by Cheryl Holt
With Lassiter balanced off the ground, his toes dangling, Phillip gripped him by the throat, squeezing and cutting off his air, and he plucked at Phillip's fingers.
"You're not being very forthcoming, Mr. Lassiter."
Lassiter gestured toward a cabinet, and Phillip tossed him away like a rag doll. With a loud thud, he flew and banged into the wall, then he slid to the floor. Moaning, he curled into a ball.
The secretary scurried in. "What the devil... ?"
"Shut up, and get out." Phillip shot the underling such a malevolent glare that he hurried off, running for the stairs and shouting for help, though Phillip couldn't imagine who might rush to his aid. A gaggle of clerks?
He tugged at a cabinet drawer, pleased to note that Lassiter was tidy in his affairs, his records neatly cataloged and arranged. With no difficulty, he identified the Hopkins file, whipped it open and scanned the contents.
"An orphanage?" he muttered, tucking the folder into his jacket. "What the bloody hell?"
Stomping to the rear of the room, he saw Lassiter was still huddled in a heap. "I won't listen to your excuses as to why you'd engage in such an iniquity, particularly for money, but you'd better pray she's alive and healthy when I find her."
He kicked Lassiter in the ribs, the toe of his boot making excellent contact, then he swept down the hall and the stairs. Frightened bookkeepers and scribes peeked
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out, eager to deduce the cause of the commotion. As he raced by, they slammed their doors, and he knew he must look like a madman.
The driver of the hackney was familiar with the orphanage, and Phillip learned that it was situated in a gruesome neighborhood. He climbed into the carriage, worried about breaking the news to Winnie.
"Did you have any trouble?" Winnie asked as he clambered in.
"None at all," he fibbed.
The coach lurched away as he dropped into the opposite seat. There was no easy way to say it. "The countess had Lassiter kidnap Helen and deliver her to an orphanage."
She gasped. "What? That's craziness."
"I don't understand it, either."
"She paid him to do this?"
"Yes. And to keep quiet about it, if anybody raised a stink."
He gave her the folder, letting her read the details. Lassiter had been explicit, probably to cover his sorry behind in case the scheme went awry, and he'd meticulously described his numerous dealings with Margaret Hopkins. Winnie perused the pages more slowly than he, delving more deeply into factors of which he hadn't wanted to be apprised.
Suddenly, she froze, growing white as a ghost, all color draining from her face. The file skidded off her lap.
"What is it?" he queried, alarmed by her pallor.
"Oh, my Lord ..." As if she might be ill, she pressed her fingers to her mouth. "Oh, my Lord . . ."
She leaned into the squab, tears dripping down her cheeks.
"Winnie! What is it?"
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"Lassiter had a prior transaction with her," she managed to blurt out.
"Another?" Retrieving the page she was holding, he skimmed the information Lassiter had jotted down. "When was this? Twelve years ago?"
"Almost thirteen."
She was so stricken that he hated to pry. "You knew this girl?"
"Oh, my Lord ..." she repeated over and over.
'Tell me!"
Finally, she said, "When I was younger, I did a terrible thing."
He couldn't picture her doing anything more horrid than using the wrong fork at a fancy supper. "What?"
"I fell in love, and I had a baby."
Aah ... Perception dawned. "Out of wedlock?"
She nodded, the tears flowing. "I had nowhere to turn, so I came to London. To Margaret. She didn't want to be bothered, but her husband—a very kind man, Olivia's father—insisted she foster me. So she had to, though she loathed the notion."
'This other girl... she's your daughter?"
"She has to be. The dates match perfectly." She pulled at the curtain and stared out the window. "Margaret told me she'd negotiated an adoption, to a lonely couple on a farm in rural Yorkshire. All this time, I've envisioned her there, but instead, she's been in that institution. Oh, I just want to die!"
Phillip posed no more questions. He'd heard enough, and his temper was flaring.
