The Marquess of Secrets (The Hornsby Brothers Book 3)

by Karyn Gerrard

  “Because we serve a purpose, and it’s not costing the government anything, so they allow us to exist as long as we remain somewhat secret.”

  “Ah. Cost. Now we come to the heart of it. My lord, I know this is none of my business, but you cannot continue to fund this place with your own money. It isn’t right or proper.”

  “You’re correct, Sister. It is none of your business. How I choose to spend my inheritance is my own concern.” His words were clipped, his tone harsh.

  But Sister Monica was made of sterner stuff. She met his angry gaze and jutted out her chin in defiance. “It may be none of my concern, my lord, but I worry for you toiling away down here hours at a time, night after night. Someone has to speak truth to you, and care about your welfare.”

  His anger dissipated. Sister Monica was right, and he was grateful for her concern. “Please accept my apologies for my curt response. Blame it on weariness and frustration. I told you to call me Harrison when we’re alone. After five years, I think you can manage it…Monica.”

  He took a long drink of tea, savoring the bite of the Irish whiskey. “I’m aware we cannot keep up this pretense much longer. The time has come to take this public, set up a society of sorts. Garner the support of benevolent donors. Outdoor relief is increasing at last. There are those working outside the stringent Poor Law Act. I believe we do not need to operate in secret any longer.”

  “Hrumph. I don’t care for the Charity Organization Society with their draconian methods of determining who are the deserving poor or undeserving poor.”

  “I completely agree. You have to admit, there are those who take advantage of relief efforts in order to avoid work. We’ve seen a few down here and more than once.”

  “Well, shouldn’t that be the government’s job? I mean, seems to me the government is handing more responsibility onto private concerns. Harrison, it’s not right.”

  She finally called him by name and he smiled. Who would have thought he would become friends with a liberal-thinking nun in her sixties? Harrison admired her and the others for basically running a soup kitchen-clinic outside the scope of the New Poor Law. The problem was the charitable proposition devoured money. His fortune had been depleted by more than two-thirds in his bid to aid the destitute. There must be a better way.

  Also, if he were to be honest, his own health began to suffer. He was in a rundown condition, exhausted, running on little sleep and even less food. Harrison dropped eight pounds in the past four months alone. This enterprise was running away from him while completely engulfing his life.

  A few years ago, Harrison had been ennobled by Queen Victoria by a writ of acceleration, meaning even though he held the courtesy title, he was able to attend the House of Lords. It was a rare occurrence and showed how the queen liked and admired his father. Between sitting in parliament and his physician duties at night, he was done in. Both commitments were suffering.

  “I concur. Remember though, it’s the government that ran those horrific workhouses. It took decades of slow incremental change to see even the slightest improvement and it is still not enough.” Harrison took a spoonful of stew. “Allow me to broach the subject with Sam Kenward, and I will also discuss it with my father. Perhaps a charitable public clinic for those in need may be the answer we seek. A temporary place of reprieve.”

  “I will leave it in your capable hands. Here are the totals for today,” Sister Monica announced. “Fifteen new cases. From the grand total, seven have been moved to the tuberculosis infirmary. Two more have started jobs at the docks. A family of six agreed to head to the workhouse on Waterloo Road.”

  Where they would be separated. No wonder families chose to live on the street before heading to one of those abominations. As he’d mentioned to Sister Monica, the places had improved slightly since it was decided to house the infirmaries in separate locations, but the conditions were still deplorable in his view.

  Taking another spoonful of the hearty stew, his mind wandered to the young woman with onset pneumonia. Attractive—and he’d no business thinking such under the circumstances. Harrison would hazard to guess her situation was more recent than most, due to her mode of clothing, though the garments were worn and dirty.

  “The young woman with the golden hair, have you found out her name and situation?”

  Sister Monica arched an eyebrow at him. “No, not as yet. I decided to let her sleep since she was dead on her feet. There is time enough tomorrow. Did she touch you in some way?”

