The Marquess of Secrets (The Hornsby Brothers Book 3)

by Karyn Gerrard

  “Quite a speech. I have obligations—”

  “Are your parents insisting you make such an aristocratic match?” she asked.

  “No, not at all.”

  “Then do not force the issue. Look by all means, but do not settle for anything less than true love. I’m giving advice, and perhaps I’m overstepping my boundaries, but it is kindly meant. I wish for you to be happy. As I said, you deserve love and all it offers.”

  He nodded, too moved to speak. Blast it all, he didn’t think his parting from Francesca—Annie—would affect him this deeply. Clearing his throat, he said, “May you find all you desire, Annie.”

  “And you as well, my dear.”

  Slipping on his greatcoat and donning his hat, he exited the room and trotted down the stairs. Stepping out into the night, he thought about her emotionally spoken words, “I have a feeling you will follow your brothers down the path of true love with a woman not of your class. She may even be entirely inappropriate. If you meet such a lady, do not dismiss her. Nor dismiss what you feel.”

  He was the heir with an unspoken duty to marry well, and, because of it, couldn’t afford the luxury of loving someone not of his class.

  It would be prudent to remember it.

  Chapter 2

  A week later

  Of all the wretched nights Lydia Chesterton had endured the past few weeks, tonight was the worst. She’d run out of money four days past, and, as a result, slept out-of-doors. The past night had been spent in a dingy alley with her crammed in behind empty beer casks. Though she managed a few hours rest, the temperature dropped during the night and she’d caught a chill. Truth? Lydia had been feeling poorly for more than a week.

  Lydia understood enough to be aware that she was dehydrated, malnourished, and well on her way to developing full-blown pneumonia. In her previous life—one that seemed to belong to someone else—she worked as a nurse at a well-respected hospital. How far she had fallen. Now was not the time to ruminate about her past and the many mistakes made, she needed immediate shelter and medical care.

  Where could she possibly go? The voluntary or charity hospitals turned away the truly destitute, which at the moment described her current condition. There was the option of a poor law infirmary, but then once recovered, she’d be forced into at a workhouse. A fate she wished to avoid.

  Last night she overhead a conversation in the alley, two men speaking of an underground respite from life on the cobbles. The place was housed in an abandoned, partially dug underground railway line next to St. Dunstan’s Church in Stepney. More of an illegal soup kitchen of sorts, yet the Anglican nuns offered a pallet and a blanket, and there was a surgeon that tended the sick for no cost. The men referred to him as Dr. Damian.

  It sounded too good to be true. Clutching her pathetic bundle to her chest, she calculated the distance she would have to walk. If she didn’t collapse from exhaustion or sickness, she could be there in less than an hour. First, she must eat. Lydia pulled the stale raisin bun from her wool coat pocket. She’d located it in a rubbish bin outside a tearoom. When one was starving, one could not be fussy. Because of unbridled hunger, she ate it far too fast and her stomach roiled in response. But she had no choice but to push on.

  Besides, what were the chances John Huntsford was even looking for her? Yet, the loathsome man was vindictive enough to hunt her down. There was nothing else for it, she must keep moving. Wiping her runny nose with her tattered sleeve, she headed toward Stepney High Street.

  At last, the medieval tower of the centuries-old church came into view and she nearly cried from relief. Next to it was an archway made of brick, covered by large wooden doors with a sign declaring “keep out.” Did she come all this way for nothing? Lydia’s heart sank until she observed people entering and exiting by moving aside, then replacing, a few loose boards.

  Tentatively, she did the same. Numerous torches in holders lit the way. Lydia walked along the tunnel a short distance, and it opened up in what probably would have been the platform area. Beyond the platform is where they halted the work; there was no more brick and the dirt walls were shored up by massive timbers. On the crudely-made wood platform were six brick columns. The nuns kept their workstations in and around the columns.

