To Ruin a Rake (10 page)

He gazed at her, at the woman William had called his “divine angel of mercy.” She looked anything but divine. Her gown was almost as bad as the one she’d worn yesterday. Her plain, brown hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and there on her hand gleamed William’s mourning ring.

It was a stark reminder. As was the image of his brother staring at him from the wall beside her. He ground his teeth and refrained from glancing at it, concentrating instead on the difficult female standing before him. In spite of everything, he could not help the desire that swept through him as he observed the too-proud line of her jaw, the tilt of her narrowed eyes, and her tight, compressed lips. She was nothing spectacular to look upon, especially when she wore such a haughty, disapproving expression; but even so, something about her stirred him.

Damn.
He’d thought sobriety would dispel his unwanted attraction to her, but it was not so. “I shall do my best to tread lightly while I am here,” he lied. “And in return, I shall expect you to answer every question I put to you.”

Her chin rose another increment. “I shall do so gladly—provided such questions pertain to the running of this Hospital.”

Rather than dissuading him, her evasive response made him burn with curiosity. What sort of woman was she when she wasn’t angry? Had she been tender with William? Had she laughed with him? Knowing such thoughts would cause him nothing but trouble, he shoved them into the darkest corner of his mind. “Agreed. May I count on your cooperation for the duration of my visit, then?”

After a long moment, she nodded. “Yes. Let us begin with a proper tour of the grounds.” She turned and marched out of his office, her spine as straight as the boards upon which she trod.

He made it all the way to the door before it hit him that he’d just come to heel like any well-trained dog. The thought brought him to an abrupt halt. His face warmed as he spied her waiting for him by the rear exit.

“I’m sure you have a great deal to accomplish today, Your Grace,” she said, her tone that of a mother speaking to a naughty little boy. “I shan’t keep you any longer than necessary.”

His pulse jumped with irritation, and he debated refusing to follow. Before he could act on the impulse, Rich’s words came back to haunt him. If he did so, it would only reinforce her poor opinion of him. Gritting his teeth, he did as she bade.

As he passed her, he again caught a whiff of lavender. It was a soft, warm scent, reminiscent of happy summers spent in the country. It seemed a gross incongruity that she should choose to wear such a scent, given that she was so harsh and demanding a person.

They entered the hallway, and he again marked how nice everything looked. The surroundings were not by any means lavish, but they were neat and comfortable.

“The older children, those between the ages of three and six, live here on the first floor,” she said, showing him a chamber similar to the one he’d seen yesterday. “The infants and younger children are above on the second floor. The live-in staff members are housed on the third floor.”

“How is it that you are able to find homes for all these children? It is my understanding that London’s orphanages are overflowing.”

“Unfortunately, while we are able to place many, we cannot do so with all,” she explained. “Some do age out.”

“What do you do with them? Surely you don’t turn them out into the streets.”

Her look was one of horror. “Certainly not! Once a child turns four, he or she begins proper schooling here. We teach them their letters and numbers, and the beginnings of reading. Upon reaching the age of five, boys showing an aptitude for scholarship are sent to a school in Newcastle. We have an agreement with the parish church there. Some of the boys will eventually take vows and join the ranks of the clergy, and others will graduate to find clerical work.”

“And what of those who do
not
show a scholarly aptitude?”

“They are placed in apprenticeship with one of the local craftsmen with whom our school has built a relationship.”

“And the girls?”

“They prove a bit more difficult, as I’m sure you can understand,” she said, her brow creasing with concern. “Last year, we helped found a school here in London specifically to take our girls. They may, depending upon their bent, become ladies’ maids, cooks, or seamstresses. As with the boys, those with the mind for it may continue academic studies. Eventually, those will become teachers or governesses. Eligibility for such extended education is determined by academic performance. A girl must earn her merit scholarship each year in order to continue.”

“That seems like a long-term, rather
expensive
arrangement.”

“It is,” she agreed, fixing him with a piercing gaze that made him feel about as big as an ant. “But you need not worry, for it is not one that affects
your
purse. We have partnered with a church and three other orphanages, and garnered contributions from several benefactors for the endeavor. The expense is borne entirely by them.”

Again, his hackles rose. “Had I known you were doing it, I might have also contributed.”

“You were informed, Your Grace. I had Mr. Blume bring you the documents detailing the plan two years ago, documents that asked specifically for your participation. You sent them back—unsigned.”

If it was possible to shrink to a size smaller than an ant, he would have done so. “I must have missed it amid all the other papers he shoved under my nose at every visit.”

