Loving the Hawke (The Seven Curses of London Book 1)

by Williams, Lana

  “Yes, well, I’ve noted your observations often involve action, even if you don’t intend it.”

  Nathaniel felt compelled to defend himself. “If the situation warrants closer observation.”

  Dibbles held up a finger. “I believe based on previous conversations our definitions of ‘observation’ also differ.”

  Nathaniel scowled. He was accustomed to action. Observation was a newly learned skill he had yet to master. Yet it seemed that at times, if he waited, the opportunity to learn more might very well slip away. “I have come to believe there is a tie between the disappearances of the young women working in the factory and those who live in that particular workhouse.”

  Dibbles nodded. “Be that as it may, my primary focus is your safety, Captain.”

  “I hardly think it matters if something untoward were to—”

  “It matters to me.”

  An unfamiliar warmth filled him at the older man’s quiet statement, making him uncomfortable. Warm, but uncomfortable. “Thank you, Dibbles. I will keep that in mind and try to be more careful.”

  The butler raised a brow, causing Nathaniel to sigh. “I believe our definitions of ‘careful’ also differ.”

  He’d only been home a few days when he’d encountered an extremely unpleasant fellow in the East End in the early morning hours. The man insisted on taking the money Nathaniel had on his person. He hadn’t taken kindly to that. A scuffle ensued, leaving Nathaniel with a slice along his ribs.

  Despite his lame leg, he’d come out the winner of the altercation. He wasn’t certain if it was the cut that had displeased Dibbles, or the clothing he’d had to repair.

  In any event, that had begun his investigation as to what was happening in the poorer areas of the city.

  Then had come the rescue of several girls from a ship owned by his friend, Marcus de Wolfe, Earl of Warenton, back in February. The girls were being lured into taking positions as maids in Brussels, only to be sold as prostitutes instead. Although at first what he’d witnessed appeared random, he’d soon realized several of the same men had been in the vicinity in many of the cases.

  Warenton has sent him a book, The Seven Curses of London, that shared schemes similar to the one they’d uncovered. He couldn’t help but believe Warenton hoped he’d attempt to do something about them.

  From what little he could garner from a policeman he’d befriended, young girls were disappearing from the streets at an alarming rate. Those were only the ones reported missing. Far more disappeared with no one the wiser. If a girl had no next of kin to worry over her whereabouts, she wouldn’t be missed.

  Nathaniel had been appalled at the idea of girls from his own country, one he’d defended on several fronts, being sold into slavery or as prostitutes. Putting an end to such terrible occurrences was what now forced him to rise each morning.

  Those girls mattered. Whether they or anyone else agreed was yet to be determined. But they mattered. He refused to examine the reasons behind his need to make that clear.

  “Dibbles, you know I take every precaution when I venture out.”

  “I believe that our definitions of—”

  He raised his hand. “I hear your message.” He closed his eyes for a moment. Lord knew what trouble he might find himself in if it weren’t for the knowledge that Dibbles would chase him into hell if he didn’t return home at a reasonable hour.

  Christ, it was like living with his mother all over again. Though Dibbles was far worse. Of that he had no doubt.

  “I will be home for supper.”

  “Will you be attending another ball this evening?”

  “I sincerely hope not.” Though he had to admit the previous evening had not been as bad as he’d expected. Miss Letitia Fairchild had been an unexpected delight to his evening.

  There was certainly more to the lady than he’d anticipated from their brief encounter at Blackfriars Bridge. To discover she was a member of the ton was interesting. Few bothered themselves with the issues of the poor beyond giving money to one charitable cause or another. Not that money wasn’t required to right wrongs, but it was only part of what was needed.

  Why Miss Fairchild was the target of the negative comments from those other ladies was beyond him. She was different from others her age. Of that he had no doubt. He had been surprised how she’d seemed almost resigned to the way she was treated by the ladies. Especially after her stubborn behavior during his first encounter with her. She’d seemed more than comfortable standing up for herself then. What had happened in her past to make her think, even for a moment, that it was acceptable for those women to berate her in that fashion?

  He shook his head. Enough problems filled his schedule. Miss Fairchild was not his concern. She had a family and was not in need of further assistance from him. He ignored the small seed of doubt at the thought. After all, he’d already rescued her twice. The odds of encountering her again were slim.

  And if he valued his peace of mind, he needed to keep his distance. He’d kissed her as though he were some randy youth who could not contain his passion. Yet even the thought of her stirred him. He couldn’t pinpoint what it was that made her so special, but she deserved someone in her life who could help her understand how unique she was.

  That was not him.

  He set aside the paper and rose from the table. “I had best pay a visit to Tristan before Mother accuses me of abandoning our family.”

  “Did he find an appropriate lady to dance with as agreed upon?”

  “I am not certain. Hence my visit with him this morning.”

  Dibbles frowned. “Didn’t you see him at the ball last night?”

  “Yes, but I was interrupted in my quest and ended up leaving earlier than planned.” Which was proof that Miss Fairchild was a distraction he did not need.

