“How many boys are living there?”
“Not quite thirty.”
Before tragedy struck his family, Ethan recalled being scolded on several occasions by his tutor to be quiet or sit still or not leap over the furniture. Add his sister and Guy to the mix and a great deal of mayhem had ensued at the deBeau residence. “And you saw no signs of abuse?”
“No, but I daresay I wouldn’t, would I?”
Marks from canes and leather straps would likely be hidden beneath layers of clothing and fathoms of silence. “You have a point.”
“I did sense an element of fear while visiting the schoolroom.”
“Fear?”
“The boys had obviously been drilled on how to act when visitors were present. Other than chanting a greeting to me on command, they spoke not a word, nor looked me in the eye.”
“When dealing with so many boys, it’s sometimes necessary to keep a tight rein on them.”
“I understand the necessity of maintaining a certain amount of order. What I’m unable to come to terms with was the lack of laughter and male mischief. No elbowing, no sly glances, not even a single snicker the whole time I was there.”
“Sounds like you are well-acquainted with the nature of boys.”
“Eight years separate my brother Jules and me. He and his friends terrorized our home on more than one occasion.”
Despite the seriousness of their discussion, Ethan felt one corner of his mouth tug upward. “As the eldest, I suppose you were the mothering sort.”
“To a degree. No humor in my bones, remember?” She dropped her gaze to her fingers, where they toyed with the leather handles on her portmanteau. “Mostly I allowed them the freedom of their youth. The shackles of adulthood could wait.” She lifted her chin, caught his eye, then she quickly focused on the blur of buildings through the window.
The brief visual contact struck him in the chest like the head of a gale-force wind. Confused by the pain she had inadvertently revealed, he tried to find the cause by studying the smooth contours of her face—contours that were quickly solidifying into the porcelain planes of a Venetian mask, beautiful and cold.
He reviewed what he knew of her past. Little, he found. Her mother married her stepfather when Sydney was young, and the union produced a half sister and brother. But how had she and her mother survived during the early years? Sydney’s natural father didn’t appear to be a part of her life, especially given the fact she’s using her mother’s family name.
Had they stayed with relatives, or struggled on their own? An odd sense of urgency to learn the answer twisted his heart. “What of you, Miss Hunt? Did you enjoy a carefree childhood?”
Slowly, her gaze slid to his. “I have many joyful memories of my four and twenty years, but none stem from the first years of my youth.”
He sat back, smoothing his hand over his coat front, pressing hard against his stomach to settle the churning inside. “I am sorry to hear that. Pratt had a hand in changing the course of your happiness, I take it.”
At the mention of her stepfather, the stark edges of her features softened and a smile, full of love, transformed her face into a portrait of pure radiance. “Indeed, he did.”
The roiling mass in his stomach cramped to an unbearable level. Ethan steered the conversation back to Abbingale. “Is there anything else about Abbingale that I should know before we arrive?”
His question severed the link to her fond memories, and in an instant, her businesslike mien was back in place. “Only the schoolmaster.”
“What is your impression of him?”
“Intelligent, cultured, calm. Watchful. Perhaps too watchful.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“That makes two of us.” When he started to ask another question, she flicked her hand, as if impatient with her own lack of articulation. “At times, I got the impression that he could see right through my disguise.”
“Then I am glad you invited me to act as escort. I can observe the staff with a fresh set of eyes while searching for the missing boy.”
“Invited?” she asked, with an uplifted brow.
Ethan winked.
Her lips twitched, then firmed. “What is the boy’s name?”
Once again, he hesitated.
“Come now, Lord Danforth. I have shared a number of confidences with you this afternoon. You may trust that I will not jeopardize whatever it is you’re protecting.”
She had been refreshingly forthcoming—with only a bit of prodding on his part. What would it hurt to divulge the boy’s name? Revealing his identity couldn’t lead her, or anyone for that matter, back to the Nexus. Until a short time ago, the connection never existed and, even now, the link was too fine to contemplate. “Giles Clarke.”
