Lottie added, “And Mrs. Ainsley’s more forgiving if we show up with pastries. She likes ‘em, even if she pretends she don’t. Caught her eatin’ one in a closet once, didn’t we Fi? She was cryin’ like someone died.”
Mr. O’Sullivan frowned. “Telling tales again, Lottie?”
“No, sir! On my ma’s soul, I saw it.” She bit her lip. “You won’t tell her I picked the locks, will you, Mr. O’Sullivan?”
He sighed. “Just don’t do it again, sweetheart.” Before Lottie could answer, he took the basket from Alexandra. “Fine. I’ll go.”
“Wonderful,” Alexandra said with a bright smile. “Come along, girls. Lead the way.”
They followed the two delighted children out of the kitchens. Alexandra pulled up the collar of her coat as she exited the Brimstone. The weather was brisk with the promise of autumn, the East End redolent with the coal smoke that stained its buildings black. The malodor of this part of the city had been difficult to grow used to once, but it hardly affected her anymore.
Lottie and Fiona raced each other down the muddy lane, nimbly moving between every passerby.
“Girls, stay in our sight, please!” Alexandra called.
These early hours filled the streets with people. There was the drunkard heading home from a night at the tavern. The factory girls chatting on their way to work. The baker hawking from his shopfront. A pair of lovers kissed passionately before saying goodbye for the day. The East End was a boisterous community, less formal than what Alexandra was accustomed to in the West End. It was these moments that made her smile.
“The girls like you,” Mr. O’Sullivan said quietly.
Alexandra pressed a coin into the palm of a child admiring the bread in the baker’s window. His crow of delight made her smile. “They’re fascinated by me,” Alexandra replied, walking on. “No doubt their experience with ladies of my station are those involved in charity or those who sneer at them from carriages on the thoroughfare.”
Mr. O’Sullivan made a gusty noise. “What difference?” he asked. At her confused expression, he explained, “Ladies support orphanages because the children are too small to wonder why their patronesses never touch them even with a gloved hand. They’re so grateful for full bellies that they’ll take any snobbery that comes with a meal.” He nodded to the girls, who were walking well out of earshot. “Lottie’s at an age where she’s starting to understand.”
“Understand what?”
“The difference between who lies and who tells the truth. The ones with the pretty smiles are easy to trust, but their betrayals stick with you longer. The ladies in the carriages might be a lot of fucking harridans, but at least they’re honest.”
Alexandra was silent, watching the two girls stride through the winding streets. Their heads dipped towards each other as they chatted back and forth. It struck her that Lottie’s unprompted remarks about her life before the orphanage were small tests for Alexandra. Was she a lady from the carriage, or a patroness who hid disgust behind false smiles? There was a truth to Mr. O’Sullivan’s harsh words; in Alexandra’s world, charity was a form of social currency. Anyone from the daughters of dukes to the wives of viscounts bragged of their good works—not because they cared for the impoverished, but because they received admiration from their peers. After all, their husbands and fathers returned day after day to the Lords or the Commons and passed the same bills that continued to benefit the rich at the expense of the poor.
“You think I am like another patroness,” Alexandra said. “Picking and choosing the worthy poor as a spectacle of rampant narcissism. Don’t you?”
How could she blame him if he did? He had grown up here, worlds apart from her own upbringing. He had been forced to survive the same streets of Nick’s childhood, when Whelan demanded loyalty at a high price. Aristocrats cared nothing for this place, or the people in it.
Mr. O’Sullivan let out a soft breath. “I don’t know what you are. Patroness or a carriage lady, it makes no difference to me. I don’t trust aristos. You all demand a high price for your attentions.”
Alexandra chose her next words very carefully. “I assume, from your refined accent, that you know a great deal about this cost.”
His knuckles went white around the handle of the basket. “Yes,” he said simply. Before she could make any further comment, he gestured to the nearest building, one that said, in very lovely, carved letters: Mrs. Ainsley’s Home For Orphaned Children. “We’ve arrived.”
“Lady! Lady!” Fiona ran over and grasped Alexandra’s hand. “You gotta meet the others!”
