“I know you will. You are a good, thoughtful woman, and you always made my visits to Grandmama better when I was a child. I do not recall that your lemon biscuits ever hurt me,” Nora said warmly as she kissed the toddler on the head. Mrs. Simpkins’ kind heart was one reason that Grandmama had lent her to the school. The thought forced a smile to bubble up. She had long ago recognized her maternal grandmother as having a kindred soul to her own, and often, she had not even had to ask before Grandmama had responded with what was needed.
“The wee one has only been here a day. Give her time. She is strong.” Mrs. Simpkins gently squeezed the little girl’s hand and kissed her on the cheek.
Little Amy had arrived yesterday, and already the tiny, amber-haired toddler threatened to steal Nora’s heart. A friend of the child’s mother had delivered her. Circumstances forced Amy’s mother into prostitution to survive and she had died of syphilis. Nora knew little about the disease, it not being a subject considered suitable for young ladies. However, she understood it was a horrible death. She shuddered, recalling the moment the child arrived. The woman who brought Amy handed the crying child to Nora at the door.
“I wrote everything I knew about her on the note in her bundle,” the woman said, pointing to the knotted shawl sitting on the step. “I would keep her, but I know naught about children. Her mother loved Amy very much. She was a kind woman who did what she must to survive. Please—you will find me if I can help Amy?” she said, brushing away tears. “She knows me as Auntie Gemma,” the woman added before turning and rushing down the street, clearly eager to distance herself from the task she had undertaken.
The small child’s story made Nora’s eyes mist as she recollected it and, out of instinct, she pulled the child closer to her own heart. Nora knew that each child in the room had a story equally sad, and she could not allow herself to dissolve into tears with each one. These children needed strength and permanence. She would work hard to give them that. If her idea had merit, it could help some children to stay with their mothers. Buoyed by her thoughts, she looked around once more.
The orphanage which had once occupied the building had closed about ten years past. Although Grandmama owned the building, she had not had the will to open it again, as Grandpapa had died about the same time. Eager to assist those ‘thrown on the parish’, Nora had found a willing partner in her grandmother, and felt fortunate to have talked her family into reopening the building—although her uncle had threatened to sell it on many occasions, citing its uselessness. According to Aunt Sophie, they were at low water because of his gambling debts. She would be exceedingly worried if Uncle controlled the property, yet she need not be concerned. Papa had informed her shortly after her grandmother discussed reopening the orphanage, that Grandmama owned the property, as it had been part of her wedding portion. Thank goodness, Grandmama holds the deed to this building.
The whimpering stopped at last as the small child stilled in her arms, content to sleep. Deciding to let the child sleep, Nora walked to her room and took a chair in the corner, careful not to disturb Amy. She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, suddenly overwhelmed with her own need for sleep.
Chapter 3
Two days later.
Free of the fever caused by the knife wound, and healed sufficiently, Colin determined he needed fresh air. He intended to take advantage of the clear London skies this morning presented. Adjusting his waistcoat, he withdrew the folded paper from his pocket, shaking it open. Finally! Here was a chance to set the wheels in motion for the fencing club he and his brother had talked about for years. Winning this building had become a prompt in his mind to make it happen. He would have the building renovated to his brother’s specifications and Jonathan would run it. He was the expert in the duello. Their father had encouraged the skill, often sparring with his sons. Colin considered himself more than proficient at the art of fencing; however, Jonathan’s skill was far beyond mere competence. He almost equaled the legendary Angelo.
Besides, Colin reasoned, he was much too busy to run a club. He had taken the bet on faith, being previously unaware of the building’s existence, let alone having knowledge of its condition. Upon reflection, there had been little—if not naught—trustworthy about Wilford Whitton. The nasty knife wound in his own arm, that was still in danger of infection, was proof of that. However, he could no longer tolerate staring at the four walls of his room.
Still involved with the Crown, and now with his estate, Colin found fencing an excellent way of releasing pent up emotion and helping him to feel bobbish. He felt sure this entertainment would also be a welcome diversion within his set at the Wicked Earl’s Club. The gentlemen met almost nightly, and no matter the requirement for amusement, the club could, for the most part, meet it. As yet, it had not provided a fencing saloon.
