Falling for the Viscount_Book VI of The Seven Curses of London Series

by Lana Williams

  “Do you wish to know how our funding works?” The hopeful glint in his dark eyes gave away his true question.

  “That is a possibility, but first I’d like to know what happens if a woman chooses to stay here. What ages do you take?”

  “We try to be flexible but have found we have the best success with girls of sixteen to four and twenty. Younger or older women often find their way back to the streets.” He shook his head as though greatly disappointed at the thought.

  “Why do you think that is?” Dalia wished she’d brought paper and pen so she could take notes. She feared she wouldn’t remember all the details.

  “The younger ones have independence and quick riches on their mind. The older ones are often too set in their ways. Working twelve hours each day at menial tasks such as a maid or a seamstress performs is less than appealing.”

  “I’m sure that’s a difficult obstacle to overcome.”

  “Indeed. Interviews are conducted before admittance but that doesn’t guarantee success. Some of the women are supporting their families so despite their wishes they’re forced back into the life.”

  “How terrible. Do you offer training?”

  “They learn domestic skills that provide them a chance for redemption. Of course, having them do some of the work reduces our expenses and allows the donations we receive to go further.”

  Interesting how often his conversation turned back to money. Though she supposed it was a never-ending job to raise funds to keep open the doors. Where did the money go if the girls did all the work of their upkeep? The lease on the dilapidated building couldn’t be too expensive, and surely tax rates for the neighborhood were low.

  “The women who have been here longer teach the newer ones domestic skills, such as cleaning and sewing.”

  “What about reading and writing?”

  Mr. Stephens gave her a condescending smile. “What use are those skills to women? It’s difficult enough to get them to learn to sew. Few remain with the lessons long enough to truly master them.”

  Dalia had heard her sister talk of a seamstress shop that offered apprenticeships to worthy individuals. Surely learning from someone in the business would be preferable to learning from a resident who’d only recently acquired the skills.

  “So you only offer training for work as seamstresses or maids?” Surely there were additional talents women could learn that would prove more satisfactory as well as financially viable.

  “Yes, that’s right. Our goal is to ensure our residents are kindly regarded and need never suffer from the want of a kind and helping hand.” A cadence marked his words, making her wonder how often he repeated the phrase.

  “I’d like to take a tour of the home and have the chance to speak with some of the women staying here.” She doubted if that would be allowed but wanted to try.

  “That isn’t possible.” Mr. Stephens frowned as though terribly disappointed he couldn’t comply. “Our residents are treated with respect, and we protect their privacy as much as possible.”

  Dalia rose, shaking her head with regret. “I understand. Perhaps one of the other homes not far from here would better suit my wish to help.”

  “Now, now, let us not be hasty.” Mr. Stephens stood as well. “Perhaps an arrangement can be made.”

  Dalia hid a smile. “I wouldn’t want to break any rules, but I don’t see how I can offer my assistance without a closer look.”

  “If you could describe the sort of assistance you’re considering, I might know how to better direct your visit.”

  As she sank back into her seat, she wondered if she should’ve more closely considered the purpose of the visit prior to coming. In truth, she didn’t have any idea what help she could provide. Although she had a modest dowry, she certainly didn’t have funds of her own. She couldn’t imagine asking her father to contribute money toward such a place. But that didn’t mean she was ready to abandon her mission.

  With a deep breath, she considered where to begin her questions. Hopefully an idea would arise that would allow her to help but not force her to share her intention with anyone who’d insist she stop her quest. Funny how Spencer immediately came to mind. Then again, he was far too frequently in her thoughts of late.

  “What are your credentials for managing the home and mentoring the women who choose to stay here, Mr. Stephens?”

  From the scowl on his face, he didn’t seem to appreciate her inquiry. She smiled and gave him an encouraging nod, determined to find out all she could while she had the opportunity.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Dress lodgers are poor wretches who somehow or another are reduced to the lowest depths of destitution without even the clothes on her back to her name.

  Sometimes illness is the cause.”

  ~The Seven Curses of London

  “A message arrived for you, my lord.” Barnes, Spencer’s butler, offered the cream-colored missive on a silver salver the next morning. Barnes was a stickler for convention.

  “Thank you.” Spencer took it and slit open the envelope. Yet by the curves of his title penned on the outside, he had a suspicion who might have sent it.

  His gaze skipped to the signature of the sender. Miss Dalia Fairchild. Did she have any idea how inappropriate it was for her to send him a message?

  Rutland,

  I find myself in need of your assistance. Can you meet me at Hyde Park in the morning so that I might explain the situation?

  Miss Dalia Fairchild

  Good heavens. Now what had she done?

  But the oddest point about this message was his reaction to it. His feelings ran from anticipation to see what she’d gotten herself into this time to dismay that he needed to assist her once again. But he couldn’t deny how much he looked forward to seeing her, regardless of the reason.

  He penned a quick reply to confirm he’d meet her at eight o’clock at the park entrance and proceeded with his day, doing his best to put the upcoming meeting from his mind.