  Pallets filled every bit of the ground, and there was two wood stoves throwing a good deal of heat with two large cauldrons sitting on top of them. Here in the dimly-lit tunnel were the dregs of society: lost, lonely, impoverished people with no one in the world or no place to live.

  The place was crowded. There were many castaways in whose number she could count herself. The sight saddened her. Despite the workhouses and debtor prisons, many people wound up living on the streets when all else in life had failed them. Or in her particular case, when horrible life choices brought one as low as one could possibly sink. Shivering, Lydia had no idea where to go.

  One of the Anglican nuns saw her swaying on her feet and rushed forward to take her arm. “I’m Sister Monica. Come, warm yourself by the stove.”

  Lydia wanted to cry, but was so weak and weary she couldn’t even summon up the tears.

  “Along with me, four other nuns here trained under Florence Nightingale in the Crimea. So we know what we’re about,” Sister Monica continued. The woman, in her early sixties, had a kindly face, her voice firm and soft with empathy. “Take a seat on this bench.”

  Still clasping her small bundle, Lydia moaned as waves of warmth rolled over her from the nearby stove, immediately chasing away the worst of the chill.

  “I’m going to ask you a couple of questions. How long have you been living on the streets?”

  “I-I ran out of money four days past. I’ve been sleeping in alleys.”

  “You don’t look well at all. Are you what is considered an ‘unfortunate woman?’”

  It took Lydia’s sluggish mind several moments to work out what the nun meant. No, she had not taken money for sex, thus far. Though it may become her last resort. It was no wonder so many poor women,—and men—turned to prostitution. Lydia made a vow never to look down on anyone in such a circumstance ever again.

  “Not as yet,” she whispered.

  “I ask to determine if you’re suffering from maladies of the trade. I will fetch you a bowl of broth. First, I will explain the rules of this underground sanctuary. This terminus is temporary; you cannot stay here on a permanent basis. This is, literally, the end of the line. From here the only option is the workhouse, or if deemed ill enough, one of the infirmaries. Or you can allow us to find you honest work in order for you to regain a footing into society.”

  Regain a footing into society.

  Not likely, not after what she’d done. Lydia nodded. At this point, she would agree to anything in order to stay sitting by the fire with a bowl of watery broth.

  “Good. Dr. Damian will be along directly to see you. He’ll decide how long you will remain here.”

  Damian. She never caught on to the name. “The patron saint of physicians?”

  “Oh, are you Catholic?” Sister Monica asked.

  “If I am, does that mean I cannot stay?”

  “Nonsense,” the nun huffed. “There are no denominations here. Only those in need.”

  “I’m not Catholic, but my mother was.” But not a practicing one.

  The nun gave her a sympathetic look. “Was? Past tense? Do you have any family?”

  With difficulty, Lydia swallowed the lump in her throat and whispered, “I have no one. At all.” She lowered her head in sadness and shame.

  The nun tsked, patted her arm, then bustled away to the stove. Lydia exhaled a shaky breath. The air down here was not the best, the odor of damp earth mingled with the redolence of humanity. A child cried in the distance, but despite the wail, this somber place was eerily quiet.

  What was there to be jovial about? There were people here of all ages and no doubt from various backgrounds. Entire families with children and babies. Surely they would be given top priority for assistance
. As they should be. In her capacity as nurse she’d observed the best and worst of humanity. What the nuns were doing here was the best to be certain.

  Sister Monica returned and passed her a bowl of broth and a wooden spoon. Lydia was surprised to see a goodly amount of vegetables swimming about, along with small pieces of ham. A true feast. With tears in her eyes, she profoundly thanked the nun who then moved off to attend others. It was her first hearty meal in days.

  Slow and easy.

  Though tempted to shovel the stew down her throat, she savored every spoonful. It warmed her insides and calmed the hunger spasms. When finished, she placed the bowl and spoon on the floor as exhaustion overcame her. Using her bundle as a pillow, she curled up on the bench and drifted into a deep sleep.