  When he took her arm, a sizzling awareness moved through him like a wave crashing on a shoreline. But that was not what Monica meant. The nun spoke of his heart. He’d learned long ago to keep his heart hidden and protected. It was a habit he intended to keep firmly in place.

  “She is not the obvious poor we see down here is the reason,” Harrison replied. “The young lady diagnosed herself. Her mode of dress suggests a middle class upbringing and possible education.”

  “I’ll see to her personally, never fear. She claims not to be a prostitute, and I believe her. She doesn’t have the look of the street.” Monica placed her mug on the desk. “Now. You have seen everyone and most have settled in for the day. After you eat, I insist you return home and rest. We have enough food to see us through to the end of the week, and enough chalk lime for the cesspits. Dr. Sam will be here in the morning, so there is no need for you to come again until tomorrow night. Sleep, and eat a hearty breakfast. That is an order, my lord.” She gave him a warm smile. “I mean, Harrison.”

  It wouldn’t hurt to follow Monica’s instructions. A good night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast sounded wonderful. Yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about the young woman. What was her story? What brought her to such a low point? What caused the weariness and fear he’d seen in her astonishing green-blue eyes?

  Shaking the thoughts away, he turned his mind to the upcoming ball. Now that he was looking for an appropriate bride, perhaps he should retire “Dr. Damian” for good, come out of the shadows, and pour his energy into a more permanent and viable clinic for the destitute.

  And forget the pretty young woman with the tragic appearance.

  Chapter 4

  A baby’s piercing cry woke Lydia with a start. It took several minutes to get her bearings, and she gasped when she found the older nun standing over her.

  “You’re awake at last. Its half past eleven in the morning, you’ve slept around the clock. Much needed, I daresay. Before I bring you tea, bread, and stew, we should get you washed up. I recall you saying you’ve only been on the streets a few days, not long enough to collect any crawlers,—lice, fleas, and the like. We’ll check you anyhow. Stand up miss…what’s your name?”

  Oh. She couldn’t give her own, she didn’t dare. “Lucinda Best.”

  “Miss Best, please follow me. You may bring your bundle.”

  Lydia accompanied the nun, and behind the screen was a basin filled with water, small towels, and a bar of soap.

  “All you can manage is a sponge bath, but I would encourage you to wash all the bits you can. No one will disturb you. Then we shall check you for any unwanted visitors. Are you able to stand?” Sister Monica asked.

  Though her legs were shaky, she nodded.

  “It’s carbolic soap, a little rough, but it will get you clean enough. I’ll leave you to it.”

  The nun bustled away, and Lydia slowly peeled off her tattered coat, small jacket, and blouse. Dipping her hands in the basin she gasped at the pleasant sensation of warm water. How long had it been since she’d a proper wash? Once she lowered the straps on her bodice, she quickly soaped up the small flannel and commenced washing the grime of the streets away. Too bad she could not scrub the horrid memories of the past few months.

  Caught up in her chore, Lydia didn’t hear the nun enter the small area. She cried out when Sister Monica grabbed her arm, turning it upright. Lydia slapped her hand over the needle marks at the bend of her elbow.

  “How recent are those?” The nun a
sked, her tone brisk.

  Lydia yanked her arm out of Sister Monica’s grip. “Not recent.”

  The nun arched an eyebrow, but did not comment. “When you’re finished, return to your pallet. We will be discussing your situation. Hurry along.”

  Her face flushing, Lydia admonished herself for coming here. If she’d known she’d be given an interrogation rivaling a hardened Scotland Yard detective, she would have taken her chances and stayed in the alley. A wave of dizziness overcame her and she clasped the ends of the table to steady her trembling body. No, Lydia was quite ill. If she stayed out-of-doors, she’d have succumbed.

  Swiping the soapy cloth under her arm, her mind tried to formulate a story that would satisfy the meddlesome nun. Instead, her thoughts were full of the angel of medical mercy with the mesmerizing silver-gray eyes.

  Lord, his touch.