  The remainder of the afternoon passed quickly, filled with the normal share of duties and obligations for both personal and intelligence work. At his office, he consolidated his notes on Pruett and managed to put together a basic schedule of the man’s routine and included it in his report for Gladstone.

  One of his fellow agents was on duty that night, giving Spencer a rare evening at home. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as restful as he’d hoped. His dreams were filled with images—unsettling images—of Dalia in his house, in his library, and, most unsettling of all, in his bed.

  He woke the next morn, his mind slowly clearing as though reluctant to let go of those imagined moments. He lay there, trying unsuccessfully to chase away the vivid feel of her in his arms.

  Finally, he gave up and rose to dress. Rather than focus on her, he needed to prepare an answer for whatever mad idea she’d concocted. Perhaps if he braced himself now, he’d be able to refuse those beguiling blue eyes.

  That train of thought only had him thinking of those eyes as he’d seen them in his dreams—filled with passion.

  Which didn’t help the situation in the least.

  He drew a deep breath to calm his desire. There were far more reasons he should keep his distance from her than there were for him to pursue her. Why couldn’t he remember those when temptation rose?

  No matter. He would deal with whatever scheme she’d devised. He need only keep his wits about him, something he occasionally failed to do when she was near. Riding horses with her would be a relief compared to sitting beside her in a carriage. Less temptation to touch her and certainly less chance of her managing to convince him to do something that went against his good sense. At least, that was his hope.

  It seemed that each time he was with her, he found something else to admire about her, from her perseverance to her desire to help the less fortunate to her intelligence. He’d never met a woman who appealed to him on so many levels. While he still felt they didn’t suit, he couldn’t deny that those qualities comp
licated his relationship with her.

  His black steed was anxious to have his head, but Spencer held him in check as he waited at the Hyde Park entrance. Returning to the park where Edward had died wasn’t easy, but he’d done so several times, careful to avoid the actual place where Edward had been thrown from his horse.

  He didn’t have to wait long as Dalia and her footman arrived several minutes early. He appreciated her punctuality, which seemed a rarity among ladies of the ton.

  Her appearance was like a breath of fresh air, lightening his mood. She wore a blue riding habit with white trim that hugged her curves and a clever little hat adorned with ribbons that complemented her blonde hair.

  She rode her dappled grey mare with expertise. Excitement lit her eyes. Unfortunately, he didn’t think it was in anticipation of their ride or his presence.

  “Good day to you, Spencer.”

  “And to you.” He tore his gaze from hers with a stern reprimand to himself to keep his thoughts in check. “Looks like a fine morning for a ride.”

  “Indeed.” She tipped her head toward the path. “Shall we?”

  He gestured for her to lead the way then rode beside her, leaving the footman to ride behind. “I was surprised to receive your note.” Did she hear the disapproval in his tone or should he remind her that sending notes to unattached men wasn’t appropriate?

  “How else was I to let you know I needed you?”

  Needed you. He swallowed hard as her words shot straight through his body. Already he could feel his resolve slipping. Damn. “Perhaps it would be best if you refrained from doing so. People might talk.”

  “Oh.” She scowled as she considered his remark. “I’m afraid I can’t make any promises. Society will have to accept the idea that we’ve become friends.”

  “Hmm.” Friends? Is that how she labeled their relationship? Part of him wanted to do something to change that. “All the same, we wouldn’t want to set tongues wagging.”

  She waved a gloved hand in dismissal then continued without addressing his remark. “I’m anxious to share what I’ve learned with you.”

  He waited, curiosity mounting, to hear what she had to say.

  “As you advised, I visited a home for fallen women.”

  He frowned, concern racing through him. “I don’t remember suggesting that.”

  “You said I should see what other ways I might be able to help, so I visited Miss Petrie’s Home for the Rescue of Fallen Women. Unfortunately, there is no Miss Petrie. The name is one of many falsehoods. The establishment is run by Mr. Stephens, an unpleasant individual.”

  Spencer had yet to recover from the idea of her visiting a home for fallen women. He looked over his shoulder at the footman. “You accompanied her?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Dalia sighed at his question as though disappointed that he had so little faith in her. “In any event, I have serious doubts that he’s qualified for the position.”

  “Why is that?”

  She lowered her voice. “There was mention of him acting inappropriately with one of the young women staying there.”

  Spencer grimaced. From what he’d heard about some of the homes, such behavior wasn’t uncommon. “Were many women staying there?”

  “Eight, I believe. While I’ve never been to a workhouse, I’d venture to say the atmosphere is much the same.” She caught Spencer’s gaze. “Hopeless.”

  “They won’t help many women that way.” He waited, wondering how the visit had affected Dalia and what plan she’d formed to attack the problem. In all honesty, he admired that about her. If only she wouldn’t put herself in danger to do so.

  “I noted many areas that need improvement. Unfortunately, Mr. Stephens was less than receptive to my initial suggestions.”

  Spencer hid a smile as he imagined the conversation and the man’s reaction.

