingernails dug into her palms. “That charlatan.”
“Did you tell them what is happening?” Tommy asked.
“We cannot risk it until we have proof.” Graham answered. “I had to pose as a father of one of the children at the school in order to speak to anyone. I could not then confess to not be who I pretended and expect them to believe the unsubstantiated claims of a strange man.”
“They’ll be horrified when they learn the truth,” Chloe said.
A muscle twitched at Graham’s temple. “The parishes feel as though they’ve been charitable and their little problem is dealt with. When the girls turn eighteen, Miss Spranklin sends a note informing each parish that the ward has been placed into gainful, respectable employment and no further progress reports will be forthcoming because she is now independent and self-sufficient.”
“Are they placed in employment?” Tommy asked.
“I don’t know yet,” Graham said. “That’s what I intend to find out today. Whilst you keep Miss Spranklin and the students occupied, I’ll interview a few more of the girls.”
Chloe handed him a parcel of cakes from her basket. “Take these to them.”
The coach stopped just out of sight of the school to let Graham out of the carriage, and then dropped Chloe off in front of the door.
Miss Spranklin answered with a sly sparkle in her eyes.
“I’ve had second thoughts,” she said as she hurried Chloe inside. “I am responsible for the wise distribution of my pupils’ tuition. Why don’t you work the first month for free, to ensure that we suit? If we do, I will pay you something extra at Christmastide.”
An extra half-penny, perhaps.
No wonder Miss Spranklin worked alone. No one with any sense would accept her selfish, one-sided offers.
Chloe pasted on an earnest expression. “If you think that’s best, Miss Spranklin. I’ll make a note of it in my journal, so that I remember to do the same one day, just like you.”
“Marvelous. Come along, then. I’ll send the brightest girls to French instruction with you, whilst I work with the others on their arithmetic. Is that amenable?”
“C’est parfait,” Chloe assured her.
It was not actually perfect.
What she really wanted was to access Miss Spranklin’s office and search for incriminating documents. As soon as Chloe had evidence in hand, they could put a stop to the school’s abhorrent practices.
Unfortunately, she was never left alone long enough to do more than visit a chamber pot. Miss Spranklin had an endless list of tasks, and Chloe was assigned to do all of them.
She was exhausted by the time she slumped back onto the squab in the unmarked carriage.
She raised a brow at Graham. “How did you fare with the girls?”
“The cake vanished in an instant.” Graham’s amusement faded. “The head maid is part of the ‘special labor’ scholarship. She’s frightened of Miss Spranklin, who does not allow any of the girls to leave the school without her permission—which means they have no chance to look for a better opportunity.”
“Paid employment, for example?” Chloe said dryly. “We must get them out of there.”
“Some girls have left,” Graham continued. “Not when they turn eighteen, as the letters home claim. The girls are gone by the time they’re fourteen, once they’ve shown competence at a skill. Miss Spranklin has successfully placed several girls from the labor program into positions as housemaids, kitchen maids, dairy maids...”
“She has?” Chloe said in surprise.
“Don’t let it warm your heart too much.” Graham’s jaw tightened. “Miss Spranklin ‘holds’ the girls’ wages for them in the meantime. They never see a farthing of it.”
Chloe clenched her fists. “She deserves to lose every penny.”
Graham’s brows knitted. “I wonder which bank keeps her money.”
“I doubt any bank does,” Chloe said. “She can barely leave the girls’ sight for more than a few minutes. I’d wager she keeps her riches just as close.”
“Such as, inside a certain locked office.” Graham smiled. “If you were to stumble across money stolen from innocent girls...”
Chloe grinned at him. “Then we can give the money back to its rightful owners.”
Chapter 8
On the way home, Chloe and Graham paused to collect flowers in Hyde Park. Like many others, the Wynchester garden at home had suffered terribly with the dreadful weather. Even the greenery of normally lush Hyde Park was limp and sparse.
The sky was a rich blood red. The volcanic haze had lent sunsets an otherworldly hue for months now.
Bean did not attend ton activities, but on summer evenings, when the sun didn’t set until after nine o’clock, he often strolled along the Serpentine with Chloe and the other siblings.
She hoped filling his chamber with bright, cheerful clippings would raise his spirits and give him an outing to look forward to, as soon as the smallpox was vanquished and Bean could leave the sickroom again. Perhaps by then, the gloom would have lifted and summer would return.
Chloe held open the lid of her wicker basket so Graham could drop another clipping inside.
“Are these enough?” he asked.
“One more.” She lifted her shears. “Perhaps the yellow one, over there by—”
A thundering of hoofs shook the ground.
Everyone walking along the path turned to look as a dashing horse and rider came down Rotten Row.
“Faircliffe,” Chloe breathed. The new duke looked magnificent.
Graham cut her a sharp look. “That bounder refuses to acknowledge our queries. We’ve sent countless letters begging for the return of our painting. We even offered to return the vase stuffed with banknotes! He spurns every letter. The butler now shuts the door right in poor Norbert’s face.”
