by Reid, Stacy
“I see,” Evie said with quiet contemplation. “Very generous of the marquess.”
“Indeed, my lady, we were very glad when we heard the news. Genteel folks don’t normally care about us.”
“Do you know the family, Miss Rogers?”
“I do, Lady Evie, they are my neighbors.”
I see. The carriage jerked to a stop, and Evie opened the blinds. “Why have we stopped?”
Miss Rogers opened the small window and enquired of the coachman. She drew back the curtain and settled against the squabs. “There seems to be an accident, my lady, and there is traffic. John says he will divert and we’ll be at the library shortly.”
Evie nodded and heaved a sigh of relief as the carriage once again jolted into motion. “I hope no one was hurt,” she murmured, picking up the book she had been reading earlier.
A loud commotion had Evie opening the blinds once more. She peered outside, frowning, unfamiliar with the streets they traveled on. She leaned forward, pressing her face to the carriage window as she spied a man taking his fist to a small boy. Her breath hitched as those walking along the cobbled street kept about their business. Acting on an instinct she was sure to regret, she used her parasol and rapped the roof of the carriage.
“Lady Evelyn?” Miss Rogers queried sharply, her nose twitching with distaste as she spied where they were.
“You may stay here. I will be back shortly.”
Her maid threw her a scandalized look. “Surely I will be fired if I allow you to leave the carriage unaccompanied!”
“Well, come on then.” The carriage stopped, and she hurried down from the equipage, disgust churning through her along with anger to see the man was still beating the child.
“You there,” she snapped at the man holding the small boy by the scruff of the neck. “Unhand him.”
The man swung around and she faltered. “Lord Prendergast!” He was a friend of her brother and had been over to their home several times for dinner parties and balls. He’d always seemed so kind, affable, and unctuous with his dark red hair, gray eyes, and elegant physique.
The child he held in his grip was bloodied and crying.
“I am appalled, my lord. What cause would you have to treat a child so cruelly?”
“This child,” he spat, “tried to pick my pocket. He is fortunate I did not hand him over to the magistrate.”
Evie lifted her chin. “Did he succeed?”
“No.”
“Then I implore you to unhand the boy, my lord. He is hurt and terribly frightened. I cannot credit a gentleman would thrash a helpless child until he is bleeding.”
Lord Prendergast had the grace to flush and tugged at his cravat. He released his hold, and the boy scurried away without looking back.
“Thank you.”
His eyes warmed. “I’m always happy to oblige you, my lady. Would you allow me to escort you to your destination?”
“I am quite able to return to my carriage without an escort. My lady’s maid is with me.”
His lips tightened, but he did not press the issue. With a tip of his hat, he walked away and disappeared around a corner. No doubt her brother would hear of her interference and scold her most severely.
“I cannot credit no one intervened,” Evie said, glaring at people as they strolled along the busy street. She allowed her gaze to roam the buildings of one of the more derelict parts of town she had ever seen. Everything seemed so filthy, covered in soot and grime: the buildings, the children, the newspaper hawker, and the little boy bravely standing in the cold selling oranges. The sun hung low in the sky, and the place held a dreary bleakness she could not understand. Several passersby glanced at the carriage and perused her intently before reluctantly moving on. She glanced at Miss Rogers. “Where are we?”
“Near the Smithfield meat market, my lady.”
Evie had never been to this side of town before, a notion that appalled her, for their carriage ride had not been overly long. “Is this a slum?”
Miss Rogers hesitated. “No, my lady.” Her lady’s maid glanced at the two footmen who hovered a few paces behind them.
“I think it best we return to the carriage and be on our way,” Evie murmured, still unable to credit the difference in the surroundings. The buildings were fashioned crudely, and without the refinement she was long accustomed to. Many soiled children tried to approach her, but the footmen shooed them away.
A little girl broke away and ran up to her with outstretched arms. “Please, ma’am, a coin fer food.”
Evie’s nose wrinkled at the strong scent wafting from the girl. She was thin, with straggly and matted dark hair and boots with holes in them. The girl’s eyes were wide and frightened, or perhaps it was hunger and desperation. Evie’s heart twisted. She retrieved her small purse bag with a few coins and lurched back as several children swarmed her, overriding the protest from her lady’s maid and footmen. A hand darted and grabbed the purse from her clutches and the children ran away, scuffling with each other for the contents.
“You thieves,” Miss Rogers shouted.
“Leave them be, Miss Rogers, they are but hungry.”
“They are thieves, my lady. Would you like to make a report?”
“Of course not. They are desperate children.” Very much like the boy Richard had told her of, who had been sentenced to seven years in jail for stealing food. She couldn’t help noticing how the people were dressed poorly, too badly for the cold that was even now nipping at Evie’s bones. She frowned as her gaze landed on a small form lying still in the gutter, her hands hanging limply by her side. Evie gasped as a man pushing a cart loaded with oranges simply skirted around her.
“Look away, my lady, more than likely she is dead.”