Alexandra laughed as the girls dragged her inside the orphanage. The building was spotless, the decorations homey and welcoming: chintz furniture, floral draperies that appeared recently purchased, gleaming hardwood floors. The air was redolent with the scent of baked bread, the lemon of cleaning solution. In another room, laughter and chattering voices of the resident children echoed down the long halls.
“Come on, lady,” Fiona said, tugging Alexandra’s hand. “I’m ever so hungry!”
“Mr. O’Sullivan’s the one wiv the pastries, daftie,” Lottie said, rolling her eyes.
“Charlotte,” came a new voice. “Don’t call your sister a daftie. Please apologize.”
A young woman came down the stairs, a set of keys jangling at her waist. The easy way she carried herself implied she was the manager, Mrs. Ainsley. She was striking and tall, with glossy black hair and eyes the color of polished emeralds. Her smile was warm as she regarded the two children in the entryway.
“Sorry, Fi,” Lottie muttered. To Mrs. Ainsley: “Can Lady join us for breakfast?”
“I’ll consider it.” She regarded both of them with a speculative look. “Now. Do you both have anything you wish to confess?” When Lottie shot Mr. O’Sullivan a pleading look, Mrs. Ainsley shook her head. “No, Mr. O’Sullivan will offer you no help here. Tell me. Fiona?”
Fiona hung her head. “We snuck out again.”
“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. Charlotte?”
Lottie wrinkled her nose. “And I picked the locks again,” the girl mumbled.
“I appreciate your honesty.” Mrs. Ainsley looked between them. “I will consider your punishment, but until then, go join the others. Tell everyone I want them to have their boots on for school.”
The two girls ran out of the room and Alexandra stared after them in amusement. “They are a handful, aren’t they?”
Mrs. Ainsley sighed. “If that girl keeps picking the locks, I’m going to have to hire a locksmith to Charlotte-proof the orphanage.” She offered her hand to Alexandra. “My apologies. You must be Mr. Thorne’s wife. I’m Mrs. Ainsley, but you must call me Sofia.”
Alexandra gave her hand a firm shake. “Pleasure. Thank you for allowing me to borrow your clothes the other day. I hope you’ll let me replace them.”
“How kind of you, but I have everything I need.” She widened her hands, gesturing to her surroundings.
“Things for the children, then. You only need to ask.” Alexandra scanned the room, noting the meticulous cleanliness once more. It must have been hard work, keeping an orphanage so clean. “Do you run this entire home yourself?”
“I’ve some staff that Mr. Thorne hired after he asked me to become the manager. The previous mistress was not”—her lips thinned—“a kind woman. I shall leave there.” Sofia took a breath and looked at Mr. O’Sullivan. “Mr. O’Sullivan. I’m happy to see you again.”
The factotum was staring at Sofia with a strangest look on his face. “I can’t stay,” he said shortly.
Sofia’s smile tightened. “Nowhere in that statement was a promise I would hold you here against your will. You may come and go as you please. You, of all people, should know that.”
In the short time she’d known him, Alexandra had never seen the Irishman so off kilter; he seemed to be fighting back a grimace. “Going,” he said tightly. “I need to go.” Then he thrust the basket into Sofia’s hands, said, “These
are for the kids,” and left. The door shut hard behind him.
Alexandra couldn’t help but ask, “What on earth was that about?”
Sofia stared at the door a bit sadly. “Unfinished business, I’m afraid.” Before Alexandra could ask what she meant, the other woman forced a smile. “Shall we see to the children?”
Chapter 16
Alex was not in her room, and there were no guards at her door.
Thorne tried to calm his surge of panic. Whelan’s return left him frayed at the edges; nightmares of that old, dark cellar had plagued his sleep. They had been so real, that distinctive cheroot stench had burned all the way down his throat until he felt as if he would choke on it. Thorne had gasped awake and barely made it to the water closet to vomit. He’d returned to his bed and pressed his forehead to his knees, and gulped deep, deep breaths.
When Fiona and Lottie had found him that way, he’d been too sharp with them. Lottie—bless her—had patted his shoulder, took her sister’s hand, and left.