Ever since Olivia had become affiancéd to his father, he'd wanted to make someone pay, and Margaret Hopkins seemed a fine choice. Nothing would satisfy him more than to extract a bit of revenge from the nasty old crone. She could benefit from a meal of just desserts, and he
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would happily shove every bitter bite down her craw.
The carriage rumbled to a halt, and Phillip peered out at an imposing edifice that towered over the street. From the outside, it wasn't too shabby, but the interior would be another story.
"We've arrived, Winnie," he cautioned. "Can you bear to go inside with me? Or would you rather wait?"
"I must accompany you."
"Then compose yourself."
"Am I a mess?"
"Yes." That brought a wan smile, and he removed a kerchief from his jacket, so that she could dab at her eyes, though it didn't do much good.
"There's no hope for me. I'm beyond repair."
"It doesn't matter. This is our sole visit, so who cares?" He smiled, too, and offered his hand. "Let's get this over with."
They exited the hack, and presently, they were in a drab but tidy foyer, and a servant showed them into the matron's office. A Mrs. Graves introduced herself as the administrator.
The woman was no dunce, and she scrutinized their clothes and demeanor, assessing their financial status. Phillip deemed her to be shrewd and pragmatic, impressed by wealth, subservient to authority, likely corrupt, and presumably amenable to a bribe.
"I am Viscount Salisbury," he lied again, and Mrs. Graves straightened. "And this is my cousin, Lady Winifred Stewart."
Imperious and arrogant, Winnie played her part, slipping her arm into his, evincing a joint sense of connection and affront.
"What may I do for you, Lord Salisbury?"
"We've come to collect two of our relatives who were mistakenly left here."
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"We have no such exalted wards. We're very prudent in our admissions."
"I'm sure you are." His sarcasm oozed through, and she shifted uneasily. "Helen Hopkins, age three, and—"' He glanced at Winnie.
"Rebecca Stewart, age twelve," she supplied.
"We have no such girls here," Mrs. Graves contended.
"Why don't you review your records?" Phillip cajoled. 'To be positive."
"There's no need. I'm personally acquainted with all my charges."
Phillip studied the matron, trying to decide what would scare her the most. Various threats would suffice. "Perhaps we should call the orphans down"—he hesitated, letting her assume the worst—"so that we can talk to them and see for ourselves,"
"Helen Hopkins," she abruptly mused, "and Rebecca Stewart. We had two girls by those names. But they've been discharged."
"What do you mean?"
"There was a disciplinary disturbance, and they were judged to be a danger to the staff and—"
"The bloody child was mute and demented!"
"And three years old!" Winnie injected. "What could she possibly have done?"
"It was the older one," Mrs. Graves declared. "She had a vicious row with a caretaker."
"I'll just bet she did," Phillip seethed. "So you tossed them out onto the streets? To fend for themselves?"
"Well..."
He was so irate, he wanted to wring her neck. "When were they put out?"
"Four or five days ago."
Four days? They'd missed them by four days? Where was the justice in that?
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"Bring everyone downstairs," he ordered, "and line them up. I wish to interrogate them."
Mrs. Graves huffed. "They're already gone!"
"Pardon me, m
adam, but I don't believe you." She dawdled, considering refusal, and he flashed her his most haughty frown. His unflappable attitude had garnered him success in the army, where he'd been able to outlast any subordinate. "You have five minutes, Mrs. Graves, to have them assembled, or you shall quickly discover how much power my family wields in England."
He bent nearer. "Have you ever been to Australia?"
No fool she, Mrs. Graves grasped his reference to the penal colonies, and she lurched around him. A flurry of noise and activity sounded in the hall.
With no delay, they resolved that what Mrs. Graves claimed was indeed true: The pair had had a quarrel with the night watchman, and had been ousted because of it.
Pondering what the purported quarrel might have entailed, he shuddered. By all accounts, Rebecca had resided peacefully at the orphanage her entire life, when all at once, her behavior had become violent. It didn't take a genius to read between the lines. Rebecca had been protecting Helen, and Phillip loved her for it, loved her spunk, and her style, and her bravery.