  “I believe it’s because I’m a woman.” She scowled at the thought.

  “That’s certainly possible.” He had no desire to change that fact.

  “Upon returning home, I wrote a list of my ideas in order of priority based on my observations and comments from the women staying there with whom I spoke.”

  He nearly groaned, wishing he had the fortitude to gallop away as quickly as possible. While he was curious as to what she had discovered, it was what she intended to do about it that concerned him.

  “I’d like to review them with you to see if you have any additional suggestions,” Dalia continued.

  He glanced at her in surprise. She only wished to discuss the situation? In truth, he was flattered she valued his opinion. “I’d be pleased to offer my thoughts.” He wished he could explain why he had some knowledge of the problem but doing so was out of the question. With luck, he’d be able to convince her to offer her suggestions to the founders of the home in a letter.

  Perhaps some of the information Dalia had gained would aid his own mission. Gladstone, during his nightly rambles, often suggested to the prostitutes he spoke to that they consider residing in a home such as the one Dalia had visited. No wonder his efforts were unsuccessful if other establishments had similar problems.

  “When might you be available to do so?” she asked, her gaze holding his expectantly.

  He was surprised that in her enthusiasm, she hadn’t pulled the list from her person. But as he studied her and felt the now familiar pull of desire, he realized meeting her again would be most unwise. Better to get it over with and avoid further temptation. “Do you have specific questions? We could easily discuss the issues now.”

  She frowned. “I’d rather refer to the notes I wrote down after my visit, but I’ll share what I can.”

  Dalia described her observations from the moment she’d identified the building, including the drawbacks of its exterior. As she spoke, he saw her point—a young woman on the cusp of changing her life would no doubt find the whole facility less than welcoming.

  The man in charge of the home sounded untrustworthy. Those seeking shelter there would probably feel the same as Dalia.

  Mr. Stephens raised Spencer’s concern the more Dalia shared details of him. It might prove worth Spencer’s time to have him watched as it didn’t sound as if his true purpose was to assist women out of a life of prostitution. If not, what was he about?

  The more Dalia told him, the more concerned he became by the situation. His instincts suggested something was amiss with Stephens and his home. Though reluctant to add another person or place to his list of those needing observation when he already had many, watching Stephens and the home might prove beneficial. Obviously, Stephens’ agenda wasn’t reformation.

  “What are you thinking?” Dalia asked.

  The woman was far too observant for her own good. “I’ll mention your concerns regarding the home to a friend with the proper connections to take action.” He couldn’t tell her he was referring to himself.

  “Who?”

  “No one you know.” As she started to protest, he raised his hand to hold off her argument. “Such matters are best left to the proper authorities. If we do something to alarm Mr. Stephens, he might close the home only to open another somewhere else.”

  Dalia was silent for a long moment. “What if there are more like this one?”

  The concern in her tone touched him. Clearly, she’d thought long and hard about the situation. He knew she wanted to help. She wasn’t doing this solely to fulfill her wish to make a difference.

  “I’ll request that he keep us apprised of the situation. Would that help?”

  “Yes. I would like that very much.”

  Spencer sighed as he realized he’d just committed to continuing his association with her. He had the uncomfortable feeling that the connection forming between them was becoming increasingly strong no matter how much he wished otherwise. While he admired many things about her, he found her propensity for trouble maddening.

  Charlie waited outside The Dolphin Tavern late that evening. Stephens should arrive at an
y moment.

  When he’d first learned of the rescue homes that encouraged his girls to find ‘honest’ work, he’d been appalled. It was no one’s business except the girls’ and his own how they choose to earn a living.

  But after further thought, he’d wondered if there was a way he could turn the situation to his advantage. He demanded loyalty from the women in his employ. He didn’t want them coming and going as if they had a choice. While he’d lost a few girls over the past several months, those were few and far between.

  He’d slowly formed connections in three of the homes, one of whom was with Stephens. Those contacts helped him track the women. Either they were his girls attempting to leave their work on the streets or women he could persuade to join his organization. His contacts received a payment if they aided in bringing or returning girls into the fold.

  Those who were foolish enough to reveal their discontent never held their tongue but spread unhappiness among the others like an illness. That left him no choice but to take action. The form of punishment depended on the woman and how stubborn she was.

  He didn’t enjoy that part of his job, but if he allowed them to do whatever they wanted, what sort of boss would he be? After all, he had his own reputation to consider. If he were too soft, McCarthy would hear of it and that would never do.

  At last, he spotted Stephens walking toward him.

  “Evening, Stephens.”

  “Pruett.” The man nodded in return. “How are things?”

  It amused Charlie to no end that there was no Miss Petrie at the home Stephens ran. The do-gooders who had founded it lied to lure in their targets. Why they thought themselves better than he was, he didn’t know.

  Charlie leaned against the brick building and crossed one foot over another. It never paid to act as though one was in too much of a hurry to gain information, lest the person giving it thought it more valuable than it was. “Going well. You?”

  “Had a visitor yesterday. One of those who suddenly decides they need to make a difference in this world.”