Hours later, Thorne had cleaned himself up, dressed, and went to check on his wife.
Empty room. Scattered papers. Her mess, or someone else’s?
Thorne pounded down the hall, finally spotting one of his men. “Clements,” he said sharply, aware that he must have looked half-mad. At that moment, he didn’t bloody well give a damn. “Lady Alexandra isn’t in her room.” The other man sputtered some response that was more like a panicked gargle. “Spit it out, man. Where is she?”
“She’s at the orphanage,” another voice said wryly.
Thorne whirled to see O’Sullivan coming out of his offices. The factotum looked at Clements and dismissed him with a nod.
“Someone is supposed to be guarding her,” Thorne said. “At all times.”
He’d looked all night for some sign of Whelan, but found nothing. He’d gone to Whelan’s favorite pubs, his preferred gin palaces and gaming hells—everywhere except the one place Thorne dared not set foot in: the cellar where he’d spent his nightmares. So he had circled the old neighborhood in the Nichol, sizing up the decrepit building where he’d lost his soul. He’d bought it from the landlord, paid as much as it took, but he left it there to rot. He wished he had burned it to the ground. Salted the earth. Let the pigeons shit on its ashes.
But over the years, all he’d wanted to do was forget.
O’Sullivan removed his spectacles and buffed them clean with his shirt. “If you wished to keep her locked in there, you ought to have told me otherwise. I wasn’t aware she was our prisoner.”
Thorne felt a stirring of irritation. “Don’t be an idiot.”
“Don’t threaten Clements like he’s a prison guard and not an employee,” O’Sullivan said sharply, sliding his spectacles up his nose. “Your piece is safe. Left her with Sofia and a gaggle of delighted children.”
Sofia was the only reason O’Sullivan was standing in front of him and not lying dead in a ditch. Thorne remembered the day Whelan lined up all his lads for some nob to make his choice from the lot. Thorne had been fourteen; O’Sullivan had been twelve—and he had a pretty face that attracted the wrong sort.
Whelan had sold O’Sullivan that day.
Thorne spent three years searching for the toff who had bought his friend. As luck would have it, a girl came to him one night in the Nichol and told him. O’Sullivan had been kept in the Earl of Sunderland’s house for three years, and he was under lock and key in the earl’s London residence.
By the time Thorne finally got around to freeing O’Sullivan, his friend had scars covering most of his body, but at least he had his damned life.
Years later, when Sofia came to the Brimstone and asked for help going into hiding, Thorne and O’Sullivan didn’t ask questions. They hid her. Now her identity was that of Mrs. Ainsley, manager of the home for children.
“Did you manage ten words to Sofia,” Thorne asked, “or am I being too generous?”
“Don’t start,” O’Sullivan said with a warning tone.
“Haven’t even. She’s a looker. Got a kind heart. She saved your arse from the Earl of Sunderland all those years ago. Problem?”
“About twenty of them, at minimum,” O’Sullivan muttered. He slid his spectacles up his nose and sighed. “Go to your wife, Thorne. I’ll handle business here.”
Thorne clapped O’Sullivan on the shoulder and headed to the orphanage.
When the maid let him inside, he smiled at the delighted chattering of children in another room. The orphanage had been filled with laughter since Sofia took over. Before Thorne owned the building, it was run by Mrs. Foley, who reeked of gin and spent half her day fucking soused. Thorne’s first order of business had been booting her out on her arse.
Sofia had done a miracle here. The children had thrived under her management.
Just before he reached the sitting room, Thorne heard Alex’s laugh. Thorne peered inside to find his wife helping Sofia herd the children into some semblance of order. He braced his shoulder against the door and took in the sight of her. Her golden hair was coming loose from her chignon, and her eyes were alight with joy. With a jolt, he realized he hadn’t seen her look that happy since Gretna, when the blacksmith had bound their hands with ribbon. After their train journey, she had been weary and rumpled, but her smile had been the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Still was.
But this one wasn’t for him.
“Mrs. Ainsley always tells us a story before school,” a little girl said to Alex. “Right, Mrs. Ainsley?”
