by Sara Bennett
Not everyone would understand and it was not something he wanted appearing in the books.
As for what else Jackson did, when he wasn’t working for Gareth, he didn’t want to know. As he told himself, the man was a necessary evil and by employing him he shouldn’t feel he was doing anything wrong. Sometimes one had to get one’s hands dirty—or at least Jackson had to get his hands dirty—in order to sort out those who genuinely needed help from those who were quite content to loll in filth and depravity.
On the landing the clock struck the hour, making Gareth jump, and at the same time a voice called out his name.
Gareth cursed under his breath. Speaking of necessary evils! He listened again, thinking that perhaps the baroness was talking in her sleep . . .? But no, there she was again, and louder this time. This had only begun to occur lately and Gareth didn’t know quite what to do about it. He’d thought of moving out of the Bloomsbury house, but where would he go? And there was so much good work still to be done. So many women needing his help. Baroness Sessington had been so generous in her support of his projects.
With a deep sigh, Gareth turned around and headed toward his patroness’s bedchamber.
“Gareth, where are you?” the baroness called again, and Gareth could see her now, standing in the doorway to her bedchamber. With her wig askew over her sparse gray hair and her bed robe clutched to her skinny chest, she looked so much older.
He fixed a smile on his face. “I’m here,” he said brightly. “What are you doing up so late?”
“I can’t sleep.”
“Shall I make you a cup of warm milk?”
She made a moue. “Very well,” she said with a hint of petulance.
Gareth smiled again and went to get the milk. She would make excuses for him to stay once he’d brought it but he would yawn and pretend he was very tired. How long could this charade go on? The woman wanted more from him than he was prepared to give and it was getting very awkward. He knew there would come a point when she would demand he climb into her bed and he would either have to say no or . . .
Gareth shuddered. There was no “or.” He could not bring himself to play gigolo to that old woman and there was an end to it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
* * *
When Averil arrived at the Home for Distressed Women, with Beth in tow—her friend and companion had insisted—the earl of Southbrook was already there. Gareth was busy showing him the locking devices on the doors, and explaining how once the women were locked in there was no way out until the next morning.
The earl looked up when she joined them and bowed politely, but with an amused twist of his mouth when he saw Averil had her companion with her. His gaze slid past them both, to the roofs in the next laneway, and Averil realized with a tingle of shock that they were very close to The Tin Soldier. She’d never had need to walk in that direction so it came as a surprise to her.
“Lord Southbrook, may I introduce my companion, Miss Harmon.”
Beth gave a little curtsey. “Your lordship.”
He nodded. “Miss Harmon.” And looked at her as if he’d expected someone far more fearsome.
He was dressed impeccably again, this time in a tweed jacket and gray trousers, with a dark waistcoat over his white shirt, topped by a gray cravat. His brooding dark eyes fixed on Averil for a moment before moving back to Gareth, who was still talking at length about their security issues.
She knew Gareth could be tedious sometimes but he meant well. Despite his faults she was very fond of her cousin.
“Perhaps we should see inside,” Southbrook said at last, drawling in a manner that made Averil want to box his ears.
Gareth opened the door, his mouth set in a line that was a little tight, but he was soon away again, as if Lord Southbrook needed to know the smallest detail. Normally his pride in the building made Averil smile, but today she didn’t feel like smiling. The earl’s presence was making her uncomfortable, just as it had last night.
“As you can see, Lord Southbrook, we have set up the home close to the poorest and most degraded parts of the East End. We have placed ourselves in plain sight, so that those now safe within our walls can be grateful for their rescue and those still in a distressed state can see there is hope of redemption.”
“Surely that increases the temptation for those safe within your walls, as you put it?” Lord Southbrook said. “Setting up a soup kitchen or a doss house in the area where the women live, I can understand that. They are unable to travel and you wish to provide a service, not an alternate way of life. But in this case, Doctor Simmons, don’t you want to take your women as far away as possible from the surroundings that led them into their degradation?”
Averil looked at him with pleased surprise. He’d stated—and far more succinctly than she could—exactly what had been her own objection when Gareth first mooted his project. He hadn’t listened to her, going ahead with his own vision as if he could not possibly be wrong. And now, despite all their security measures, so many of the girls ran away, and once they were gone into the labyrinths of the East End it was almost impossible to find them again, even with Jackson’s help. There had been a sad incident only a few months ago, when one of their girls was found dead just around the corner from the Home. Although the cause of her death was clear—her neck had been broken—her reason for running away wasn’t. But it had certainly unsettled the other inmates.
Averil waited with interest to see what her cousin would say to the earl, but Gareth dismissed the concern just as he always did. “The position of the Home is immaterial.” He strode ahead, leading them toward the large common room, where the women were waiting, lined up before the windows. “If they are shown the error of their ways, and wish to change, then I firmly believe they will not stray. There is temptation everywhere, Lord Southbrook.”