“A good, strong name.” The carriage rolled to a stop. Gathering her possessions, she said, “Let us see if he’s inside, shall we?”
Thirteen
Transferring her portmanteau to her opposite hand, Sydney stepped across the threshold of Abbingale Home and felt the weight of oppression envelop her. Bare walls, thick silence, musty air. They built on top of one another to create an atmosphere more in keeping with a crypt than a boys’ home. Little had changed since her last visit.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Henshaw,” Matron said the moment the entrance door closed behind Lord Danforth. She nodded. “Sir.”
“Lord Danforth,” Sydney said with a bright smile. “Allow me to introduce Mrs. Kingston, Abbingale Home’s matron.”
He stepped forward and inclined his head. “Mrs. Kingston, forgive my intrusion. When Mrs. Henshaw mentioned she was paying Abbingale a visit, I invited myself along. I hope you don’t mind.”
The short, redheaded woman dipped into a curtsy. “Not at all, my lord. Did you have a particular interest in coming here, or do you merely act as escort?”
“Every year I sponsor a new charity,” Lord Danforth said in an enthusiastic voice. “I’m on the lookout for next year’s needy endeavor.”
“Well,” Matron’s gaze shifted from the viscount to Sydney back to the viscount. “I hope Abbingale proves needy enough.”
“From what I’ve heard so far, your little establishment is definitely a contender, Mrs. Kingston.” He glanced around, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s see some orphans.”
Sydney stared up at the viscount, though she was careful to keep her brilliant smile in place. What was he doing, acting the nincompoop? Surely, the matron would be able to see through his ruse and then she would toss them both out. She couldn’t let that happen. Too many questions about this place remained unanswered.
She opened her mouth to distract the matron’s attention away, when the woman said, “Of course, my lord. Please follow me.”
Red blotches marred Mrs. Kingston’s face before she pivoted and headed up the stairs. Lord Danforth clasped his hands behind his back and followed in her wake. The jauntiness in his step almost made Sydney smile. Almost.
While on the first floor, the matron pointed out various aspects of Abbingale’s operation to his lordship, and Sydney took the opportunity to lag behind long enough to peer inside closed doors and chat with passing servants. At different intervals along the way, she would toss out a chirpy, featherbrained sort of comment and the matron would patiently reply. As with before, everything was in perfect order, eliciting no reason for complaints or concerns—until they reached the landing between the first and second floors.
Instead of continuing upward, Mrs. Kingston paused and opened a door to her right. Peering up the narrowing staircase and then down from whence they came, Sydney reassessed her location. Yes, this was the landing holding her secret chamber. When it became clear that the viscount would be joining her today, she had sketched out a plan to investigate the mysterious source of light she had noticed on her previous visit, using him as a decoy.
/> All her planning was for naught. The door stood wide open and the matron was ushering them forward. Two steps from the landing, Sydney paused and tilted her head, listening. Her breath caught at the distinctive—and highly unexpected—sound emanating from the gaping door. No, it couldn’t be. Drawing in a breath, she continued her ascent, her disbelief growing with each slow step she took toward the secret chamber.
Once she reached Mrs. Kingston’s position, the matron moved to lead the way. They traveled down a long corridor, illuminated by four evenly spaced wall lamps. Lamplight flickered wildly, casting sinister shadows against the ceiling, floor, and anyone who walked by. The passage was so narrow that the side of her bulky portmanteau slid softly along the wall.
Over the matron’s shoulder, Sydney detected another source of light. Another open door. The sound grew louder, more intense than before. It ebbed and flowed like a Drury Lane orchestra building up an audience’s anticipation. Then their small group emptied into a large, cavernous chamber, and Sydney could no longer doubt her hearing; the sound of children at play surrounded them.
Sydney schooled her features into one of awe, rather than suspicion. “What is this place, Mrs. Kingston?”