The new duke was a rude, no-good, very handsome scoundrel. And her greatest hope in the House of Lords for social improvements.
Her only hope.
“He’s grieving,” she reminded Graham and herself. “Can you imagine what that must be like?”
“He replies to other people’s letters,” Graham pointed out. “Other than switching his white cravat for a black one, there’s no external difference in his routine. If anything, Faircliffe is as efficient as ever. He’s very efficiently decided Wynchesters aren’t worth his time.”
Chloe clipped the yellow flower. “Perhaps one of us should talk to him in person.”
Graham groaned. “We’ve tried. Whilst you are busy infiltrating the school, the rest of us take turns throwing ourselves into Faircliffe’s path. He’s given me the cut direct so many times, it’s a wonder I’m not covered in scars!”
Their breaths caught at the inadvertent reminder of the damage smallpox would cause to Bean’s complexion, and they stared at each other in silence.
Graham swallowed. “I meant...”
“I know what you meant,” Chloe said quietly. “And you’re right. We need Faircliffe to return our painting now, not six months from now when he’s finished ‘not-mourning.’” She lifted up her basket. “Having Puck & Family home where it belongs will cheer Bean more than a bouquet of flowers.”
Faircliffe reappeared, this time going the opposite direction as before—and much slower.
Graham nudged Chloe forward. “You do it.”
“Me?” Her heart skipped. “I can’t. I have to retain my anonymity. I—�
�
Graham plucked the basket from her hands. “Go. Here he is.”
Chloe took a deep breath and hurried onto the wide path.
She was not the only one with this idea. Spectators young and old were flocking forward to gawk at the dashing duke.
When he was less than two yards away, Chloe called out, “Your Grace, a quick word if you please!”
His eyes met hers. Bright blue, as brilliant as a sapphire and as fathomless as a summer sky.
Her throat went dry.
Faircliffe lifted his patrician nose and turned his attention back to the road without slowing. By the next heartbeat, all she could see was his back and his horse’s arse.
Graham bared his teeth. “Cold as ice. Now you see what we’ve been up against.”
Chloe wasn’t certain which possibility was worse: that Faircliffe rebuffed her on sight without even knowing who she was, or that he had known who she was and she’d never even realized it.
“It’s not you, darling,” said an older lady who clearly did not know Chloe was a Wynchester. “Mrs. York has picked him out for her daughter Philippa. I’m afraid none of you other girls have a chance.”
The older woman patted Chloe on the arm and continued down the walking path.
“That was simultaneously comforting and rude,” Chloe muttered to Graham. “And who the devil is Philippa?”
“Miss Philippa York,” said Graham, “age two and twenty, and the only child of Mr. and Mrs. Lester York of Grosvenor Square, directly opposite the Faircliffe town house.”
“Wait,” Chloe said. “Mr. York, of the House of Commons?”
“The very one. Although his daughter is on her fourth season and has been labeled a bluestocking, Miss York is celebrated as a paragon of charity and selfless good works.”
“She sounds splendid,” Chloe said sourly.
“She also has the largest dowry on the marriage mart,” Graham added.
“If she’s perfect and rich, why isn’t she married?”
He pointed at the hoof prints from Faircliffe’s ride past. “She’s received countless offers. The Yorks will only accept a title, and their eye is on that one.”
Wonderful.
Chloe wagered that when the Duke of Faircliffe looked at lovely, wealthy Philippa York, he didn’t look right through her as he passed by.
Despite the flowers sent to his sickroom, Bean did not improve in body or spirit.
He needed something better. Something bigger. He needed Chloe to save the orphans and produce the family painting. She’d failed to make progress with Faircliffe at Hyde Park, but she would not fail the girls at Miss Spranklin’s school.
Today, she would break into the office and find the evidence that would free the exploited children from Miss Spranklin’s control.
Chloe had a plan. She had to create the plans. Bean could not craft stratagems for them. So she’d created a Bean-worthy plan that would make him proud when she returned victorious.
The rest of her siblings were at home. Not in Bean’s sickroom, but close enough to hear him if he were to call for them. Thus far, he was too unwell to call for anyone, but the moment he was better, they wanted to be right by his side.
Her carriage pulled to a stop in front of the school. Chloe picked up her umbrella, looped her basket over her arm, and hurried up the path to the main door.
Did her siblings think she didn’t love Bean as much as they did because she hadn’t canceled all other obligations? She was here at the school instead of home with Bean because rescuing children was the best way Chloe could show him that she cared, she understood, she had learnt everything he’d taught her and would put those in need over her own fears and heartbreak.
If she stayed home doing nothing, just waiting, waiting, waiting outside of Bean’s door for a sign that he was improving, any sign at all, she would be a lifeless puddle from the stress and worry.
Taking action was better. Solving problems was better. Making Bean proud was better.
“Six o’clock exactly,” Miss Spranklin said coldly as Chloe shook off her umbrella in the doorway. “When I say six o’clock, I mean for you to be ready to work at that hour, not fussing with your bonnet and pelisse. See that it doesn’t happen again.”