  Even through the gloves and her garments, she’d experienced a surge of sensual awareness she’d never experienced in her brief time with John Huntsford. At least not right away. She’d imagined herself in love with Surgeon Huntsford, completely caught in his spell. Because of it, she’d done anything that he asked. Everything that he had demanded.

  Apparently she possessed a weakness for men of medicine. More than likely the weakness was far graver than handsome doctors. Not an easy admission as Lydia prided herself on her independence, but underneath the truth laid the fact that she was lonely. When John Huntsford paid her the slightest bit of attention, she imagined she was in love. More fool her.

  No, she would not think of it, nor would she reveal any of it to a strange nun. Stick to the truth as much as possible, but leave out Mr. Huntsford and her tenure as a nurse. Rinsing off, she quickly dressed, grabbed her bundle, and unsteadily made her way to her pallet. Sure enough, the nun stood by holding an enamel mug.

  “Let us sit here on this makeshift bench. Here, it’s tea, with willow bark. I’ll bring your meal after our discussion. Dr. Damian believes you have some education along with a middle class background, is that correct?”

  Lydia’s eyes welled with tears thinking of her late father, a gentle, scholarly man who provided a loving home. “Yes. My father was a schoolmaster. He died, and I have no one else. What little money was left to me has run out.” So far, she’d told the truth,—more or less. “I haven’t been able to find suitable work, and, before I knew it, I was on the street.”

  “And the marks on your arm?”

  Lydia frowned as she sipped the tea. “I will not discuss it. A lapse in judgment.”

  “Is that where your money disappeared, into your arm?” The nun’s voice was gentle, coaxing, even empathetic considering the evidence.

  It was not strictly the truth, but Lydia nodded, drinking more of the tea, savoring the warmth moving through her.

  “I’ll bring you food, and after we’ll do a quick check for crawlers. Then you must put your feet up, Miss Best. You’re still flushed, and the rattle in your chest is audible with each breath you take. Dr. Damian will examine you tonight and he may have more questions for you. Drink your tea.” The nurse stood and headed to the stoves, leaving Lydia to exhale in relief. She managed to slip past the first hurdle.

  Though a part of her dreaded further questioning from the angel, another part leapt in anticipation at being near him again. Close enough to watch his astounding eyes study her intently as if trying to make her out. Imagine what features he hid behind his all-white garments. What color was his hair? It was hard to tell as his eyebrows were hidden under the white cap as well.

  No matter. She had no business imagining anything about Dr. Damian. Not after her wretched relationship with Surgeon Huntsford.

  Lydia would do well to remember it.

  * * *

  The restorative powers of a good night’s rest never ceased to amaze Harrison, and awaking refreshed also did wonders for his appetite. He consumed two full plates of breakfast as he read his collection of newspapers including The Daily Telegraph and The Times. He stayed in his town house on Marylebone Road, a few streets away from his father’s town house in Mayfair. Still an affluent area, Marylebone afforded him a degree of privacy, and its central London location made any part of the city accessible.

  Compared to the Duke of Gransford’s residence in Mayfair, which had been in the family since the early 1700s, Harrison’s was modest in comparison. Besides two maids-of-all-work, cook, housekeeper, under-butler, footman, and Gillis, his personal valet, Harrison kept the household staff to the bare minimum. He never cared for ostentatiousness, though with his family’s revered standing it could hardly be avoided. For the past five years he made this town house his permanent home, rarely going to the family estate, Gransford Manor, in Hastings, or his small seaside estate in Eastbourne.

  The double doors opened and Youngston, the under-butler, entered. One day he will replace the aging butler of the duke. He’d joined the Gransford estate as an orphaned boy, became a gardener’s assistant, and worked his way into the household staff and up the ranks. At thirty-eight, the tall, elegant Youngston made for an impressive presence, and Harrison could not remember a time he’d not been around.

  He’d chosen his staff carefully, people in his father’s employ for decades, people that he personally trusted. Harrison was not aware if his servants knew of his secrets, but one thing he did know? They would never gossip about him outside these walls.

