by Nicole Byrd
Gemma frowned. “You told me yesterday he plans to marry an heiress, Louisa, and you would be a prime target if you were not already betrothed, which you are. Do not allow yourself to become too fond of him. I do not wish to see you hurt. Besides, what would Sir Lucas say?”
Louisa flushed, and her tone was defensive. “Of course not. I am simply sorry that he has suffered so much, that is all. And he has his own way to make in the world. That is not such a crime.”
“He makes his way, as you put it, using his charm and impudence. Those attributes, along with his handsome face, should suffice to gain him the rich wife he seeks,” Gemma pointed out.
Louisa frowned. “You needn’t say it like that. At least he is honest about his intentions, you know. And I believe you prefer Captain Fallon’s sterner good looks, so you have little room to talk. What would your Arnold say about that?”
For a moment, they glared at each other. Then a knock at the door could be heard, and Gemma drew a deep breath.
“Let us not quarrel,” she said. “I am only thinking of your welfare, Louisa.”
“I know,” the other girl murmured. “But please, do not quote me uplifting advice. I get enough of that from Miss Pomshack.”
Gemma grinned, and the tension eased just as the footman appeared in the doorway to announce, “Captain Fallon, miss.”
He was a little early, also impatient to be off, Gemma deduced.
His glance toward her was warm, and she was irked to find herself blushing again, knowing that Louisa was watching.
But her friend said only, “Would you like a cup of tea, Captain?”
“Thank you.” Matthew Fallon sat down and accepted the tea.
“How is Lieutenant McGregor?” Louisa went on, though she was careful, Gemma noted, to keep her tone merely polite. “I hope he is recovering?”
“He spent a somewhat restless night,” Fallon told them. “But he seems improved this morning. I left him still abed and hope he will remain there.”
They both looked at him in surprise. The captain added, “He has had a difficulty, that is, I thought it best that he come back with me to my lodgings instead of staying all alone. He has no live-in servants.”
“That was most thoughtful of you,” Louisa told him, her tone approving.
Gemma was about to add her own praise when she turned her head. “Is that a carriage out front?”
Louisa pushed herself back from the table and hastened to the window. “Yes, a very smart chaise. It must be Lady Gabriel.”
“We will not keep her waiting,” Gemma said. She had already brought a shawl and bonnet and gloves downstairs. She donned them quickly, and then Captain Fallon escorted her outside to the carriage and helped her up. She introduced him to Lady Gabriel.
“Good morning,” Psyche said.
Lady Gabriel looked very smart in an elegant pearl-gray costume trimmed with a sable collar. Large pearl eardrops and a long pearl necklace completed her outfit. If this lady, with her fashionable apparel and air of command, could not intimidate the matron of the foundling home into releasing information, no one could, Gemma thought. Her hopes rising again, she took a seat on the other side of the carriage.
Captain Fallon had brought his horse, which was tied up in front of the house, so he mounted and rode beside the carriage as they headed out of the city.
Aside from a few polite comments, they said little. Gemma was too eager to reach their destination, and Psyche also seemed to have her own thoughts. She did say, as they left the outskirts of London, “My husband is most concerned that we all find an answer to this puzzle, Gemma. I hope you will not judge him too harshly for his doubts.”
Gemma shook her head. “Oh, no. I am aware that it is a very unusual situation.”
Psyche sighed. “The most difficult possibility for him to accept is the thought that his mother might have had a lover. We tend to see our parents as above reproach, not as ordinary mortals who sometimes make mistakes. I think men, especially, are inclined to view their mothers as blameless creatures.”
Gemma nodded.
“For myself, having met the late marquis and judged him cruel and controlling, I am only happy that his poor wife might have had someone in her life who loved her and perhaps gave her a few interludes of happiness,” Psyche said.
