by Amy Jarecki
It didn’t take long to rejoin mother with her son.
“Come, it isn’t safe to stay here,” Fletcher said, marshalling the group around to Windmill Street. Then he turned to Brum. “Thank God you found the ladder.”
“Grabbed it from Hamilton’s men as they arrived with the pumper. Word is they’ve kept the adjoining buildings from going up in smoke as well.”
The street was filled with people everywhere, a powerful stream of water blasted from a loud steam engine.
Mrs. Whipple emerged from the crowd, her hands clasped beneath her chin. “Oh, thank the good Lord, you saved them, Your Grace.”
“It was touch and go. Thanks to Mr. Jackson, we were able to escape down a ladder.”
“Your Grace?” asked the woman he’d pulled from the window. “You’re a duke?”
Mrs. Whipple gave her an indignant look. “He’s our benefactor.”
Brum thwacked Fletcher’s shoulder. “I reckon your secret’s out of the bag, old friend.”
“Where are we going to sleep, Mama?” asked the little boy—a tiny lad, reminiscent of years past.
Fletcher picked him up and propped him on his hip. “I can think of only one place large enough to house the lot of you.”
“And where might that be?” asked Mrs. Whipple.
“Hail enough hackneys for everyone and tell the drivers we’re going to the Duke of Evesham’s town house on Piccadilly.” He looked to Brum and laughed. “My butler needs a modicum of upheaval in his life.”
The whites of the boxer’s eyes looked like saucers in the darkness. “Your butler? What the devil are you planning to do with a house full of unwed mothers and their children?”
Fletcher patted the child’s shoulder. “’Tis only until I can find them another home. I’ll wager they’ll be out of my house in two days.”
Brum chuckled. “Now that’s a bet upon which I’d place long odds.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
THANK GOD FLETCHER didn’t take Brum up on his wager. Two weeks had passed and Mrs. Whipple and her band of young ladies had completely taken over the town house. The only place Fletcher had any solace was his bedchamber. Even the library was full of beds...and children. Who knew children were so bloody active? And loud. And curious. And hungry. And adorable.
Of course, Fletcher didn’t consider a single miniature human comely. That must have come from Smith.
But Christopher, the lad he’d carried down the ladder had become quite the shadow. And with blue eyes nearly as large as his face, the boy was almost impossible to ignore, regardless of how hard Fletcher tried.
In truth, Christopher was no trouble whatsoever.
Aside from his town house being invaded by women and children, his bloody reputation had suffered a serious blow. The papers had embellished his benevolence and made him out to be as heroic as Richard the Lionheart. He sat at his writing desk and stared at an insurmountable pile of invitations to every soiree, ball, and house party from now until eternity. If it weren’t for the need to find a new home for the unwed mothers, he’d board a ship and take a tour of the Continent for the rest of his days.
With a knock, Smith stepped into the chamber. “There’s a Lady Eleanor Kent come to call, Your Grace. Shall I send her away?”
Fletcher’s gut twisted as he looked up. If only Lady Georgiana Whiteside had been announced. Still, the name of Georgiana’s friend made a lump the size of Great Gable Mountain swell in his throat.
“Did she say why she is here?”
“Only that she had a donation for the new Benevolent Home for Unwed Mothers and insisted upon presenting it to you herself.”
“What makes her think I’m procuring a new building?”
“The Gazette reported you were seen looking at a property a week past.”
It had, though Fletcher had not asked for charity. In his mind, requesting help when his estate was overflowing with money was akin to blasphemy.
Smith gestured toward the door. “She’s waiting in the parlor, if you’d care to entertain her.”
Fletcher stood. “The parlor? Isn’t there some sort of tea for pregnant mothers or something or other going on there?”
“’Tis a general tea and I’ve relegated them all to the kitchens.”
“The kitchens? You’ve sent those poor young ladies to the kitchens?”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but they are not nobly born. Most of those women were raised in one-room tenant housing—and some in the gutter. They can very well enjoy their tea at the servant’s tables below stairs where, I’ll say, all the rest of us take our meals. Mind you, those young ladies have not been slighted in the least.”