“Dead?” Evie pressed a trembling hand to her stomach, hating the sick feeling twisting inside her. There were people sitting on the ground near the seemingly lifeless child, eating a round thing that resembled bread, a few were lying still, mostly men with missing limbs. Shock rolled over her like a tidal wave. “I…” Her throat closed. Who are they?
Suddenly, irrationally, she felt cold and afraid. This was poverty, not the fate her mother had been bemoaning. Instinctively, Evie realized this could not be the worst of it, as they were not in the heart of the slum. It seemed inconceivable she stood only on the periphery. As if someone else controlled her motions, she walked farther down the street, her gaze bouncing from one heartbreaking face of despair to another. Children, women, men in grimy and tattered army uniforms.
A woman of undetermined years rushed over to her, a child in her arms and two more clutching at her frock. “If ye please, miss, do you ’ave any coins for me youngons?”
“I…no, they took it all earlier,” Evie responded helplessly.
The woman hardly spared her a glance as she moved her begging to the gentleman behind Evie, even going as far as to grasp his jacket. Evie gasped when he cuffed the side of the woman’s head and she stumbled, the child slipping from her arm. Evie rushed over, stooping and helping them to their feet.
“Have you lost your damn senses?” a rough voice demanded from behind.
Richard. The oddest sensation tugged deep inside of her, and she wanted to fling herself into his arms. She was gripped gently and herded away to the side of a building.
“Explain yourself—what madness brought you here?”
She was unable to speak past the tears of shame and sorrow choking her.
“Evie, do you have any idea of the manner of risk you assumed?”
“A child was being beaten, and I reacted without much thought.” She swallowed past the growing lump in her throat. “I…I took my maid and two footmen.”
“They would not have been able to protect you,” he growled. He glanced at Miss Rogers, who hovered close by. “Go. I will return her home safely.”
Miss Rogers dipped into a quick curtsy. “Yes, my lord. I’ll let the countess know you’re calling on Her Grace, my lady,” she said and hurrie
d away with the two footmen.
Richard shifted his regard to Evie, his eyes searching her face with disturbing intensity. “What is wrong? So help me God, I will bury the person who harmed you.”
“No one hurt me,” she gasped, stricken by the leashed violence thrumming from him.
“Then why are you crying?”
Oh! She swiped at the tears spilling over. Her gaze once more strayed to the begging children, the old street hawker, and the man without his limb lying in the gutter. “Their suffering shames me,” she blurted hoarsely.
“Don’t cry,” he said gruffly.
“How can I not? There are children here, who are cold, barely eating, with soot on their faces, and they are so…so meager in appearance. Meanwhile, we have balls after balls, with so much food and champagne discarded afterward.”
Evie commanded her fingers not to tremble. Tears once again burned the back of her eyes. She dropped her head to his chest, fighting to keep her composure. Her entire world had revolved around learning the delicate art of witty conversation, how to walk and dance with refined elegance, how to flirt artlessly, and how to capture a gentleman with at least ten thousand pounds a year. “How have I been so ignorant?”
A raw, ugly sound burst from her, and she swiped furiously at the tears streaming down her cheeks. With a low, indecipherable curse, Richard tugged her to him in full view of everyone.
“Don’t,” he ground out. “For Christ’s sake, Evie.”
“I’ve never given a thought to those who suffered. I was not even aware of the poverty and the despair. And how can that be when it is so plentiful? My life has been about my coming out, being the belle of each ball when this… I truly have been residing within a perfect gilded cage,” she choked out.
It was then she understood how he had changed, the distaste he felt for the ton and those who refused to aid the less fortunate. It had been shame that had broken him and hope that had reformed him into the man standing before her.
His hand moved in a slow, soothing stroke over her back. “Dammit, Evie, my words were never meant to drive you here.”
“They did not, it was happenstance the coachman diverted to this side.”
“Come, we cannot stay, there are footpads lurking around every corner,” he said, bundling her away toward his waiting carriage.
A protest welled in her throat. “Did you see the little girl lying over there on her side? I think…” She swallowed, fear burning her throat and squeezing the joy from her heart. “I think she is no longer living. Would you please check on her?”
He squeezed her gently, then released her and walked over to the small form hugging the side of the alley. Richard bent, moved the thin blanket, and examined the girl. He shrugged from his coat and then scooped her into his arms. Hope flared inside Evie. Unable to wait, she hurried over to him. “Does she live?”
“Yes, but she is faint from starvation. We must get her to Mrs. Cranston immediately.”
His courtesan widow?
They hurried toward his carriage, and in quick order, they were seated inside, and he gave orders to which the driver responded with alacrity. He bundled the child even more securely, holding her close to his chest, uncaring of her filth and the unpleasant odor wafting from her.
“There were men walking along the streets and they ignored her,” Evie said, firming her lips, hating the manner in which they trembled.
Golden eyes clashed with hers. “Hundreds of children die yearly on the streets of the city. Either from starvation or from the cold.”
She flinched. “I’ve not read of such atrocities.”
Cynicism twisted his lips into a cold sneer. “That is because the scandal sheets that report on which lady and lord are possibly having an affair are more sought after.”