Gemma had not considered the matter in that light. Poor woman indeed, she told herself, tied for life to a tyrannical and unkind husband. Her mother had suffered deep tribulations. They both fell silent, and as the carriage rolled along, Gemma’s reflections returned to the foundling home and the reception they might expect there.
When the home came into view, Gemma tensed. She waited impatiently for the carriage to roll to a stop. Captain Fallon dismounted while Psyche’s groom helped them both down. “Wait for us here,” Psyche told her coachman, and she led the way to the door.
The captain rapped smartly upon it, and again, they had to wait several minutes for any response.
At last, the door opened, and another small girl peeked around it.
“No callers today,” she said, her tone uncertain.
Was that the invariable response, Gemma wondered? It had not worked before, and it was certainly not going to deter Lady Gabriel.
Psyche pushed the door wider and smiled down upon the child. “It’s all right. Mrs. Craigmore will wish you to admit us. You may tell her that Lady Gabriel Sinclair, and friends, are here to see her.”
The child gazed at this fashionable vision with widened eyes. She remembered belatedly to dip a curtsy, then ran back down the hall to summon the matron.
“Where is this woman’s office, Gemma?” Psyche murmured.
“This way.” Gemma led them down the hall to the door at the far end.
Psyche tapped on the door lightly, and without waiting for a response, opened it. The room was empty of inhabitants and not very tidy.
Gemma glanced about, unable to prevent a quick look toward the shelves where the missing ledgers, which were still sitting in her bedroom at Louisa’s house, had once sat. If only they had revealed more!
Psyche examined a wooden chair and apparently decided to stand. Now footsteps sounded in the hall outside, and in a moment, the matron appeared. Mrs. Craigmore was breathing a little fast, whether from climbing the steps from the lower level or from apprehension, Gemma was not sure.
Gemma braced herself as the older woman threw them all a sharp glance.
“What’s this about? You have no business here, and why are you in my office! You, you were here before! I’ll have you know—”
“You will not send us away today,” Captain Fallon declared, his tone stern.
The woman bristled. “You don’t tell me what to do. This is my establishment, and I shall have you put out!”
“I very much doubt it,” he told her.
Gemma did, as well. When Captain Fallon spoke in that tone, she could easily imagine a whole shipload of sailors jumping to do his bidding. Even the matron looked taken aback, but in a moment, she rallied.
“I got nothing to say to you,” she managed, “none of you. You might as well be on your way.”
The captain lifted a brow, and Psyche took a paper from her reticule. “I am Lady Gabriel Sinclair. I have a note from your local magistrate, Mrs. Craigmore, appointing me to head your board of directors.”
“We—we ain’t got a board of directors,” the other woman sputtered.
“Yes, I discovered that, and the magistrate was shocked to hear it. This institution should not be operating without supervision. I shall collect some like-minded, charitable matrons to aid me, and we will put this place into order. The magistrate, you see, was also alarmed to learn that there have been reports that the children here are not being properly cared for. I have come to see for myself and, if necessary, to remedy the situation.”
“Lies!” the matron exclaimed. “Who would cheapen me good name in such a way? Think you’re so important with your high and mighty airs, do you? You can ju
st take yourselves off, title or no, and leave off slandering me reputation! If you wish to arrange a visit, say in a week or two—”
“Oh, no,” Psyche continued, her voice calm. “I intend to see all the children today, their lodgings, their clothing, the food they eat, the lessons they are given. We will also examine all your records—”
“You can’t! Anyhow, me books were stolen by some scurrilous thief just a few days ago.” The matron narrowed her eyes.
“Very convenient,” Psyche noted, her expression skeptical.
Gemma swallowed, glad that Psyche did not know everything that had happened here. She threw a quick look toward Captain Fallon. A gleam lighting the depths of his dark gray eyes, he met her glance. But like her, he remained silent.
“I shall see the children first,” Psyche declared. “If you would come with me, please, Mrs. Craigmore?”