The sport itself had diminished somewhat in status, overtaken by the popularity of shooting; however, it remained an effective and punishing method of defense that, if vigorously practiced, kept a gentleman’s body at peak performance.
Caught up in the excitement of his thoughts, he picked up his cane and whipped it into a parry at an imaginary opponent—only to be immediately reminded of the stitches he had received only two days ago.
His arm ached, and that Whitton had caused it pricked his pride. He should have been more careful, expecting something from the man. He pulled out his pocket watch, mindful that Bergen and Lord Morray were meeting with him soon.
Where was Joseph? His valet was taking an inordinate amount of time to find a suitable coat. He fingered the frilled cuffs of his shirt distractedly. The man had pursed his lips anxiously when the bandage around Colin’s upper arm did not easily fit inside the brown wool coat he had chosen for today and had hurried from the room, muttering about fetching one with a better fit. Some minutes earlier, he had informed Colin that his black coat had been returned, repaired by his tailor. Presumably, therefore, the man had gone to fetch the garment.
Colin turned his head at the slight knock at the door. “Come in.”
“My lord, I apologize for the delay. I took the liberty of remeasuring the arm openings, in order to compare them with the brown coat. They are just as required and should provide room for your injury. It has also been cleaned.”
“God’s teeth, man! I was wondering where you had gone. I had hoped to view an investment before meeting with my brother.” Colin stretched his arms into the sleeves as Joseph fussed with the shoulders. “It looks better than new. Thank you, Joseph,” he acknowledged in a milder tone. The black coat would suit for what he needed to do today.
Joseph was the grandson of his father’s valet and had proven himself more than capable. The man had become indispensable in the three years he had been in his service.
“Mr. Weston has attached a new sleeve,” Joseph responded abstractedly, still twitching with the back.
Colin wanted to set out. “Have the footman summon my carriage to be brought around, if you will.”
“I anticipated your need, my lord. The carriage is already at the front, awaiting your convenience,” Joseph said, smiling. “Lord Bergen has arrived and is waiting in the drawing room.”
“Your ability to predict my requirements never ceases to amaze me, Joseph.”
“It is merely a part of my duties, my lord. I apologize for not considering the need to accommodate your bandage.”
“Think naught of it,” Colin responded, suddenly feeling guilty about the way he had spoken to the young valet. The lanky young man that shadowed his grandfather in those last years of the older man’s service had matured into a fine young man. Tall, with blond hair, broad shoulders, and bright blue eyes, he was a favorite among Colin’s staff. Surprisingly, it was more for his willingness to help anyone that needed an extra pair of hands than his masculine stature. “Thank you, Joseph.”
Humming to himself, Colin grabbed his cane and joined his friend downstairs. Adam Beaumont, the Earl of Morray had not yet arrived. The Earl was the o
ne gentleman in Colin’s set he had counted upon to give him a realistic idea of the popularity of the venture he had in mind. He was not only a friend, but a frequent sparring partner at Jackson’s Saloon. His opinion on both the location and the popularity of the investment meant a great deal to Colin.
Less than an hour later, his coachman pulled the town chariot into a short, circular drive. Colin and his two friends stepped out of the carriage and stared up at a three-story, faded pink building surrounded by iron railings on a corner, north-east of Mayfair. Russell Square was a respectable if not fashionable neighborhood, yet not considered a dangerous one. He did not wish customers to be set upon by riff-raff. He found it was close enough to his prospective clients, while far enough removed for discretion. The location pleased him.
“Not a bad locality,” he remarked, hoping to spur his friends’ opinions. An instant later, he thought he saw movement in a window and squinted. Are those curtains? It looks inhabited. According to Whitton, this was supposed to be an empty building.
“I thought you had mentioned the building being empty. Unless my eyes deceive me, I saw a woman’s face—a rather charming woman’s face—in that upper window,” Morray said, pointing to the large second-floor window, centrally placed above the door.