  He wisely avoided meeting Dibbles’ gaze. Heaven only knew what the man might read into his expression. The disadvantage of having had him as a servant since he was a boy was that Dibbles knew him better than he knew himself.

  “I will return as per my schedule,” Nathaniel said and took his leave.

  The brief drive to his brother’s gave him time to ponder Tristan’s odd behavior. At least he thought it odd. After the many years Nathaniel had spent away, he didn’t know his brother at all anymore.

  That hadn’t stopped their mother from insisting he nudge Tristan into selecting a debutante to marry.

  However, Tristan seemed reluctant to do his duty as the Earl of Adair. If Nathaniel didn’t know better, he’d think Tristan wouldn’t marry if it was left to him. Something was amiss there, but he had doubts of his ability to discover what it was. Tristan was as likely to confide in him as the Thames was to run clear.

  Upon arriving at the elegant townhome on Park Lane, Nathaniel was announced and shown into Tristan’s study. He couldn’t help but look around as he entered, struck by how little it had changed since the room had been their father’s domain.

  “Good morning, brother,” Tristan greeted him from behind his desk. “To what do I owe the honor of this unannounced visit?”

  “I came to inquire as to how your evening went last night.”

  Nathaniel studied his brother from across the expanse of the desk. It was truly amazing how much he looked like their father with his grey eyes and black hair.

  “Have I sprouted horns?” Tristan asked, brow raised.

  “I was just realizing how very much like Father you are.”

  “So I’ve been told many times. Remarkable, isn’t it?” The tight smile Tristan offered him made Nathaniel wonder what he was thinking.

  “Did you manage to find three debutantes to dance with last night?” Nathaniel reminded himself of the task at hand.

  “No. Only one caught my eye. And dancing with only one before leaving would’ve caused a fuss, would it not?”

  “True,” Nathaniel admitted. The expectations for unmarried heirs were different than second sons. “Is there no lady who has caught your fancy
?”

  “None that can be found in the ballroom.” His expression was one Nathaniel didn’t find appealing in the least.

  “No need to share those details.” If his brother kept a mistress, he didn’t want to know about it.

  “You do realize I don’t need a nanny despite what Mother says?”

  “Indeed.” Nathaniel supposed he’d hoped the ridiculous request from their Mother would draw him and Tristan closer together. A crazed notion, he knew. His brother had no interest in him.

  He should’ve taken his leave, based on the lack of warmth emanating from his brother, yet something kept him seated. He tried again. “What duties fill your day?”

  “Nothing extraordinary. You?”

  Nathaniel hesitated, wondering if he should bother sharing his investigation.

  He chided himself for even considering it. Sharing anything would only bring his brother’s derision. He’d learned that lesson many times in his youth. Why was he tempted to do so now? Nathaniel’s current project was nothing he would’ve ever shared with his sire. His father would never have approved, therefore he had to assume Tristan wouldn’t either since he was so much like their father.

  Besides, Tristan was the elder. Surely any attempt to have a closer relationship should come from him.

  “Nothing overly exciting for me either.” He eased forward in his chair, preparing to leave.

  “How’s the leg?”

  Tristan’s question caught him by surprise. “Still stiff. I am beginning to doubt it will ever return to normal.”

  “It could be far worse. You could’ve returned home without it.”

  “I will bear that in mind.” He opened his mouth, nearly telling him about the sleepless nights. About where his ramblings had taken him. What he’d seen. And most of all, how much his damned leg hurt. “I hope my efforts to keep it strong haven’t worsened it.”

  “I’m sure there is a balance there, hmmm? Don’t want to push beyond your limitations, but only up against them.”

  Nathaniel stared at Tristan, seeing his brother in a different light. Their father never would’ve said anything of the kind. He needed to remember that Tristan was his own man, and just because he looked like their father didn’t mean he was. It made Nathaniel want to try harder with him, to forge some sort of a bond.

  “I suppose I have yet to determine where that line is.”

  “It’s important to listen to both your mind and your body.”

  Nathaniel nodded. “Are you attending the ball tomorrow night?”

  Tristan scowled. “Are you asking so you can report to Mother?”

  “No. I am merely curious. I don’t suppose there is any urgency for you to marry, despite what Mother says.”

  “I don’t think so either. Convincing her the world will not come to an end if I don’t marry this Season is another matter entirely.” Tristan shifted in his seat. “What of you? Surely it would ease Mother’s mind if you were to find a wife.”

  “Marriage is not in my future.”

  “Why?” Tristan seemed genuinely surprised at his response.

  Nathaniel searched for an excuse—at least one he was willing to admit. He didn’t think himself worthy of a wife for numerous reasons. But the main one had to do with their father. His words had been burned into his mind throughout Nathaniel’s childhood. He couldn’t deny them anymore than he could deny breathing. They’d caused a wound far deeper than the one in his leg. Luckily, no one could see it.

  “Long story.” Nathaniel rose. “Perhaps one day, I’ll share it with you.”

  He bid his brother an abrupt goodbye and left before he did something ridiculous, like tell Tristan more.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “When death snatches father away from the table scarcely big enough to accommodate the little flock that cluster about it—snatches him away in the lusty prime of life, and without warning, or, worse still, flings him on a bed of sickness, the remedies for which devour the few pounds thriftily laid aside for such an emergency, and, after all, are of no avail, what other asylum but the workhouse offers itself to mother and children?”