A vein throbbed in the matron’s temple. Gemma braced herself for the roar she knew would come, but—to her amazement—the woman swallowed hard, instead. “I left me shawl in me room. The halls are drafty.”
Without further ado, she turned and hurried up the hall.
Psyche raised her brows as they watched the woman’s back. “It is cold inside the building. Do the children have any wraps?” she wondered aloud.
“If you will allow me, Lady Gabriel.” Captain Fallon nodded toward the desk. “I will take a quick look to see if any records are here.”
“Of course,” Psyche agreed. Her expression grim, she paced up and down as she waited for the matron to return.
Gemma went to look over the captain’s shoulder. But although he worked his way steadily through the desk, its drawers and shelves revealed only a scattering of papers, and none of them appeared significant.
“Perhaps you should look—” Gemma began, when an exclamation made her pause.
“Look!” Psyche pointed to the window.
They hurried closer. Through the dirty pane, Gemma made out the remarkable sight of Mrs. Craigmore, the matron’s plump figure moving at an unexpectedly rapid pace. The woman was making for the trees. She carried a small carpetbag under one arm and clutched a shawl about her shoulders.
“Stop!” Matthew Fallon shouted, but the rapidly departing figure paid little heed.
He pushed up the sash of the window and climbed through. Landing with a thump on the hard ground, he sprinted after her.
“Oh, my,” Psyche said. “This is unexpected. I’m sure she was annoyed to have me come and question her methods and poor management, but why would the woman run away? Are conditions here so bad she thinks I will have her up before the magistrate?”
Gemma wrinkled her nose. “She is afraid of something, obviously.” She wondered if she should chase after the woman, too, but she was sure the captain was more fleet of foot, and it was doubtful that even he could catch the fugitive. Despite the woman’s years and girth, she had a considerable head start, and she must know the paths behind the foundling home better than they would.
By the time they had gone downstairs and inspected the kitchen—its dirty tables and filthy floors made Psyche blanche, and the empty larder caused her to look grave—Captain Fallon returned to report that he had lost the woman in the woods.
He was frowning. “I fear she has taken any knowledge of my sister’s fate with her,” he told them, his tone short.
Gemma had similar fears about the information she searched for, but even so, her heart went out to him. The pain and worry that darkened his gray eyes made her put out one hand, but she drew it back, blushing, before he noticed.
The other two seemed absorbed in their own thoughts. Psyche had just discovered the cook asleep in a back room and was informing her, in no uncertain terms, of the change of direction that the foundling home was about to take.
“If you wish to keep your position, you will scrub every inch of this kitchen,” Psyche instructed, her tone crisp. “At once!”
Rubbing her eyes with her dirty apron, the woman came into the kitchen and gaped at them. “But who be you to say? Miz Craigmore don’t fret herself about a little dust—”
“Mrs. Craigmore is no longer in charge,” Psyche interrupted. “What were you planning to give the children for their dinner?”
“The usual—soup.” The cook nodded toward a large kettle at the side of the hearth.
Lifting its lid, Psyche shook her head at the thin, oily-looking liquid inside. Gemma felt her stomach roil as the once-familiar odor, from soup composed mostly of boiled cabbage and onion with a few chunks of rancid meat, wafted toward her.
“I shall send my coachman to the nearest village to buy foodstuffs. I expect you to have the kitchen clean enough to cook them by the time he returns!” Psyche told her.
“But, Miz Craigmore ’as all the money,” the other woman argued.
“Just get to work.”
The comment made Gemma glance toward Captain Fallon. “We should go through her bedchamber,” she suggested. “She might have hidden something there.”
They made their way to a room at the back of the ground floor, while Psyche continued to the next level where the drone of children’s voices could be heard. When they opened the door, the matron’s room revealed evidence of her rapid flight. A wardrobe door stood ajar, and items of clothing littered the floor. Gemma stepped over a dirty shift and looked about her.
“There.” Gemma pointed.