The butler turned as red as an overripe tomato, giving Fletcher pause. Good heavens, at times he, himself, preferred to sit at the servant’s tables, which were very much the same as the tables that had gone up in cinders. “Forgive me. I by no means meant to insinuate you or any of the servants in this house are beneath our guests. However, they are our guests, and while they are here, I ask that they are treated with respect. I shall visit the kitchens and see to their comfort after I’ve had a word with Her Ladyship.”
Fletcher smiled to himself when a great deal of laughter resounded from the kitchens as he opened the door to the parlor and stepped inside. Of course, Smith was right. And why shouldn’t a duke receive guests in his parlor where he usually did? He crossed the floor and took Eleanor’s hand. “Your Ladyship, how lovely to see you.”
She nodded pleasantly, her red curls framing the face beneath her bonnet. “Forgive me for coming without prior notice but I have something for you.”
Fletcher held up his palm. “I assure you, I am not seeking benefactors for the new women’s home.”
“Did I mention I wished to make a contribution?”
“Forgive me but...” Fletcher looked back toward the door. Damn Smith. “My butler indicated benevolence was the reason for your visit.”
She scooted aside and patted the settee. “If you would sit, I’ll share with you the reason for my presence.”
Clearing his throat, he gestured toward the bell pull. “Shall I ring for tea?”
“I assured your butler that would not be necessary,” she said with a bit of an edge to her voice. Had she come to berate him? To plead with him on Georgiana’s behalf?
Eyeing her, Fletcher slid onto the seat. “I take it this is not a social call.”
The splay of soft freckles across her nose stretched with her smile. “I am here to give you a note, but it is not from me, because I am not as cordial as some.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Lady Eleanor pulled a slip of paper from her reticule and studied it for a moment. “Lady Georgiana sent this to me and asked that I give it to the rebuilding fund anonymously.”
At the sound of her name, the air whooshed from Fletcher’s lungs. “I—”
The lady sliced the note through the air. “Though I am breaking her confidence in doing so, I felt someone needed to speak out for her.”
Heat spread across his body—blasting with sparks like the fire he’d battled on the third floor of the women’s home. He gulped against the thickening of his throat. For the past few weeks, every time he blinked, he saw Georgiana’s face, even more so of late.
“Her Ladyship never meant to do you harm. In fact, she was mortified over what happened at Southwark Fair.”
“She should have told me.”
“Perhaps, but until the house party, she never thought she’d fall in love with you.” Eleanor brushed a gloved hand over her skirts. “If she had told you about Southwark, would it have made any difference?”
Fletcher looked up to the portrait of his grandfather and rubbed the back of his neck. There he was sitting in a house filled with ancestors he’d never known—yet with each passing day, he grew more like the upper class he’d once disdained. “No. I had made my judgment.”
“Yes, as I witnessed at Richmond Park, you acted judge and jury, which is exactly why Lady
Georgiana was terrified to tell you about the pumper. Did you know she was there when the cylinder dropped and crushed her husband? Did you know she alone studied and ran test after test perfecting his monstrosity, if you will?”
“I...” Fletcher looked to his hands. “No. She did not share any of that with me.”
“The papers reported that Lord Hamilton’s men arrived at the fire with the Whiteside pumper and kept the neighboring buildings from burning.”
“He did.”
The woman gave an indignant nod. “And with enough men to man the hose, I take it no innocent bystanders were drenched with water?”
“None that I saw.”
“So.” Lady Eleanor gave him the note. “After receiving orders for more pumpers, Lady Georgiana felt she had enough coin to give you a hundred pounds to help with necessities for the new Benevolent Home for Unwed Mothers.”
Fletcher ran his fingers over the feminine penmanship—so very lovely—so very like her. “’Tis a great sum.” And such a selfless gesture.
