There was also the fact that he’d rescued Rosie from the patient at Mrs. Barlow’s.
“I didn’t do this.” Revelstoke’s hoarse words poured into her ear, the listening device magnifying his pain and frustration. “I cannot explain how it happened or why Nicoletta would lie. But I am certain the voice I heard was no dream. There was a man in the room—her accomplice is my guess. Why else would he say, Hurry, we must act before he awakens?”
“So you are saying this is some elaborate set-up?” The wall didn’t filter out the skepticism in Mr. McLeod’s voice.
“I am saying I believe I was drugged. Believe me, it takes more than three drinks for me to reach oblivion. There are people who have an axe to grind with me. I could give you a list of suspects—”
“There is no indication of a ruse. The victim points her finger at you.” Mr. McLeod’s brogue underscored his blunt words. “You ken why we canna go interrogating these so-called suspects without any evidence? We’ll be laughed out of their homes—or thrown out, as we’d well deserve.”
“That’s a circular argument.” Polly could picture Revelstoke dragging his hands through his hair. “Because you have no evidence, you cannot go searching for the truth?”
“What my partner is saying is that perhaps you are better off doing as your father says. Miss French stated that she has reached an agreement with the duke. She does not intend to press charges.” Ambrose’s tone was cool. “If we look into the matter for you, you risk scandal, perhaps worse. We are of the professional opinion that you stand to lose less by allowing His Grace to handle the situation for you.”
“I refuse to hide behind my father’s name. And I’d rather die than go back to that bloody madhouse,” Revelstoke said, his voice gritty.
“Mr. Kent told me of your fears that you are being followed,” Mr. Lugo’s baritone cut in. “The law protects sane men from being detained against their will. No one can force you back to Mrs. Barlow’s—or any asylum—without the certification of physicians. So you see, my lord, you are quite safe.”
“Damnit, I am not safe. Someone is out to get me.”
“I’m afraid there’s little we can do to help,” Ambrose said.
After a terse pause, the earl bit out, “Then I’ll find someone else who can.”
“Oh no, he’s leaving,” Rosie whispered.
Before Polly could react, the other grabbed the listening devices, stuffing them behind a chair. She dashed to the door, wrenching it open just as Revelstoke strode by.
“My lord?” Rosie called. “You’re not leaving already?”
The earl halted, pivoting. Polly’s breath caught at the frustration, helplessness, and pain roiling around him. Not the emotions of a man who was lying… but of one fighting to be believed.
Revelstoke believes in his own innocence—even if no one else does.
“I’m afraid so. Thank you both for your hospitality.” His bow was stiff.
When he lifted his head, his gaze met Polly’s. The intense blue flames seemed to suck the air out of her lungs. Energy pulsed between them: unspoken words, feelings too complicated to disentangle.
“If I have caused any inconvenience, you have my most sincere regrets,” he said.
Somehow she knew that the gruff apology was intended for her.
“Your presence was an honor, my lord,” Rosie said, sounding rather desperate. “I do hope you’ll call again soon?”
Polly felt Revelstoke’s gaze on her. She knew she ought to say something, but her tongue was a lead weight in her mouth. Thoughts swarmed in her head. How can Revelstoke believe one thing—and the victim say another? Why do I believe him? How can the God of Revelry be so… friendless?
Because she saw his loneliness, oozing from him like tar.
“Good day, ladies.” Another leg, and Revelstoke turned to go.
Polly watched his solitary retreat down the hallway, her heart clenching. She heard the front door close, and, numbly, allowed Rosie to pull her back into the library. The muffled sound of Ambrose and his partners conferring filtered through the wall.
“Can you believe what just happened?” Though hushed, Rosie’s tone vibrated with outrage.
Polly moistened her lips. “I don’t think the earl is capable of such a despicable act, but I—”
“Of course he isn’t! I’m an excellent judge of character, and I can tell you Revelstoke would never hurt a woman,” Rosie said fiercely. “He saved my life. What flummoxes me is the fact that Papa didn’t even give him a chance.”