Discouraged, they departed, but not before receiving Mrs. Graves's assurance that the custodian involved with Rebecca would be fired—a promise Phillip would check upon to guarantee the termination was carried out. He also issued several dire warnings to Mrs. Graves as to her future job security.
Let her stew! Phillip thought, as he lingered on the stoop, a grim, dauntless Winnie clutching his arm. If
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nothing else came of the wretched experience, he would request that his father have the ownership of the orphanage examined so that managerial changes could be implemented.
"What shall we do now?" Winnie queried.
"We'll find them."
"How?"
"I have absolutely no idea," he said. "But we will."
He stood, scowling at their hack, the driver waiting for them to make a decision.
There were so many abandoned, lost children in the city. They could be anywhere—if they were still alive. How could he locate them in such a mass of humanity? Where on earth were they Jo begin?
"What do they look like?" He was distracted, desperate to formulate a plan.
"I'm not certain about Rebecca. If I had to guess, I'd say she resembles me, with auburn or brunette hair and hazel eyes."
"And Helen?"
"She's so beautiful. Like a porcelain doll. With very white hair—so white it glows like a halo—and big, mesmerizing blue eyes that seem to probe inside you when she stares."
He stopped in his tracks, his heart skipping a beat. It couldn't be. It simply couldn't be. What were the chances?
Marveling, he gazed up at the sky.
How strange the world could be. How bizarre the unseen maneuverings of fate. Was this the hand of the Lord intervening? Was the reunion predestined? Meant to be?
"I know where they are," he told her. "Come. Let's go fetch them home."
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Winnie was awhirl with fury, determination, and hope.
She'd supposed that nothing could have been more dreadful than her posthaste exodus from Salisbury.
Her life once again in shambles, she'd returned to London, only to walk into a household uproar, the servants fighting about Helen. They were fearful of being blamed or charged with her disappearance, while the housekeeper had been suspiciously unperturbed. She'd alleged that Margaret had been informed, that she'd instituted an investigation through Mr. Lassiter, but Winnie had deduced that the elusive Mr. Lassiter wasn't toiling at it very thoroughly or very hard.
The hunt for Helen had given her a focus, something to concentrate on besides Edward.
She'd been tormented: Would he miss her? Would he be furious that she'd sneaked off without a good-bye? Or would he, more likely, be relieved she was gone?
The questions had haunted her, exacerbating her misery, but with the shameful news Phillip had uncovered, her agony and suffering had metamorphosed into hot, potent anger.
How dare Margaret! How dare she banish Rebecca to an orphanage! How dare she lie to Winnie about what she'd done! All these years!
Winnie had perpetually fantasized about her daughter, about her placid existence in the country. How could she have been so trusting? So stupid? Why hadn't she demanded proof of Rebecca's situation through letters or reports?
Winnie was aware of how brutal and relentless Margaret could be, yet she'd chosen not to be apprised. Accurate facts would have been too painful, much worse than the tepid, sentimental daydreams in which
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she'd engaged, so perhaps she hadn't wanted a genuine inventory of her daughter's condition. Perhaps she'd wanted to pretend that everything had worked out for the best.
Margaret will pay for this!
Then and there, Winnie vowed to retaliate, so that Margaret would forever rue her wicked deed. If it took every last bit of Winnie's fortitude and energy, if it took till her dying breath, this betrayal would be avenged.
They were deposited at a busy corner, and Phillip helped her out.
"I saw them here, not three hours ago," he explained. "They were selling oranges."
There were people milling everywhere, going into shops, entering and alighting from carriages. They strolled through the throng, analyzing, exploring, back and forth, back and forth, up and down the surrounding blocks and alleys.
She spun around and, as if by magic, the crowd parted, and there they were. Standing side by side, they were holding hands, watching a delivery wagon pass so that they could cross the street. They were ragged, dirty, their pinafores muddy and torn, their faces unwashed. Helen's ivory locks had been chopped off, and she had a frightful scrape on her knee that hadn't been tended.