“It is. And I’ll say it is coin she herself needs. Georgiana might have taken a giant step out of poverty, but progress will be slow for her.” As Lady Eleanor stood, Fletcher did as well. “I wanted you to know the truth before you damned her to hell.”
What? He nearly spat out his front teeth. “Your Ladyship?”
“You know who I am and what I do. And if I cannot speak with you bluntly, no one will. Lady Georgiana isn’t only my friend, she is the sweetest, most decent person with whom I have the pleasure of being acquainted.” Eleanor pulled the stings on her reticule, while she pursed her lips so tightly, they turned white. “Furthermore, it is my steadfast opinion that you do not deserve her.”
Fletcher bowed his head, words refusing to form on his lips. Everything the lady had said was true, especially the last jibe.
“I’ll show myself out.”
“STEADY UP THERE,” GEORGIANA said, holding the ladder for Roddy while Mr. Tees manned the cable reel.
The boy grinned down, but even his smile did nothing to ease her jitters. She didn’t like seeing anyone up so high. It was too dangerous. But this new rope was twenty times stronger than the one that had snapped.
Roddy leaned over, feet on the second-highest rung and one arm around the rafters while he threaded the cable through the pully. “I nearly have it.”
Every muscle in Georgiana’s body tensed as she prayed nothing would go awry. “Careful.”
“I’m always careful.” Roddy pulled the rope and grinned as he drew it downward. “See? All done.”
“Perfect!” She clapped her hands. “Now climb down before my heart gives out.”
Mr. Tees came over with the cast-iron hook. “I reckon this will hold up to anything.”
“Lady Eleanor says it is the strongest available—the same cable they use on the tall ships.”
While Roddy hopped down from the ladder, Mrs. Tees stepped into the workshop. “There’s a gentleman caller for you, my lady.”
Georgiana wiped her hands on her apron. With all the supplies she’d purchased, there had been a number of callers of late—all wanting to sell her more than necessary. “Who is it this time?”
“He didn’t give his name—said it would spoil the surprise.”
For a fleeting moment, her stomach fluttered. But she swiped a hand over her mouth and looked away. The Duke of Evesham had walked out of her life forever. How many times must I remind myself of that fact?
On a sigh, she looked to the three dear people who were helping her to make Daniel’s dream a reality. They were all she needed to care about. “It has been a day of good work. Why not shut up shop a bit early?”
“Beauty!” Roddy spun in a circle. “There’s another cricket game and if I go now, I’ll not miss it.”
“Very well, but I want you to read before you turn in this night.”
“I promise I will,” he said, heading out.
After bidding good afternoon to Mr. and Mrs. Tees, Georgiana straightened her lace muslin cap and left for the cottage.
A tall, fair-haired man dressed in a tailcoat looked out the front window as she entered through the rear door. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr...”
He turned. “Lady Georgiana, surely you have not forgotten me already.” The man’s gaze was hard, his mouth turned up only at one corner.
“Mr. Webster.” She glanced back, wishing she hadn’t dismissed Mrs. Tees. “I am so very surprised to see you here.”
“Is that so? Did you not invite me to see your pumper?”
“Ah...I recall inviting you to Richmond Park. And you were there.”
“Yes.” Thank heavens his smile seemed more genuine. “Though we didn’t have a chance to talk at the time. Evesham seemed to have made a calamity of the day and afterward didn’t seem the appropriate time to discuss Whiteside’s invention.”
“I can see where you’d be dissuaded given his behavior from the previous evening.” She gestured to the table. “Can I offer you a cup of tea and a biscuit?”
“That would be lovely, thank you.” While Georgiana busied herself putting on the kettle, Mr. Webster opted not to sit but strolled around the chamber, inspecting everything. “I expected Whiteside to have done better for himself.”
She opened the cast-iron door of the hob and added a stick of wood to the fire. “Truly? Generally, inventors start out poor.”
The man pulled back the lace curtain and peered out the window. “And some never rise above it.”