Captain Fallon crossed to the small chest at the foot of the bed. Its lid stood open. Except for several bottles of gin, there was little left inside. They found a small metal box, with one farthing overlooked at its bottom.
“Her cash box,” he said. “I suspect she took the rest of the money with her.”
They searched the room quickly. Gemma wrinkled her nose at the stale scent of the bed linen but forced herself to check beneath the pillows and mattress, without luck.
“What about the school rooms or the children’s bedrooms?”
“There are only long dormitories in the attic,” Gemma told him. “And she would surely leave nothing of importance within the children’s reach. Let’s look in the office one more time.”
They made their way down the hall and back into the by-now familiar room. The shelf where the ledgers had sat looked bare, and they had already checked the desk, but Captain Fallon went again through its drawers.
Watching him, Gemma felt an old memory stir. “We were not allowed to dust her desk,” she said suddenly. “We were not supposed to even touch it. I forgot the admonition, once, and had my ears boxed for my trouble.”
Captain Fallon paused and looked at her. “Really? Do you recall exactly where you were dusting?”
“The molding along the top,” Gemma said, “just there.” She held her breath as he touched the wide wooden edge of the desk, pushing and prodding.
Then she heard a small click. It sounded loud in the quiet of the room.
“What was that?” Gemma whispered.
“Something opened—here it is!” Captain Fallon pushed the small door wider and motioned to a compartment that had been hidden behind the thick trim.
Gemma leaned closer and saw several rolls of paper. “What is it?” Her heart was beating so fast that she held tightly to the desktop for support.
He unrolled the papers quickly. She saw a list of names. Oh, had they found it at last, Mrs. Craigmore’s cache of secrets?
Eleven
He turned to her and grasped her shoulders. Before Gemma could guess his intent, he pulled her close and gave her an impulsive kiss.
At the firm touch of his lips against hers and the closeness of their bodies, Gemma felt heat rush through her like a bolt of lightning exploding out of a hitherto calm summer sky.
She felt weak and strong at the same time. Exhilarated, her ears roared and her vision blurred. The kiss seemed to last forever, and it was much too brief. When he stepped back just as abruptly, she knew she should be shocked, but it was disappointment she struggled to contain.
&n
bsp; “I beg your pardon,” he said, his voice stiff. “That was inexcusable.”
But despite his words, his face betrayed him, his eyes still bright with, surely, the same intoxicating emotions that had overwhelmed Gemma all too briefly. She wanted to grab him and pull him back, but of course, a lady could not behave in such a way.
For the first time, she regretted that she was, very likely, a lady.
“I was simply—I was overcome with—with . . .” he stammered.
“I understand,” she said, managing a smile that she hoped was not too wide. “If this tells us where your sister may be—and where my antecedents can be traced—it is certainly a cause for celebration!”
He nodded, and, to her regret, released her shoulders. But he appeared to be in control of himself again, although she noted that he still breathed quickly, as if he had been running. Her own breath sounded ragged, and her pulse raced. She looked away from him and tried to pull her mind back to their mission.
He turned back to the desk and unrolled the largest sheet. They both scanned the contents. They found his sister’s name, first: Clarissa Fallon. After it was scribbled another word and a figure.
Gemma narrowed her eyes to make out the crabbed script. “Clapgate, 20 shillings? What does that mean? And why would there be a sum of money noted?”
This time the look in his dark eyes made her shiver, and not at all in the delightful way she had felt a moment ago. But he did not share with her the concern that caused him to look so grim. After a moment, he answered.
“Clapgate—I have not heard of it, but it may denote a town or a village. Are there any maps in the schoolroom?”
Gemma nodded, but she was still searching the list for her own name. She found it toward the very top of the paper. Of course, it had been more than fifteen years since she had lived in this horrid place. But to her disappointment, she was listed only as Gemma Smith, though there was a small question mark after the surname, as if Mrs. Craigmore had doubted its authenticity, too. And beside it was written only: taken away, no fee.