Matron sent her a pleasant smile. “This is where we allow the boys to be boys.”
Indeed, they did. The room was well lit by a bank of north-facing, ten-foot-high windows along the far wall, and three large chandeliers hung from above to brighten the area for evening functions. Everywhere Sydney looked, small clusters of boys were engaged in some kind of activity. Cards, jacks, blind man’s bluff, and a random game of tag populated different pockets of space around the chamber. She located the ever-miserable Mrs. Drummond standing sentinel in one corner, paying the newcomers no mind. For that matter, neither did the boys. Sydney frowned.
“Oh, splendid.” Lord Danforth rose up on his toes and then plopped back down on his heels. “We’ve located some orphans.” His face reflected the same oblivious enthusiasm of a six-year-old. Remembering her own disguise, she said, “Oh, Mrs. Kingston, why have you kept this delightful sight from me?”
“Forgive me, Mrs. Henshaw,” Matron said. “I wanted you to see Abbingale Home as an institution serious about its responsibility toward these young boys. However, after your last visit, I realized this side of Abbingale was as important for you to witness as its academia.”
Without a word, Lord Danforth wandered off, stopping to speak with each group of boys. They were wary of him at first, but he soon had them smiling and exchanging quips.
“His lordship has a way with children,” Mrs. Kingston mused.
Head bobbing in agreement, Sydney said, “Everyone loves Lord Danforth.” Somehow she managed to say the words without the least bit of insincerity.
Mrs. Drummond pushed away from her corner and moved toward Danforth’s position. Sydney’s jaw clenched.
“You know him well, then.”
Sydney patted the matron’s hand. “I know what you must be thinking. What is a grand and handsome viscount doing escorting a commoner about town?”
Matron sputtered. “Oh, no—”
“You’ve no need to explain. Many have wondered the same thing. If not for our mothers being dear friends, I suspect I would get nothing more from him than a tip of his expensive beaver hat.” She produced a tinkling laugh to show she was not put out by the prospect.
“Is there anything else you wish to see during your visit?”
The nurse was nearly upon Lord Danforth now.
Tapping her finger against her chin, Sydney pretended to give the question considerable thought, while masking her growing anxiety. She knew his lordship was attempting to locate Giles Clarke among the many boys present. Having Mrs. Drummond eavesdropping on his conversations would not do. “Lord Danforth would love to meet the schoolmaster. I’ve been raving about him so much that his lordship is quite eager to meet Monsieur LaRouche.”
“Certainly.”
Lord Danforth caught Sydney’s eye and he gave his head a slight shake. No Giles Clarke yet, though there were several more boys left. He must have noticed the nurse’s slow advance toward his location.
Sydney’s toe nudged the portmanteau resting at her feet. They had perhaps one more opportunity to locate the missing boy. She clapped her hands together and molded her features into a sparkling smile. “I almost forgot! Are all the boys here, Mrs. Kingston?”
“All but one.”
Dread tumbled like a great boulder down her torso until it crashed in the pit of her stomach. “Oh? Is it possible to have him join us?”
“I don’t think that’s a wise idea. He’s on bed rest, and I would hate to wake him or expose the others to his contagion.”
Of all the poor luck. Sydney would have to somehow reach the boy. “Could you please assemble the boys in one long line?”
“For what purpose?”
Sydney grabbed the handles of her traveling bag. She tsked, “You’ll have to wait for the surprise along with the others.”
Matron peered down at the bag before moving a few feet away. “Mrs. Drummond, please line the boys up.”
The nurse barked out a few commands, and Sydney glimpsed a crack in the playroom’s idyllic facade. Worry shone on more than one boy’s face, and none of them dawdled at the task. Within seconds a long row of boys, of varying sizes, stood before her. Eyes forward, shoulders back, arms at their sides. She felt like the commander of a small army.
“Be at ease, gentlemen,” she said. “I’ve something for each of you.”