How dare he saunter around her cottage as if he were familiar? She’d asked him to sit and he’d ignored her. Dash it, his tone and his behavior made her feel as if he suspected her of some vile misdeed. She squared her shoulders. “Tell me, what was your relationship with Daniel?”
He continued with his inspection. “We were partners—in engineering class. We developed the idea for the steam-powered fire engine together.”
“Together? I find that odd. Truly, I met his classmates in London—back when we were courting. And you were not among them. I most definitely would have remembered a partner, but he never mentioned you.”
From the bookshelf, Webster selected the volume of Experiments and Observations on Electricity by Benjamin Franklin and thumbed through the pages. “Unfortunately, I didn’t graduate.”
“I’m sorry.” Georgiana’s shoulders tensed as she watched the pages turn. Could she find out more? “Was there a family calamity of sorts?”
“No.” He set the book on the table and stepped nearer, the look in his eyes hard once more. “You might say I was deprived of my education, and thus deprived of a vocation—a share in your dead husband’s invention.”
The hair on the back of Georgiana’s neck stood on end as she swallowed against the constricting of her throat. “But most of Daniel’s work came after he left university. And then I—”
As she shrieked, Mr. Webster lunged and grabbed her wrist. Searing pain shot up her arm as she tried to wrench free. No match for the man’s strength, he brutally yanked her into him, clutching an arm around her neck as he twisted her wrist up her spine. “I don’t care about that bastard.”
Georgiana thrashed and twisted, struggling against the man’s iron grip. “Unhand me this instant!”
But fighting only made him yank her arm higher up her back. “I want those drawings,” he seethed.
“To do what?” she cried, sweat streaming down the side of her face while she fought to keep her arm from breaking. “I-I’ve already sold the first model and-and have orders for more.”
Lowering his lips to her ear, he scoffed, “Do you really think yourself capable of manufacturing more than one?”
Her mind racing, there was only one thing sure to appease him. “If you want the drawings, release me and I’ll get them for you.”
The beast laughed—a sickening, hateful cackle. “You’re the type of woman who’d fight if I let you go. Tell me where they are.”
Her eyes shifted toward the be
dchamber. “They’re in the workshop of course.” If she spirited him out the back, the Tees might hear her scream.
“Liar!” He dragged her toward the door. “Whiteside owed me. I was dismissed from Cambridge for stealing—and that damned bastard refused to vouch for my character. Then he took our idea and went on to live the life I should have led.”
Cringing with the pain, she dragged her feet, trying to resist. “He died for his invention.”
He hauled her into the room. “That’s because he was careless.”
“How can you say such a thing?”
“Enough talk.” Mr. Webster pushed her with such force, Georgiana hit her head on the bed’s footboard.
“Help!” she shouted as she fell to the floor.
“Shut up!” He drew a knife and waved it in front of her face. “This is for you, wench. I want those drawings. Now!”
Georgiana kept her gaze on his face, refusing to allow a shift of her eyes to give away the hiding place of the strongbox. “I said they were in the warehouse.”
He slapped her with a backhand. “I’ve had enough of your lies. Tell me where they are, or I’ll bury this blade in your heart and tear this place apart until I find what I’m after.”
Staring at the sharp point of the dagger, she had no doubt he would kill her. “It’s too late. Everyone knows Daniel’s story. It was in the papers.”
“Papers oft err in their reports. And no one will doubt a man’s word when I step forward and tell the world that you stole my idea. My work.”
Her entire body trembled. “You’re mad.”
“No, but I’m going to be very rich.” Mr. Webster grabbed the back of her neck and pressed the point of the dagger into her throat. “This is your last chance. Where. Are. They?”
“Beneath us,” she whispered, her heart slamming against her chest.
With the ease of his grip, Georgiana scooted away, the coppery glean of the bedwarmer catching her eye. “Just pull back the rug. I’m not strong enough to lever up the trapdoor without help.”
It was a fib, but convincing enough. He gave her a dead-eyed stare. “If you move from that spot, it will be the last thing you do.”