“Ambrose is afraid of making matters worse for the earl. Besides, his conclusion is based on evidence—on the victim’s testimony.” Yet Polly just couldn’t imagine Revelstoke being a brute toward women; if anything, the man was a Casanova. “Unless… do you think Miss French could be lying?”
“I’d wager my pin money on it. If there were only some way we could convince Papa of the fact…” Rosie’s gaze widened.
Polly frowned. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because you are my dearest sister and most bosom companion. I would do anything for you—and you’d do the same for me, wouldn’t you?”
Comprehension hit her with the force of a hammer. “You can’t mean—”
“I won’t ask you for another favor for the rest of my life if you’ll help me prove to Papa that Revelstoke is telling the truth. Please, Pols,”—Rosie’s hands clasped as if in prayer—“you’re my only hope.”
Chapter Thirteen
Three days later, Polly stood in the aisle of a sun-filled classroom, which bore the pleasant scents of beeswax polish and fresh ink. A field of children surrounded her, their bright heads bobbing over their desks. As nibs scratched diligently against paper, Polly found her thoughts wandering. Her visits to the Hunt Academy for Foundlings typically absorbed her full attention, but today was no normal day.
It had begun with Rosie cornering her in her room after breakfast.
“Everything is set,” her sister had said excitedly. “Today we carry out our plan!”
Polly bit her lip. “So many things could go wrong—”
“We’ve gone through this before. In order to interview Miss French and get proof that she’s lying, we need to be free of chaperonage. Your visit to the Hunt Academy today will provide the perfect opportunity.”
Although a chaperone or maid always accompanied Polly to the school, during the visits she moved about as she pleased, helping the children with various activities. The Academy was home to more than a hundred children, milling around in over a dozen classrooms, so she had ample opportunity to slip out without anyone noticing.
“Given that the Academy is a mere two blocks away from Miss French’s address on Castle Street, ’tis as if we were destined for the undertaking,” Rosie went on gleefully. “The trickiest part will be getting me free. I vow Mama watches me like a hawk.”
“I wonder why.”
Rosie rolled her eyes. “We can’t all be paragons.”
“I’m not a paragon,” Polly protested. “I’ve just never had a reason to get into trouble.”
Until Revelstoke came along, her inner voice reminded her, and guilt flickered.
“As I was saying, it would rouse suspicion if I suddenly developed a fondness for foundlings when I never have before.” Rosie tapped her chin. “So I’ll just fake a megrim this afternoon and come out to meet you. What could go wrong?”
Only about a million things, Polly thought now. Why on earth did I agree to this?
It was a rhetorical question because she knew why. Part of the reason had to do with Rosie. She found it difficult to refuse her sister in the first place, and, after the wrong she’d done, the least she could do was agree to the other’s entreaty. But the more compelling reason, she admitted, was her debt to Revelstoke.
She’d misjudged him horribly. In truth, she was guilty of judging him harshly and unfairly—the very thing she’d condemned him for all these months. She’d believed he’d denigrated her
because she was a wallflower when, in fact, he’d been defending her. She was the one who’d jumped to conclusions about him because he was a rake. The truth was shameful and humbling.
But now it was in her power to help him. To protect an innocent man—which her gut told her he was—from a terrible accusation.
“Um, Miss Kent? I’m finished.”
The timid voice penetrated Polly’s tumultuous thoughts. Seeing the freckled, brown-haired girl who had an ink-smudged hand shyly raised, she put a lid on her thoughts. It wasn’t right to neglect her charges just because she was about to participate in the most risky, hare-brained scheme of her life.
Summoning a smile, she headed over to the desk. “That was quick, Maisie. Let’s have a look, then, shall we?”
Maisie handed over her notebook, gnawing on her lip all the while.
Polly scanned the page. Her smile deepened as she inspected the rows of cursive, which were painstakingly tidy and precise. “What beautiful penmanship, Maisie,” she said warmly.