The door was open and he led them through. The women were lined up, just as Averil expected, Molly a little to the front. Molly was one of their older women and certainly their loudest. She’d heard the tail end of Gareth’s speech and couldn’t resist making fun of it.
“Talk of temptation, lovey!” she declared, hands planted on her broad hips, ogling the earl.
There were muffled snorts and giggles from the others, but they fell silent when Gareth glared at them.
“You will apologize to his lordship for your rudeness,” he said sternly. “We do not tolerate rowdy behavior here.”
Molly muttered an apology, looking anything but apologetic. Her habits were ingrained, and Averil could not help but wonder if she really was as eager to be reformed as she claimed. Her thoughts might be uncharitable, but Averil was inclined to think that three good meals a day, new clothing, and a clean bed at night, had more to do with Molly’s being here than any hope of rehabilitation. There had been a few like her, women who said all the right things but . . . well, Averil did not think they genuinely wanted to be reformed. Then there were others she’d believed truly wanted aid and they had run away. Despite Gareth’s objections, Averil could not help but believe that the Home’s proximity to their old haunts made any improvement in the women’s behavior more difficult.
“Molly didn’t mean it, your lordship,” Violet spoke up, with a little bob of a curtsey. “She’s just a little bit overexcited.”
“Thank you, Violet,” Gareth said, “but Molly can speak for herself.”
Violet blushed at being reproved and there was a spark of rebellion in her blue eyes that made Averil bite back a smile. She was a pretty girl, with pale white-blond hair to go with her very blue eyes. Violet had been living with relatives but they were aware of her talents for teaching and, wanting something better for her, had informed Jackson. When Jackson brought her to Gareth, he’d been impressed with her resolution and optimism despite the difficulties she faced, and had employed her to help teach the women manners and proper behavior. If they wanted to find work in service or in shops, they would need to understand correct conduct, and so far Violet had made some
good progress. Perhaps it was because she was an East End girl herself, and they did not see her as an outsider, as they surely must do with Gareth and herself.
Gareth had returned to his monologue. “This larger room is a gathering area for the women. They eat here and have their lessons here. There are also ten bedrooms that are shared, as well as a separate room for Mrs. Claxton, the superintendent. I don’t see that it is necessary for the other staff to live in. And we have our locked doors policy, as I explained.”
“Violet says she’s willing to stay, if she’s needed,” Mrs. Claxton spoke up. A large, stern-looking woman with meaty arms, she looked as if she could control an unruly mob.
“Yes, Doctor Simmons, I wouldn’t mind,” Violet piped up.
“Well,” he softened his tone, “perhaps some time in the future, Violet.”
“I couldn’t even cook porridge when I first arrived”—Molly felt the need to enlighten them with her achievements—“and now I reckon I could cook a whole roast dinner if I had to. Better ’an jellied eels any day!”
That caused a ripple of laughter.
“Molly, I don’t want to have to reprove you again. You speak when spoken to.” Gareth’s voice was firm, as if he were an army major and the women were his troops.
Averil wished she could reprove him. These women were not accustomed to rules and regulations and even the basic jobs required of them were often more than they were capable of. She thought it was better to give them some leeway, a little understanding, but Gareth was inflexible. His view was that they must abide by his rules or he could not help them. These were not matters for debate. Look at them over there, Averil thought, standing in a row by the windows, just like soldiers! Her temper flared. Gareth thought lining up like that taught them discipline but Averil knew it made them resentful. No wonder they ran away! They weren’t soldiers, they were women, and they should be treated like women.
Just then Mrs. Claxton interrupted with a request to speak to Gareth privately, and he went off with her to the corner.
Averil took a calming breath. It did no good to get cross with him. He was doing his best, she knew that, but she just wished he would allow her to have a say in the running of the Home, that he would listen to her instead of dismissing her out of hand.
“I think you have your own ideas about this place,” Lord Southbrook spoke quietly, and she realized he had been watching her with that intent gaze.
“Doctor Simmons is experienced in these matters. He knows what he’s doing,” she said, not wanting to undermine her cousin. And then she spoilt it by adding, unable to hide her irritation, “It’s just that sometimes he’s so inflexible.”
“Oh?” He smiled. “I never would have guessed.”
She smiled back. He understood, she could tell. Here, unlike Gareth, was a man who saw how matters stood.
But it would not do to take sides with a potential donor, and Averil pulled herself up. “I’m sorry. You must forget I said that. Doctor Simmons is a very capable man, and I trust him completely when it comes to the Home for Distressed Women. We are very lucky that he has chosen to dedicate his life to those less fortunate.”
“And have you also dedicated your life?”
“I . . . yes,” she said, taken by surprise. “I suppose I have made it my life’s work.”
His dark eyes narrowed. “Good heavens, really?” he drawled, as if he’d just been told something nasty. “You must be all of, eh, twenty?”
“Yes, my lord.” Averil’s chin went up defiantly as she sensed his mocking disapproval.