“Children,” Sofia was saying. “We really must get you ready. Oh my goodness, Mary, those pastries have made your hands all sticky. Come here, darling.”
“One story,” Lottie said, flopping into the armchair. Her boot laces were still untied. “Please, Mrs. Thorne?”
Alex shook her head and let out a gusty laugh that made Thorne’s chest tighten. “Very well,” she agreed, kneeling to tie Lottie’s laces. “Are there any requests?”
Fi bounced next to Lottie. “Tell us one about Mr. Thorne!”
“Ohhhh,” Lottie said. She twirled her hair around her finger and said, “Tell us about you and Mr. Thorne. Is it ever so romantic? I wanna know.”
Alex’s smile disappeared.
Sofia understood her discomfort immediately. “Perhaps a different tale,” the manager gently suggested. “Shall I tell you about the diamond and the loadstone? Or—”
“Pleaaaaaaase, Mrs. Thorne?” Lottie cried.
“Lottie, my love.” Sofia’s voice was stern now. “Don’t harangue our guest.”
“No, it’s all right,” Alex said, straightening. Uncertainty flashed in her features, but she squared her shoulders and found her courage. “Mr. Thorne and I—”
“No, you gots to start of off right-like,” Fiona said, picking at her just-tied bootlaces. “Like in them fairytales.”
“Of course,” Alex murmured, her expression pained. After all, their marriage was no ideal to inspire young children. Thorne knew that if this were a fairytale, he’d be the villain. “Once upon a time, there was a young woman. She had two loving brothers, but a cruel father who used every opportunity to remind her that he considered her a burden. A mistake. You might think of her as a princess, for she attended balls. But she never danced.”
Fi gasped. “Ohh but why not? Didn’t she wanna?”
“Yes, yes, she wanted to very much. But this girl didn’t fit in with many of her peers. She was expected to make herself smaller, to not take up so much space.” At their confused expressions, Alex clarified softly, “To pretend to be someone she wasn’t. When she refused, her father demanded she stay in the country as punishment. One day—when she was very lonely—she met a man.”
“Oh my goodness,” Lottie sighed. “Did she kiss him?”
“Not right away. But she did like him a great deal. He was the first person who understood her. They spent almost every day together—going to the lake for a swim, or sitting beneath the forest trees, talking for hours. He was .
. .”
Alex paused, and the knife twisted in Thorne’s chest. All those memories . . . so many sunny days. So much laughter. Her smiles then came so easily. Thorne longed to stop her now, for he didn’t wish to hear the end of her story. He knew how it ended.
He still remembered her getting into the carriage and leaving him on Roseburn’s gravel drive.
Four years was a long time.
Alex shook her head as if to clear it. “The man was kind to her. That was what she fell in love with: his kindness. But her father told her that he considered this man to be beneath her, so he forbid her to see him.”
“No!” Fi cried.
“How awful,” Lottie added. “Did she run away with him?”
“Yes, sweetheart.” Thorne heard the sadness in Alex’s voice. “They eloped, and she married him.” Alexandra looked towards the door, then, as if sensing him. Their eyes met across the room. Thorne held his breath, waiting for what she’d say. How she’d tell the children that he wasn’t a kind man at all, but a liar hired by her father to deceive her to that altar. But she only smiled at the rapt children and said, “And that is the story of Mr. Thorne and I.”
Happy sighs from the children. The room filled with the applause of a dozen small hands clapping.
Sofia, who had been listening with a soft expression, stood and addressed her charges. “Time to leave our guest and head to school. Lottie, please help Miss Margaret with the little ones.”
Lottie and the maid wrangled the other children into an orderly queue, and they trotted single-file out the kitchen door. The noise went with them, leaving the orphanage bereft of laughter.
Alex approached Thorne, her expression serious once more. “Good morning,” she said.
Sofia noticed Thorne in the doorway. “Oh, hello, Mr. Thorne,” she said pleasantly. “I didn’t see you there. Have you come to inspect the inventory?”
Tempting the Scoundrel (Private Arrangements Book 2) Page 14