“Yes, Miss Spranklin,” Chloe said meekly.
If Elizabeth were here, she’d stab Miss Spranklin with her umbrella.
Jacob would release a pack of wild ferrets.
“Go on, then,” said the headmistress. “French lessons for an hour with your set, whilst I teach mine their songs for the musicale in the salon.”
“Yes, Miss Spranklin,” Chloe said again, and hurried into her classroom.
A dozen little girls sat ramrod straight in wooden chairs, hands folded in their laps, heads bowed, their nervous gazes fixed on the table before them.
Chloe shut the door. “It’s me.”
A palpable sense of relief spread through the room, dissipating the tension from the air. The girls lifted their gazes and smiled trustingly at Chloe. She taught them French with games and songs and encouragement. She did not berate them for mistakes or reprimand them with a ruler. She treated them like fellow human beings.
“Today,” Chloe announced, “I have a special treat. Two special treats.”
She placed her basket at the end of the table and opened the wicker lid. Inside the basket were oatcakes and raisin biscuits, as well as a tall stack of parchment. Chloe had spent all night drafting the perfect papers for her students to work on independently, tailoring each task to the child and her level. Conjugations and composition for the eldest, matching and copying for the youngest. Between the practice work and the sweets, the girls would be busy for an entire hour.
Chloe was counting on it.
She handed out the papers and explained the instructions. “For each page you complete, you are allowed to select one cake or biscuit from the basket. Understand?”
Never had a group of girls been so delighted to receive a stack of coursework.
“Where will you be?” asked Nettie, one of the older pupils.
Chloe held up a brown paper package. “I shall deliver these to the girls in the scullery, and then return posthaste. I trust you will all remain silent and studious while I am gone?”
The children’s eyes widened, and they nodded vigorously. They did not want to catch Miss Spranklin’s attention any more than Chloe did.
“Off you go, then. Attend to both sides of page one before you select a biscuit.”
A dozen pencils immediately flew to the first page.
Chloe cracked open the door and listened for the sound of music coming from the salon before she slipped out into the corridor.
One hour. An abundance of time. She had once picked pockets without breaking her stride. Picking locks was only a tiny bit slower. Finding damning evidence and misappropriated wages... well, she would cross that bridge once she was inside Miss Spranklin’s office.
But first, she had to deliver the cakes to the scullery. If Chloe were caught with them, Miss Spranklin would see that the poor overworked girls never received a single crumb. Chloe didn’t think Miss Spranklin would dismiss her for an insubordination this innocuous, but she didn’t want to find out.
Chloe hurried down the corridors to the kitchen and scullery at the rear of the school. She had been slipping the girls packages of food whenever she could. They even had a secret spot behind the potatoes where they hid their bounty.
It hurt Chloe’s heart that the children couldn’t openly enjoy something as simple as a raisin biscuit. But she was here to solve that problem. Today. This very morning.
“Thank you so much,” gushed the girls. “Will you stay and share one with us?”
“I would love to, but I really—” Chloe’s stomach twisted at their crestfallen expressions. “Just one. I must hurry back to my class.”
She hated to abruptly abandon such lonely, eager-to-please children, but her hour in which she could help them was already dwin
dling precipitously. As soon as she could do so without hurting their feelings, Chloe hurried back into the corridor and made her way to Miss Spranklin’s office.
Distant music from the pianoforte drifted down the hall. Chloe checked her pocket watch. Fifteen minutes remaining? Her fingers shook. She could manage it. She had to.
She returned her watch to her pocket and pulled out her picks. She dropped to one knee in order to be at eye level with the keyhole as she twisted her metal rods this way and that.
Only when the click of the interior mechanism falling into place sounded clear and sharp did Chloe realize the pianoforte in the salon had gone quiet. She grabbed her watch. She still had ten minutes! Miss Spranklin would not have ended lessons early for any reason.
Of course she would. She was Miss Spranklin. The one game she enjoyed just as much as terrorizing children was appearing unexpectedly to check on Chloe.
Cursing under her breath, Chloe used her picks to push the pins back into a locked position and then sprinted down the corridor and around the corner to her students’ classroom. Her hand had barely closed on the door handle when Miss Spranklin’s footsteps sounded from the opposite direction.
“Going somewhere?” came the headmistress’s sharp voice.
Going somewhere. Perfect. Miss Spranklin thought Chloe was sneaking out of her classroom, not back into it. She spun to face the headmistress.
“I heard the music stop ahead of schedule,” Chloe said brightly, “and worried something had happened and that you might need me. Is there anything I can do to help you?”
“Doubtful,” Miss Spranklin said. “Unless you’re particularly gifted at finding missing children.”
Chloe gave her a blank look. “Missing... children?”
“A runaway.” Miss Spranklin crumpled what appeared to be a letter in her fist. “I hired a man to search a five-mile radius of the school, and he’s come up empty-handed. I’ve sent him to interview the orphanage Dorothy came from.”
Dot. Chloe’s stomach dropped. “If there are no angry parents to consider, must you waste your hard-earned money on an investigator?”