  “Miss?”

  Lydia snapped awake and her head turned in the direction of the deep male voice. A man all in white stood before her. She struggled to sit up, and he clasped her elbow gently to assist her. A jolt of heat moved through her at his brief touch.

  Rubbing her eyes, she took a closer look. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore a white shirt, coat, and trousers. A large apron, adorned with small spatters of blood, covered most of the clothes. He wore strange white gloves; his face obscured by a white mask and his hair hidden under a white cap. A stethoscope hung about his neck. All she could see was large silver-gray eyes studying her closely. This must be Dr. Damian. Dressed all in white, he certainly resembled an angel of mercy.

  “I’m a physician, here to determine your state of health and how long you are to remain here.”

  Quality.

  Though his voice was muffled from the mask, he possessed the unmistakable tone of a well-to-do man. If he spoke the truth and was an actual physician, then he must be here in secret doing charity work.

  The medical profession in England was divided into three layers of care. At the bottom was the apothecary who mixed drugs and looked after the poor. Second was the surgeon who did the manual work such as setting broken bones. At the peak of the hierarchy was the physician, the gentlemen’s doctor. University trained and a member of the Royal College of Physicians, he would listen to your chest, prescribe a nostrum, and charge you twenty pounds for the pleasure. A physician would not lower himself to attend patients needing boils lanced or to treat a prostitute with venereal disease. What was this man doing in the bowels of the earth attending to the underprivileged?

  “Sister Monica claims you are unwell? Could you describe what’s wrong?” he asked.

  A coughing fit overtook her, which no doubt summed up her current health. Even she could hear the rattle in her chest. The doctor leaned in, the stethoscope held in his gloved hand.

  “May I?”

  Pulling aside the collar of her frayed blouse, he listened to her chest.

  “Take deep breaths and exhale.”

  Lydia was already doing as such, but he no doubt said it out of habit.

  “Pneumonia?” she asked.

  The doctor gave her a look as if surprised. “A correct diagnosis. A mild case. You shall remain here for five days, keep warm and fed, rest, drink plenty of fluids, and the congestion in your lungs should lessen. In the meantime, Sister Monica will take your history and ascertain how we can assist you. Do you have any medical knowledge?”

  It took all her inner strength to hide the look of panic. She’d given too much away. Biting her lower lip, she shook her head. “No. My…mother died of something similar. Weak lungs run in the family.” At least that was not a lie.

  “But you do have some education? I ask as your speech indicates such, as does your clothing.”

  Despite the dirty, threadbare condition of her clothes, they revealed her once middle class standing. Or former standing. “A little schooling.”

  “You’re exhausted. We have a pallet and blanket for you. Come, I will assist you to it and you can rest. When you awake, Sister Monica will give you willow bark tea to bring down your slight fever.” He reached for her bundle, but she cried out and grabbed it, clutching it to her. “I’m sorry. I will not touch your belongings. Will you allow me to take your arm?”

  Oh, his voice was soft and deep, his eyes kind and solicitous. Why couldn’t she have met a man like this instead of John Huntsford? She nodded, and the doctor helped her to a pallet not far from one of the stoves. Assisting her to a laying position, she again used her bundle as a pillow.

  Dr. Damian covered her with a patched but clean blanket, and a soft moan escaped her lips from the sensation of actually lying flat in a modicum of comfort.

  “Sleep. No one will disturb you the rest of the night. No one will rob you as we have volunteers who roam the area to keep it safe. I’ll come and see you again tomorrow night.”

  “Thank you, Doctor…”

  But he was already gone, like a wisp of smoke. Lydia’s eyelids lowered and she fell fast asleep, warm and comfortable for the first time in weeks. And more importantly, she felt…safe.

  Chapter 3

  “Dr. Damian, may I see you a moment?”