“Then I was not seeing things,” Colin retorted in some chagrin. He regarded Bergen, who stood next to him, smiling, having not uttered a word.
Colin prompted Bergen with a slight nudge of his elbow. “He said the building was empty, did he not?” he queried.
“He did. However, he also tried to weasel out of the bet. I am thinking the reasons he failed to share are currently residing in that building, and she has no notion she is being evicted. Unless my memory fails me, this used to be an orphanage before it closed some years ago.” He eyed his friends. “Could it be that it has become so again? I say we should meet the young woman inside and find out. I would like to have a complete story to share with Elizabeth when I return home.” He laughed sardonically.
Colin tried to be irritated with his friend, but he could lay nothing at Bergen’s feet. In fact, he almost envied his friend. Bergen was happily married—something he could never achieve himself. He was uncertain he was even ready to consider marriage at this time. Thomas Bergen had married Lady Elizabeth Newton over five years ago, after discovering her living a quiet but remarkable life, caring for her children and abandoned animals. He had brought her an orphaned donkey he had found while on the way to London, having heard she adopted strays of all types. The donkey, Clarence, had found a home and his friend had found a wife he had not been seeking. Besides the three children she had already adopted, they had twins of their own—a boy and a girl. Lucky fellow, he thought irrationally.
“I cannot see the humor here,” Colin said, irritated. This created a whole new wrinkle in his quest to help his brother. He pulled out the deed and glanced first at a brass sign attached to the railings and then back to the deed. “We have the right of it. Shall we find out what more there is to this story?” It incensed him to be caught like a flat through accepting a chance wager.
“You should probably determine the legitimacy of the paper he gave you,” Morray added in a droll tone. “Yet we are here. I propose we meet the chit and find out what we can.”
Morray was always willing to meet the chit, Colin thought miserably. “She occupies my property and is not grist for your mill, Morray. This may very well be an orphanage.” Even to his own ear, he sounded testy. Perhaps it was the combination of being injured and swindled. He had thought things might not be as Whitton represented, and rather than follow his intuition, he succumbed to the lure of the game. Winning the building presented a suitable solution to his and Jonathan’s desire to honor their father.
Morray snorted. “Ownership remains to be seen, but fear not, my fine fellow. You know innocent ladies are not to my taste. I prefer, shall I say, a more savage entertainment. Your young woman is safe.”
“She is not my woman,” Colin snapped.
“I say, Shefford, you are letting this become bothersome. I have found that the biggest surprises can sometimes turn out to be the best ones. I, for one, am eager to meet the face behind the curtain.” Morray jerked his head toward the same curtain which had moved earlier, revealing a lovely face framed by soft, blonde ringlets staring down at the three of them.
The large oak door at the top of the steps had recently been rubbed down, most likely to prepare for a fresh coat of paint. Colin took in the neatened appearance of the portico and lifted the plain brass knocker to announce their presence. Less than a minute later, a small hatch above the knocker slid open and an older woman’s face appeared for a moment before the opening closed and the door opened.
“Good day, my lords. May I be of help?” A short, mob-capped woman stood at the door, filling the opening.
“I am Lord Shefford, and I wish to look over my recently acquired property. I must admit to being somewhat startled to find the house occupied,” Colin began.
“Oh, dear! Beg pardon, my lord.” The short woman closed the door.
“I say, did you just get the door closed in your face?” Bergen gibed.
“Stubble it, Bergen.” He lifted the knocker and gave three quick raps.
“I am sorry, Shefford. I should not be fooling at your expense.” Bergen smirked, putting the lie to his apology. “’Tis just that this reminds me a little of my first meeting with Elizabeth. I think I am merely amused by the coincidence.”
“This has no similarity to when you met your wife, I assure you. I am not meeting my future wife,” he grumbled as the door opened again. The older woman had disappeared, replaced by a beautiful young woman dressed in a plain cotton dress of a deep navy-blue color, covered with a white apron. She had golden blonde hair, bound neatly in a loose chignon, and chocolate brown eyes—eyes a man could lose himself in. “May I speak with your employer, my dear,” Colin said politely.