"Phillip, look!"
As if sensing their presence, Rebecca glanced toward them, and Winnie felt as if she'd been punched in the stomach. She was staring at an exact copy of herself at the same age. Rebecca was tall, thin, with short brown hair and kindly green eyes. And she was pretty. So very, very pretty.
Her rage at Margaret surged anew. How could her cousin have perpetrated such a hateful crime against this exquisite angel?
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"Helen," she called, but as she'd expected, Helen gave no sign of a response. Rebecca stiffened, though, and tightened her grip on Helen's hand. From their earlier encounter, she recognized Phillip, and she stepped in front of Helen, shielding her with her body.
Phillip assumed the lead, and Winnie was glad. Her emotions were in turmoil and she couldn't talk, could barely move.
"Do you remember me?" Phillip asked Rebecca.
"Yes, sir."
"We've been searching for Helen. When I ran into you before, I didn't realize that it was she."
Rebecca was extremely dubious. "You've been searching for Helen? Why?"
"She was sent to the orphanage without our knowledge. We just found out where she was and came to get her."
"Helen and I belong together," Rebecca asserted. "You can't have her."
So courageous! So protective! So loyal!
"We're her cousins," Phillip fibbed, obviously deciding to temporarily avoid a deeper clarification.
"So now you want her?"
At the notion that they might abscond with Helen, Rebecca seemed defeated and forlorn. Evidently, she thought they would leave her behind and alone, without even Helen for companionship.
Winnie couldn't bear it, and she proclaimed, "We haven't been searching only for Helen. We've been hunting for you, too."
"For me?"
"What's your name, darling?" Phillip inquired.
"Jane."
"No. No, it isn't," Winnie corrected. "Your name is Rebecca. Rebecca Stewart."
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"Rebecca ..." her daughter murmured, as if tasting it on her tongue. "Why do you say so?"
Winnie couldn't resist. She reached out to touch Rebecca's shoulder, desperate to be assured that she was real and not an illusion, but Rebecca flinched, refusing to allow the contact.
"Because I am your mot
her," Winnie said, biting down on her hurt. "And I've come to take you home."
Incredulous, Rebecca gawked, inspecting every detail of Winnie's fine domes, her fashionable shawl and shoes. "You are my mother?"
"Yes, I am. When you were born, I believed that I'd given you up for adoption. I didn't know that you'd been placed in that orphanage. Until today."
Rebecca frowned at Phillip, beseeching him. "Is this true?"
"Aye, lass," he affirmed. "Every word. I swear it."
Rebecca's eyes rolled back in her head, and she fainted dead way.
Chapter Twenty-One
Olivia stood at the mirror, as a servant made final adjustments to her hair.
"You look lovely, milady," the maid murmured as she finished.
Did she?
Olivia studied herself, trying to assess her appearance impartially.
With so little time, there'd been no opportunity to have a gown made for the wedding, so she'd had to wear clothes from her traveling trunk. For the occasion, she'd selected a light blue summer dress. It had a scooped neckline and puffed sleeves, a high waist and flowing skirt. Her hair was braided and coiled on her head, a wreath of bright flowers circling like a halo. The colors should have accentuated the blue in her eyes, the creaminess of her skin, but they didn't. She was dreadfully pale.
An ice queen, she brooded, poised, distant, and collected, with a glacial gaze and a wintry complexion.
She was cold, so cold that she felt her innards had frozen. Her hands were trembling, and she couldn't bend her frigid fingers. She yearned to warm up, to swathe herself in a woolen shawl, and snuggle down before a blazing fire, with a cup of heated chocolate.
"I could use a hint of pink on my cheeks."
"Of course," the maid agreed. She rummaged through
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a box of supplies, and with several deft strokes she'd added a blushing hue, so that Olivia didn't appear quite so numb, so pallid.