  Harrison followed Sister Monica to the small makeshift office they arranged in the corner, consisting of eight-foot-tall planks acting as walls and a temporary door. Once they found themselves alone, he tore off his mask and cap. Besides Sister Monica, only Sister Agatha knew his true identity.

  “My lord, you’ve been down here five hours without a break, I insist you sit and I’ll bring you a bowl of ham stew and a piece of bread while we discuss the summaries.”

  With a weary sigh, Harrison plopped into the old desk chair they’d brought from the church. “You have a valid point, Sister. The stew and bread is welcome.” He peeled off the silk gloves and tossed them on the desk. He’d fashioned them himself, a pair of ladies cut down from elbow length to a few inches above the wrist. They were damned awkward, but protected his hands from various diseases and astringents that he came in contact with. Since they were a ladies size, the tight fit allowed some measure of dexterity.

  Sister Monica left to fetch the stew, and he overheard her ask one of the men to stand watch outside the flimsy door to ensure his privacy.

  Harrison had been Dr. Damian for five years. When he was in a low mood, he would admonish himself for being such a coward, but hiding his identity was the only way he could practice the type of medicine he’d always wanted without any outside comment or interference. A marquess and heir to a duke wouldn’t even be accepted by society as a gentleman’s physician. But that didn’t impede him from studying medicine at Cambridge. At university, his fellow students thought him mad. Eccentric.

  That word again.

  Perhaps his entire family was mad. Regardless, he lived this secret life for more years than he cared to count. It all started eleven years past when he took a trip to the Scottish Highlands not for a restful holiday, but in order to live in a small village and act as their surgeon for two months. The experience had been so rewarding, he made other such extended journeys to the far flung corners of Great Britain.

  To his family and the outside world, he was a rake and a selfish, entitled peer who traveled aimlessly, indulging in the worst of vices along the way. He cultivated the fabrication, and besides the two nuns, only his close friend from Cambridge, Samuel Kenward, who believed the same as him in providing medical treatment for the poor, knew his secret.

  Keeping it had become wearisome and more difficult as the years passed. His aristocratic background caught up with him, and since he was a man of duty to his very core, he could no longer neglect the responsibilities that come with being an heir to a duke. Hell, he hadn’t even told his brothers, who were his close friends besides being his siblings. Harrison had no doubt they would support him in his clandestine endeavors, but he’d decided long ago in order to protect his family from further gossip, it was better that he not divulge anything.

  In moments of reflection, he often wondered if he’d made the right decision keeping this secret. Yes, he most definitely was a coward. But he also wanted to liv
e his life on his terms. At least, until his duty as heir could no longer be denied.

  Sister Monica burst through the door carrying a tray. “I made you a cup of tea and slipped in a nip of Irish whiskey.”

  Harrison rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “You are a true saint, Sister.”

  She laid the tray in front of him and reached for a mug of tea. Knowing the nun, she doubtless added whiskey to her own cup as well. Taking a sip as she pulled the stool closer to his plank desk, Harrison tucked in to the meal, hungrier than he first thought.

  “Right you are, you eat and listen while I talk, my lord. We’re full to capacity. Word is spreading farther out onto the streets, and we will have to start turning people away or shorten the time that they stay at the terminus.” She took another sip. “But word is not only getting out to those in need. I had the son of a baron pop in and ask if he may volunteer a few nights a week. Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather. I said yes, how could I turn away help?”

  “What name did he give?” Harrison asked between spoonfuls.

  “Cyril Bottomly. Son of Baron Jacob Bottomly.”

  “I’ve heard of the baron, and he does have a son. What chores did you assign to him?”

  “He ladled out the soup, helped move some pallets, took the dirty laundry over to the church, and brought clean blankets in return.”

  Interesting.

  “Give him more to do, and if anyone else asks to volunteer, use your judgment. You’re a fine arbitrator of character. Use your discretion.”

  The nun sighed. “How much longer can we get away with this, my lord? Why haven’t we been shut down?”