  “Dr. Kenward to see you, my lord. Shall I have him wait in your study?”

  Harrison set his teacup on his saucer. “No, have him join me here. I’m sure he’s famished.” He turned slightly toward the young footman. “Harris, you may leave us.”

  “Will you be attending parliament this afternoon, my lord?” Youngston asked.

  “Yes, then I have appointments this evening. Do not wait up for me. Inform Gillis, will you?”

  “Very well, my lord.”

  Bowing, Youngston and Harris departed as Kenward strode into the dining room, rubbing his hands together as he spotted the chafing dishes on the sideboard.

  “Brilliant. I hoped I arrived in time for breakfast.” Sam hummed an innocuous tune as he loaded his plate with curried eggs, ham, fresh fruit, and pastries. Once he set his plate on the table, he poured himself a cup of coffee and sat opposite Harrison.

  “Have you been to the terminus?” Harrison asked.

  “Briefly. Four new people this morning. There was no place to put them, so I asked Sister Agatha to see who was ready to move out. It’s getting well out of hand. We cannot keep up with the steady and never-ending influx of those in need.” Sam stuffed a morsel of eggs in his mouth.

  “Yes. Sister Monica and I were speaking of the same issue. I believe we should consider taking the soup kitchen-clinic public. We cannot keep up this punishing pace—either of us, or the nuns. Perhaps we’d better find a permanent location not far from the church so the nuns can keep a hand in.” Harrison bit into his toast. “It will mean setting up a charitable society,” he said in-between bites. “Finding affluent donors. And what better way to do such than at a fancy ball?”

  Sam frowned. “I cannot attend.” Harrison raised an eyebrow in question. “Come now, I’m barely middle class. It is only by the generosity of Squire Robinson in my village I was able to attend Cambridge. I do not fit in with peers and their ilk.”

  “We are friends.”

  Sam chuckled as he cut his ham. “As if that alone is reason enough for me to attend. You’re different. Always were. Never had airs. Neither did your brothers. Considering that you’re sons of a prominent and wealthy duke, I am astounded.”

  “For all my parents’ aristocratic blood, they are firm believers in charity work and helping those less fortunate. They instilled those values in all of us. Unfortunately, Spence’s unique and dissimilar personality does not translate well to social situations, but he has made contributions in other ways. Mostly of the monetary persuasion.”

  “I never understood why you haven’t informed your family of
your charity works these past years. Surely they could have contributed to your clinic and encouraged others to do so. Or will you tell me to mind my own business?” Sam’s mouth quirked.

  How could he explain? Though his parents never pressured him in any way, he felt it nonetheless. It was something only an heir to a duke would understand. The responsibility weighing on him was ponderous, and no doubt of his own making, but he decided when he came of age to fuel the talk of his being a rake. It allowed him to live a secret life and protect his family from censure in the bargain. For an heir to a duke was forgiven for being a rake, it was expected, and in some corners, even admired. Helping the poor was not. It was a sad statement on the upper classes and society in general.

  “I wanted to accomplish something on my own, to practice medicine my way. My family had to endure enough interest and speculation over the years. The last thing I wish to do is to add to it, especially with the gossip about Tremain making the rounds as of late.”

  Harrison took a sip of tea and continued. “Tremain served as vicar for more than two years. My brother has great plans for the village of Hawksgreen in terms of education and other reforms. Yet all society can gossip about is his war injuries and other salacious tattle that has no basis in truth. I cannot stay in the shadows any longer. There is no law stating I cannot be a physician and practice the medicine I wish. If Tremain can find a way to serve his fellowman in a more public venue, then so can I.”

  Ever since Tremain emerged from the shadows, Harrison had been contemplating doing the same. It was well past time. He’d reached a crossroads.

  “There is no legal impediment to you being a doctor, but society will frown upon it and judge accordingly,” Sam stated as he sipped his coffee. “But I agree you should go public. Tremain realized he could accomplish far more as viscount than as a vicar, just as you will accomplish more as marquess and heir to a duke than as a doctor. A dismal reality.”