  ~ The Seven Curses of London

  The Whitechapel Workhouse was just off Charles Street. From Lettie’s research over the past two days, she knew it had been built in the shape of the letter H, with females housed in the north end and males in the south. Which made sense until one considered how difficult it would be for a family who’d been forced to move into the workhouse. Living separately during times of financial hardship would only add to a family’s stress, in Lettie’s opinion.

  The red-brick building before her was five-stories tall. The central wing was only two stories in height and held the entrance hall, meeting rooms, and offices.

  Lettie waited across the street late that afternoon. Once again, she’d left her carriage with her footman and maid a few streets away. They would only draw notice, and that was something she was trying her best to avoid.

  After much thought, she’d decided against requesting a meeting with the medical officer in charge of the workhouse. She had limited resources to offer and didn’t want to take up the medical officer’s time or attract his attention. Her sister’s pending proposal was forefront in her mind, which made discretion key.

  Thanks to a chance comment she’d overheard from one of their footman whose second cousin worked here, Lettie had managed to set up this meeting with the hope of gaining information. Lettie was to meet her outside when the woman finished her shift. She had money in her purse to pay the woman for her time and trouble. Until she knew more, she wasn’t certain how she could help. That was her goal this day—to gather information.

  The author of the book had noted that providing for children who ended up in a workhouse through no fault of their own was part of Christian charity. Lettie couldn’t agree more. Though some warned treating workhouse residents at a premium would encourage them to remain rather than seek a better life, based on what little Lettie had learned, there was a slim risk of that occurring. The conditions inside were far from comfortable.

  She believed if workhouse children received an education along with the basic necessities, they would be more likely to grow into productive members of society. It only made sense to lend a helping hand now with the hope of avoiding their return to the workhouse in later years.

  Lettie was well aware she couldn’t help everyone. But she could help one or two. While that might not make a big difference in the wide view of the problem, it would make a difference to that particular family. That was all she wanted.

  After much deliberation, she’d decided to heed Mr. Hawke’s warning and stay away from Blackfriars Bridge. This area of the city seemed safer. At the very least, there were fewer people passing by. Tall buildings lined both sides of the street, perhaps they lent to the feeling of safety.

  As she watched the entrance, a rather stout woman emerged and glanced up and down the street. Perhaps this was her contact, Mary Smith. At last the woman’s gaze fell on Lettie, so she gave her a little wave and a smile.

  The woman didn’t return either gesture but crossed the street toward Lettie.

  “Ye be the lady with the questions?” she asked in a gruff voice.

  “Yes. And you are Mrs. Smith?”

  The woman smirked. “Sure. That’s me all right. Smith.”

  Lettie realized with dismay that wasn’t her real name. How naïve of her to think the nurse would be honest. Yet Lettie didn’t understand the need for secrecy. She wasn’t doing anything wrong. At least Lettie didn’t think so.

  “What is it ye want to know?” The woman glanced around, pulling her shawl closer about her. “Let us walk down the street. I don’t want to be seen lingerin’ out here with the likes of ye.”

  Lettie frowned. What on earth did that mean? Not that it mattered. She needed to keep her goal in mind. “Have you noted any young girls in the workhouse who seem especially reluctant to stay there?”

  The woman snorted. “No one
wants to be there.”

  “I’m sure. But I’m looking for someone in particular who might be especially down on their luck.”

  Mrs. Smith stopped to stare at Lettie, frowning in disbelief. “Ye’ve no idea of what ye speak. They wouldn’t be in the workhouse if they weren’t havin’ some bad luck. Except fer those in the imbecile ward. I assume ye aren’t referrin’ to them.”

  Lettie shook her head. “I don’t believe I can help them.” Many of those classified as such lived a terrible life. While they obviously needed assistance, that was more than she could manage.

  “We ain’t helpin’ them much either.” The woman gazed back at the building, making Lettie wonder of what she was thinking. “Some say they’ll be building a new workhouse but that ain’t fer a year or two.”

  “What I would truly like is the name of a young girl who might be in need of my assistance.” Nerves tingled along Lettie’s spine. She looked around, trying to determine what caused her unease.

  “What sort of help are ye planning to give?” Mrs. Smith eyed her suspiciously.

  Lettie hesitated. That was an excellent question. While she was prepared to give money, she worried as to whether it would find its way into the wrong hands. “I know of an apprenticeship that might be appropriate for the right girl. I suppose I would like to learn more about her situation before I determine how best I could aid her. I want to help in whatever way is best.”

  “Only a name? That’s all ye need from me?”

  “And an introduction?” A name would do little good without one.

  “To the girl?” Mrs. Smith asked and frowned again, making Lettie realize how unusual her request must be.

  Lettie suddenly felt a presence behind her. Her breath caught in her throat, and she spun to look, fearing the worst.

  Mr. Hawke stood directly behind her, glaring at her in a most unwelcome way. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  ~*~