He stroked a fingertip along the length of his scar, and her eyes followed. That feeling was coming over her again, that uncomfortable sensation that she wasn’t quite in control of herself.
“So, Lady Averil, let me just get this right. You have perhaps another forty years to live your life? No, let’s be generous and assume you will grow into an old lady. Say, at a pinch, sixty years. Tell me, do you really intend to spend them here? I don’t begrudge you your need to save people, that is truly admirable, but surely there are people to be saved in far more interesting places than the Home for Distressed Women. Particularly as you will never be able to do things in the way you want to. Your cousin, my dear Lady Averil, will always prevail.”
Averil opened her mouth. She wasn’t sure what she was going to say but it would probably have been along the lines of “that is none of your business, my lord.” Luckily at that moment Beth cleared her throat behind them.
Averil jumped. So caught up in their conversation had she been that she had completely forgotten Beth was here. It was enough for Averil to regain her equilibrium.
“I am not a fortune-teller, my lord,” she said politely. “I cannot tell the future, but I hope I shall always do my best to help those less fortunate than myself.”
Southbrook yawned. “Of course you will,” he said, as if the whole subject bored him.
Really, thought Averil, her calm once more deserting her, he is the most infuriating man!
Thankfully at that moment Beth nudged her in time to stop her saying something she would probably later regret. Averil followed her gaze, and saw that Gareth had finished with Mrs. Claxton and was now standing by Violet, listening to her speak, his head bent lower to accommodate their difference in height. He looked . . . captivated. It was the only word Averil could think of to describe the expression on his face. She knew he was partial to Violet—and to be fair Violet seemed to have this effect on a lot of men—but he really shouldn’t show it so blatantly.
A rush of anger washed through her, followed by disappointment. Gareth was a man she’d looked up to, someone she admired despite his failings, because she’d truly believed his heart was in his work. And now here he was, goggling like a schoolboy at a pretty face. The other women must know. He must be better than this. How could they respect him if they thought he was just like all the other men they encountered on the streets? And what if the earl noticed? He had already found Gareth tedious; this might be enough to make him withdraw his support.
Just then Violet laughed at something Gareth said and he flushed a painful pink, his face going all soppy. Molly noticed that. She whispered something to her companions and they all shot him a look of contempt.
“Oh no,” Averil whispered, clutching Beth’s arm.
Beth came to the rescue.
“Doctor Simmons, perhaps I could have a word when you’re finished?” she piped up, and hurried across to the two of them.
The relief Averil felt as Beth defused the situation with Gareth was brief, because now she was alone with the earl.
“Perhaps you would be kind enough to show me around the rest of the building, Lady Averil?” His voice was very close, and instinctively she stepped back, opening her mouth to say they should really wait for Gareth, but he cut her off. “There is something I wish to discuss with you.”
There was a significant expression on his face. Averil realized that, of course, he was talking about his visit to St. Thomas’s Orphanage. In the heat of the moment she’d briefly forgotten her main reason for being here today.
With a nod, Averil walked quickly from the room, with the wicked earl following close behind her.
Lady Averil had found an empty room and, after peering inside to make certain, led Rufus quickly into it. He closed the door securely behind them, and when he turned she was looking up at him with her big gray eyes. As if she wasn’t quite as sure of him as she pretended to be.
Sensible girl.
“Beth will not like this,” she said without preamble. “She came with me today particularly to keep an eye on you.”
He chuckled. “I thought as much.”
“Beth has my best interests at heart,” she said primly.
“Unlike me?” he mocked. “I must say I expected your Beth to be a far more fearsome creature. Eustace was quite convinced she was half-dragon.”
Averil looked surprised. “Oh no, she is not like that at all. Sometimes she may seem s
tern, but it is only because she worries about me. You must tell Eustace not to be frightened of Beth, she would not hurt a fly.”
He gave her a bow, his expression sober, but he knew she could see the laughter lurking in his eyes. “I will tell him she is a marshmallow.”
Averil’s mouth quirked in response.
Yes, that was better. A moment ago she’d been cross with him but now she was smiling again. He preferred her smiling, although there was something to be said for that flash of temper, too.
Rufus leaned back against the desk—the room appeared to be some sort of office. “I’d better tell you what I’ve discovered before we’re interrupted by the good doctor.”
“Yes, please do,” she said, and there was no doubting the anxiety in her voice.
His recital didn’t take long. He had visited St. Thomas’s Orphanage the morning after his “adventure” with Averil. The staff were helpful but their books were damp stained. The rain had come through the roof and some of them were illegible with mold and water damage. If there was a Rose Martindale noted within those pages then he could not find her.
Averil looked completely downcast.
He was tempted to take her into his arms and comfort her, but that seemed rather inappropriate at this early stage of their acquaintance. Then again, maybe he should storm her barricades, overwhelm her with his impetuous passion? It had been so long since Rufus spent time with a woman of Averil’s class he had forgotten how to behave.