The girl flushed to the roots of her shiny brown plaits. “Thank you, Miss Kent. I’ve been practicing. Like you told me, ‘If at first you don’t succeed…”
“…try and try again.’ That was my papa’s favorite saying,” Polly said with a reminiscent smile. “As a scholar and schoolmaster, he said his work never got any easier—he merely got more used to trying. Well, your efforts have certainly paid off, Maisie. I’m very impressed, and Mrs. Hunt will be as well at your remarkable progress.”
“Do you think so?” Pleasure warmed the girl’s glow.
Like all of the foundlings, Maisie Cullen adored the school’s benefactress, Persephone Hunt. The academy had been established by Mrs. Hunt’s husband, Gavin Hunt, a powerful and affluent businessman. A product of the stews, Mr. Hunt aimed to give the children of the rookery opportunities that he, himself, had lacked. The Hunts were long-time friends of the Kents, and it had been Mrs. Hunt who’d first suggested that Polly might enjoy volunteering at the academy.
“What will I be impressed by?” The lady in question approached, a questioning smile on her heart-shaped face. Mrs. Hunt’s slender figure was clad in a sky blue walking dress that matched her eyes, her upswept golden curls bouncing with each step. Her loveliness was more than skin-deep: she glowed with the vitality of her spirit.
“Maisie completed her lesson.” Polly showed Mrs. Hunt the page.
“Well done, Maisie!” Mrs. Hunt said. “We shall celebrate with cake at lunch, shall we?”
Maisie turned even pinker. “Miss Kent’s been ’elping me with my q’s.”
“Then Miss Kent shall have some cake too,” Mrs. Hunt declared. “Now, run along, Maisie, and get some fresh air before the lunch bell rings. You’ve earned it.”
The girl bobbed a curtsy and scampered off, plaits flying.
“She has bloomed, hasn’t she?” Mrs. Hunt said with satisfaction.
“Indeed,” Polly said fondly.
She could still remember when Maisie had arrived at the school a year ago, a malnourished ten-year-old dressed in rags. Unlike London’s Foundling Hospital, the Hunt Academy took in children of all ages and regardless of the circumstances that had forced them to seek refuge. Maisie and her older brother, Timothy, had been abandoned by their mother, a prostitute whose addiction to blue ruin had taken away her ability to care for her offspring.
“Now if only Tim would set roots down here as well,” Mrs. Hunt murmured.
While Maisie had adapted to her new home, her brother, unfortunately, had not. At fifteen, Tim was a wild and unruly boy who ran with a band of mudlarks, children who scavenged the banks of the Thames collecting anything of value. Given the desperation of their situation, mudlarks who managed to survive into adulthood oft found themselves apprenticed into the world of thieves and cutthroats. Only Tim’s love for his sister kept him coming to the academy for visits and, Polly suspected, from succumbing to the darkness of the rookery once and for all.
“I wish there was some way to convince him,” she said.
“One can only bring a horse to water,” Mrs. Hunt said with a sigh. “But enough of that. I have something to show you in my office if you’re free?”
Polly nodded. She had an hour before she was to meet Rosie around the corner from the school. They’d chosen that time because the children would be transitioning from lunch to recess; in the hullabaloo, no one would notice Polly’s absence.
Polly followed the other out of the classroom. Occupying a large plot on the boundary between the stews and Covent Garden, the academy had once been a warehouse for spices, and the barest traces of cinnamon and saffron still tinged the air. The Hunts had redesigned the cavernous space, adding windows and walls to create large, bright rooms that branched off the arterial hallway.
As Polly kept pace with Mrs. Hunt’s lively stride, she glimpsed children learning various trades in those rooms, everything from shoemaking to sewing to cookery. The Academy’s unique philosophy was to provide students not only with food and shelter, but with the tools—including literacy—with which they could build successful lives.
“You’ve made quite an impression on Maisie,” Mrs. Hunt said.
“And vice versa. She’s a bright and capable girl.”
It was one of the reasons Polly loved working at the academy. The students had so much potential—and at the same time, little in the way of conceit. Because of their humble beginnings, the children knew the pain of living on society’s fringes, and their auras shone with hope and determination to make better lives for themselves.