She glanced out the small window, unable to withstand the condemnation in his gaze. They traveled in silence, and several minutes later the carriage rattled to a halt, and the door was opened by the coachman without delay. They descended and moved with briskness toward the large but very grim-looking house outside. She hurried to keep pace with him. “Where are we?”
“Cheapside district.”
“And Mrs. Cranston lives here?”
“Yes.”
“I…”
“You can wait in the carriage,” he clipped. “There is no doubt you are worried about the scandal if you were to be seen, though I hardly think any of your friends venture to this area of the city.”
Evie held her tongue, resenting the truth of his words. She followed him as the large oak door was opened without Richard knocking. He hurried down the hall, and she kept pace with him, noting the warm, inviting presence of the house. The rag-rolled walls were freshly painted in a cheerful pink and the furniture was made of solid dark wood. It was far from fashionable but looked practical and well polished.
“Mrs. Cranston,” he shouted.
A door was flung open, and Evie got a peek into a music room of sorts where several clean and lively children’s faces were gathered around a grand-pianoforte. The door closed, and the widow he had brought to the ball a few weeks ago bustled forward, her kind eyes curiously glancing from Richard to Evie.
“What have we here?” she murmured, shifting the blanket to study the child’s face. “Take her upstairs, Richard. I’ll have James fetch Dr. Campbell.”
He bounded up the stairs, and Evie remained frozen, unsure what to do. Mrs. Cranston clipped orders to a young maid for soup, dry toast, and for the doctor to be summoned. Everyone moved with purpose to do her bidding, and when the hallway was empty, she turned her attention to Evie.
Mrs. Cranston curtsied. “Lady Evelyn, it is a pleasure to see you again, despite the circumstances.”
“I… A pleasure to meet you,” she returned warmly, ashamed that a few weeks ago she had ignored Richard because she’d not wanted to be introduced to the woman before her now. Evie could not imagine the humiliation Mrs. Cranston had endured by the many cuts society directed her way. “Do you believe the girl will be well? She was lying on the ground and seemed insensate.”
“It is my duty and joy to see that she recovers. May I call for some refreshment for you before I attend the child?”
“Please direct all your attentions to her. I shall be fine.”
“Allow me to escort you to the parlor.” A few minutes later, Evie was comfortably situated in a tastefully furnished and spacious parlor with tea and biscuits despite her protest. Mrs. Cranston smiled, dropped into a shallow curtsy, and hurried away up the stairs. What was this place? How little she truly knew of Richard, of his cares, dreams, and hopes.
A few minutes later the door opened and he strolled in. She lowered the cup of tea to the small walnut table and stood. “Will she be well?”
An indecipherable emotion darkened his eyes. “The doctor is on his way, and Mrs. Cranston is currently bathing her and clipping her hair. She will also be fed soon.”
“What will happen to her now?”
“She will live here.”
“And here is?”
“One of many homes we’ve set up for abandoned children. There are two children to a room, but they have their own bed. There are governesses and tutors. They are taught to read, their numbers, and geography. We aim to ensure the children receive a tailored education that would allow them to obtain respectable positions and advance their prospects.”
“There are several such homes?”
“Twenty, at my last count.”
Oh! “We haven’t had much opportunity to speak on the things you are involved in now.” Embarrassment burned through her that he was one of the dearest persons in her life, and she had no notion of his efforts. How could they be of the same society but be such worlds apart?
“You’ve been busy.”
She could hardly find a suitable response. She had been busy planning the house party of the season and attending balls and musicales with her mother. Adel had informed Evie upon a few occasions of the schools and
hospitals they were building for those less fortunate. And what had she done? Offered some of her pin money without any true caring to understand. Oh God.
“Will you tell me all of it?” Her words were the merest of whispers.
His eyes roamed slowly down the length of her, cynicism crossing his mien. “Do you truly desire to know?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been in partnership with the Duke of Wolverton, the Earl of Blade, and a few other good men to help those who dwell in the slums of London. We are building affordable homes, schools, and hospitals.”
“Here, in the city?”
“A few here. Most are located near the edge of town, toward the countryside where the air is fresher, but where our men and women can still reach their employment in the center of town. Children are being rescued from baby farms, badly run orphanages, and from the slums of St. Giles. Stronger call for reforms are being made, but the lords are hard-hearted to the plight of England’s war casualties.”
He waved his arm for her to precede him from the parlor. She asked no questions as he left word with Mrs. Cranston that he would visit tomorrow and they departed the house. He steered them in the direction of his parked carriage.
She forced them to a halt. “Could we walk?”
He frowned, his golden eyes searching her face intently.
“I would hate to be enclosed in the carriage just now.”
“Let’s go,” he said gruffly, tugging her hand and looping it through his.
She glanced down at the intimate fashion in which he allowed her to hold onto him. “I suppose no one here cares about the strict rules of propriety that govern our world.”
“They do not.”
They moved away from the house, toward a busy street, strolling for the riverbank. The air was dank and cold, yet she felt a warmth unfurling through her soul. A child ran up to them and held out two apples.