A few brave souls sent curious looks toward her portmanteau.
“Lord Danforth, would you be so kind as to assist?”
He presented an elegant leg and bowed low. “Your servant, madam.”
Giggles rippled down the line before they abruptly stopped.
Sydney glanced at the nurse. Mrs. Drummond’s eyes had narrowed to murderous slits. Sydney nearly groaned with frustration. Must the woman stomp out every bit of their joy? What a miserable individual.
The viscount came to stand beside her. “What would madame have me do?” He winked at his audience and received a snicker in return.
“Unfortunately, one of the boys is not here. But we will make the best of it.” She held out her portmanteau to him, catching his eye. “As my humble assistant, you will hold open my bag.”
He started to do just that. “Not yet!” She smacked it closed and sent the boys her most dramatic, secretive look. “I have but one request before revealing the contents of my portmanteau.” She paused for effect. Feet shifted, throats cleared, hands trembled. “I’ll tell you my name, if you tell me yours. Every young man who shares his name may reach into the bag Lord Danforth’s holding for a special prize.”
His lordship presented the bag as if he were holding a golden chalice.
“Share their names?” Mrs. Drummond asked. “We can’t allow such a thing.”
“Whyever not?” Sydney asked.
“Well, because,” the nurse stammered, her eyes flashed to the matron. “We must protect them.”
“From what?” Lord Danforth asked.
The nurse’s face darkened into an ugly shade of red.
“Mrs. Drummond,” Matron said, “I think we can bend the rules for Mrs. Henshaw’s game.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Kingston.” Sydney sent the woman a brilliant smile before turning back to the boys. “Does everyone understand the rules?”
Wary nods answered. They were no doubt waiting for a catch, an unseen revelation that would rip their prize away.
“Who would like to go first?”
Eyes shifted from side to side, then they touched on the looming presence of Mrs. Drummond and the less forbidding Mrs. Kingston.
Their lack of response heightened Sydney’s anxiety. What if her last-minute scheme failed? When collecting items for her bag, she
had only thought to enliven the children’s day. But Lord Danforth’s revelation about his inability to identify the missing boy had spurred her mind into action. The solution to his problem emerged almost immediately. However, she dared not share her plan with him until she knew for certain she could deliver. Having all the boys—except the one—in the playroom was nothing short of a miracle, given her previous encounters.
Lord Danforth shook the bag, eliciting a plethora of tuneless clanging. The boys perked up, but still no hands rose into the air. “Methinks they do not believe us, Mrs. Henshaw. Perhaps a peek at a prize?”
“Wonderful idea, Lord Danforth.”
The viscount made a great show of searching for an item, stopping every so often to gauge their reaction. The more animated the boys became, the closer his lordship got to finding the perfect prize. Then, with great and slow deliberation, he drew out one of the three bandilores inside. This one, painted a deep ocean blue, with specks of silver and white, was the most eye-catching. Breaths hitched and words of awe echoed around the room. Still no hands.
Their resistance to such an innocent game perplexed Sydney, but more than that, it worried her. That kind of willpower at such a young age could only come from sharp and swift discipline. The realization hurt her heart and fired her blood.
“My lord,” Sydney said, “Would you mind demonstrating the bandilore?”
“I would be delighted to.” Sitting the portmanteau on the floor, Lord Danforth held out the toy for all to see. A length of string was attached to a spool between the two blue discs. Holding one end of the string, his lordship wound it around the spool until the grove was nearly filled. Then he let the bandilore drop—eliciting gasps from the boys. The sparkling discs sped toward the floor and, at the last second, his lordship jerked his hand upward, reversing the discs’ rotation. Up and down, up and down the bandilore traveled, captivating its young onlookers.
Three hands shot into the air.
Sydney smiled, delighted by the first sign of joy on the boys’ faces. When one of the three orphans wagged his hand to gain their attention, she asked, “Your name?” The two other boys emitted groans of discontent.
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