“Good day, my lords.” She bobbed a curtsey. “My name is Miss Mason and I am the headmistress here. Please forgive my housekeeper’s lack of deference.” She paused, smiling sweetly. “We are unaccustomed to having many visitors, especially gentlemen as distinguished as yourselves. Have you come to make a donation to the school?”
Chapter 4
Nora could not imagine why these three gentlemen, obviously members of the ton— judging by their dress and means of transport—had remained standing in front of her school for what seemed like an eternity. They were all dressed in the height of fashion, with superfine coats sporting high collars, pantaloons, white linen shirts, colorful silk waistcoats, and elaborately tied cravats. She watched them chatting among themselves until they finally approached the door. She had hoped they would leave. While two men dressed in navy and burgundy jackets with buff pants, the tallest one dressed in black, which she thought an unusual color for this time of day.When that tall, dark-headed man with the soft grey eyes unfurled a folded piece of paper and looked up at her, her stomach both fluttered and sank to her feet, a curious feeling she failed to understand. Perhaps it was a premonition. Various people acquainted with the family had told her that her mother had been subject to them; however, Nora made it a practice to follow her instincts, and they told her something was wrong here. Whatever the gentlemen’s reasons, she remained on her guard as she greeted them, forcing a smile and the cheery voice she employed whenever she felt worried and fearful. The gentleman took a moment to take her measure and take stock of the room behind her before speaking.
“I fear there has been some mistake. Would you be so kind as to invite us inside to discuss it?” he finally said. “I should hate my business to be discussed by eavesdroppers and passers-by.”
She had to admit several wagons, and people on foot had slowed down or even stopped to watch. This was a busy street, yet not one accustomed to gentlemen of such style and fashion. She nodded in agreement.
“You have me at a disadvantage, my lord,” she returned, noticing that
the other two had remained quiet and observant. He seemed in charge.
“It would appear my shock has stolen my manners, Miss Mason. Forgive me. I am the Earl of Shefford.” He made an elegant leg before continuing, “The gentleman to my right is my friend, the Earl of Bergen, and to the left of me is the Earl of Morray.” Both men removed their beaver hats and bowed.
Chagrined that not only was this gentleman being too nice to dislike, he was also remarkably attractive, Nora stepped back and allowed them entry.
“The parlor is to the left,” she directed them, pausing a moment to speak with her cook, who had remained standing quietly at the foot of the stairs. “Mrs. Simpkins,” she whispered to the older woman, “please ask Mary to bring us some tea.”
“Aye, though I be glad to do it for ye, missy, Mary is quieting Amy just now. The poor lass refuses to nap,” the cook replied. “I be afraid she has adopted ye for her mama,” she added with a rueful smile. “She has taken a likin’ to ye for sure.”
Poor little Amy. She had not forgotten the child, although she had become very distracted by the appearance of these gentlemen.
“I am afraid you may well be correct,” she said with a sigh. “If you do not mind bringing a tray to the parlor, I would appreciate it. You are a treasure, Mrs. Simpkins.”
“I’ll add some fresh lemon biscuits I jus’ took from the oven. That should help with whatever trouble awaits ye,” she murmured. With a curt nod to the dark-haired, grey-eyed man who stared in their direction through the open door, the older woman left to gather the promised refreshments.
Nora pushed the door behind her towards its frame, leaving it open a crack. Instinct told her that whatever business they had, the children should not hear of it.
“Gentlemen, I have requested tea for us.” She walked over to a somewhat worn, blue velvet settee and sat down. “Please make yourselves comfortable, and once again, I trust you will accept my apologies for earlier. I should perhaps explain… you have caught us at an awkward time. We are still establishing our routines. The orphanage has just reopened after being closed for ten years, you see. There is much to repair and I have yet to appoint a porter.”
Earl of Shefford: Noble Hearts Series: Book Three (Wicked Earls Book 28) Page 2