“She was in dire need of a mentor and friend. Maisie talks about you all the time. How you’ve helped her with her letters and her sewing.”
“She’s a prodigy with a needle. Even Madame Rousseau is impressed,” Polly said with a smile. Through their circle of influence, the Hunts had been able to recruit experts to apprentice the children. Madame Rousseau, the famed and long-time modiste of the Kents, had taken Maisie and several girls under her tutelage. “I’ve hardly done anything.”
Mrs. Hunt sent her a quizzical look. “You do know Maisie adores you, don’t you? As do all of the children you’ve worked with.”
“I think it is you whom they admire, Mrs. Hunt.”
“Well, we all have our blinders,” the other murmured, somewhat cryptically. “Never mind. One day you’ll recognize your own value, my dear.”
“I’m just happy to contribute as much as I can.” And to find a place where I belong.
Turning the corner, Mrs. Hunt led the way into the offices that housed the academy’s staff. She said a cheery hello to the secretary stationed at the front desk and ushered Polly down another corridor. They passed by an immaculate chamber outfitted in dark, masculine tones. A painting of Mrs. Hunt and her three golden-haired offspring hung over the large mahogany desk, lending a bright note to the otherwise stark decor.
They reached Mrs. Hunt’s personal office, an airy space marked by an eyebrow-raising amount of clutter. Mrs. Hunt made a beeline for her rosewood escritoire. The desk’s legs creaked as she shuffled through the piles on its surface.
“Make yourself at home, dear,” she muttered absently. “Now where is the dashed thing?”
Eyeing the seating options, Polly hid a grin. The chairs and settee were also covered in books and papers—the tools of a writer’s trade. For in addition to her charity work, Mrs. Hunt wrote wildly popular novels under her pseudonym P. R. Fines.
Polly was discreetly clearing a stack of newspapers off a chair when Mrs. Hunt exclaimed, “Aha. Here it is!” Waving a book like a flag, Mrs. Hunt came over and held it out.
Polly took the handsome leather-bound volume. Reverently, she ran her fingertips over the title embossed in gold. “Is this your newest book?”
“I received it yesterday,” Mrs. Hunt said with a happy nod, “and I’m going to unveil it at our charity ball, less than a fortnight away. I’ll be auctioning off signed copies to raise funds for the academy.”
&nbs
p; “What a brilliant notion.”
“That is what Mr. Hunt said.” Mrs. Hunt looked quite pleased with herself. “Now on the topic of the ball, have you decided what you’re going to wear?”
Polly hadn’t given it much thought. In truth, she was not particularly thrilled at the notion of enduring yet another social crush, but she would go, of course, to support the children and the Hunts’ excellent cause.
“I’ll find something suitable,” she said off-handedly.
“Actually, I was hoping you’d do me and the academy a favor.”
She tilted her head. “Of course, if I can.”
“As you know, all the classes are working on projects to display at the ball. Seeing the fruits of the children’s hard work always encourages our donors to reach more deeply into their pockets. This year, Madame Rousseau has been working with Maisie and the other girls to design a ball gown for the occasion—and they’d like for you to model their creation.”
Tendrils of dread crept over Polly. She shook her head. “I wouldn’t do their work justice—”
“On the contrary, you’d be the perfect model,” Mrs. Hunt argued. “Madame Rousseau already has your measurements from gowns she has made you in the past, and Maisie and the girls are so excited over the project. Indeed, they’re likening it to the story of the Girl in the Cinders—not that you’re dressed in rags, of course,” she added hastily. “They would just like to create a different style for you.”
“But I don’t want—”
“It would mean ever so much to Maisie and the other girls,” Mrs. Hunt said. “It would show them that you have faith in their abilities. That you’re proud of them and their handiwork.”
Polly gnawed on her lip. How could she refuse such a request? It was just a dress, after all. The truth was that she’d wear a sack if it would prove to the children how proud she was of them.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll do it.”
“Marvelous! You shan’t regret it,” Mrs. Hunt said, her eyes sparkling.
Polly hoped the other was right.
Never Say Never to an Earl (Heart of Enquiry Book 5) Page 11