They stared at each other for a long, tense moment. He knew exactly what she thought of his sorry excuse. And he knew it was every bit deserved. He hadn’t read those papers. He hadn’t wanted to. He’d wanted to pretend this place didn’t exist.

He watched as she took a long, deep breath and turned away to resume their tour. “Children placed with families are not forgotten,” she continued. “We maintain contact with them for a minimum of four months, conducting both planned and unplanned visits to ensure their safety and care. If there is even the smallest hint of anything untoward, they are removed at once.”

“Your thoroughness is astonishing.”

Whirling, she again faced him, nearly causing him to run into her. Her hazel eyes narrowed, regarding him with open hostility.

“I meant only to compliment you,” he said, holding up his hands. “I’m quite sure no other establishment goes to such lengths.” Hell, his own father had hardly done as much, and that only under duress. He’d been let run completely wild until after his eighth birthday. Only after William, returning home for a visit from university, commented on his shameful state had their father even thought to make arrangements for his younger son’s education. That Roland had excelled in his studies after such neglect was due solely to his determination to impress his brother, who prized knowledge above all things.

“Thank you,” said his nemesis, looking a bit flustered. Turning, she walked away, forcing him to move on down the corridor. A dull rumbling of noise grew as they neared the door at its end. “Here is the dining hall,” she said, opening the door and standing aside to let him see.

Beyond, he saw the long trestles, now filled with children. “So many,” he murmured.

“We would care for more, if it were possible.” Her expression was wistful as she gazed out over the children’s heads. “But we haven’t the space to hold them, nor do we have the funds to provide for their keep. Not yet.”

“There have to be at least fifty children here.”

“There are sixty-three here and twelve more upstairs, not counting the infants,” she answered. “The children in the sick ward are fed separately to prevent the spread of contagion—in either direction. Both the ill and the healthy must be equally protected. And that includes our nurses and other staff here.”

He glanced at her, wondering briefly if she was thinking of William, too. “I’ve seen enough,” he said, turning away. “Let us proceed.”

Leaving the hall, they mounted the stairs to the second floor—the sick ward.

A cold sweat broke out on Roland’s brow as they approached the door. Five paces away, he stopped. Though he willed his legs to walk, they would not.

“If you prefer, we may tour the outer grounds,” said Harriett, her voice uncharacteristically soft.

Swallowing past the knot in his throat, he wrenched his eyes off the sign and looked at her.

Pity. He saw pity in her eyes. The same pity he’d seen in them that day at the cemetery. Heat flooded him, and before he could contemplate the wisdom of it—or lack thereof—he strode forward, put out his hand, and pushed the door open. If she wasn’t afraid of what lay beyond, then neither would he be. At least not visibly.

“Wait!”

He spun about, his heart stopping at her urgent command.

Digging into her pocket, she handed him a swatch of cloth. He held it up gingerly.

“It is a mask,” she told him, pulling another out for herself. “You must put it on before we enter. All who work with the sick are required to wear a mask to prevent breathing in the miasma.”

Again, his palms dampened.
That
was why she’d been wearing a mask when he’d encountered her yesterday. He tried to don his own, but to his shame his fingers shook so it was impossible. After a moment or two spent fumbling with the strings, she let out a sigh of frustration and gestured for him to allow her to assist. Flushing, he did so and bent his head, trying to ignore the way his flesh became hypersensitive as her fingers brushed the back of his head and neck.

Once his mask was secure, they proceeded.

Again, he was greeted by homey halls. But the rooms here were not open, nor were they empty. He heard coughing from behind one door, whimpering from another—quickly followed by a woman’s voice offering comfort.

The sharp scent of lye reached his nostrils even through the cloth covering his face. And vinegar, also. “It stinks in here,” he said, his voice coming out muffled.

“We take every precaution known to prevent the spread of disease as well as a few that are as yet theoretical. One established method is to clean everything with vinegar.”

A masked nurse exited one of the rooms down the hall and immediately went to a laving basin placed in the hall to begin washing her hands. There were several of these lining the hallway.

“Why is she doing that?” he asked, nodding toward the woman. “And what are these basins doing out here? Should they not be kept in the rooms?”

Harriett gave a nod of approval to the nurse, who had turned at the sound of his voice. “Every room has a basin in it, but these are here specifically for the staff,” she told him. “Even with the masks, I have over time observed that certain illnesses seem to spread by some other mysterious means. After careful study and consultation with several physicians, I proposed that touch might be the culprit. As an experiment, I instituted a mandate requiring everyone caring for the sick to wash their hands with strong soap immediately upon leaving the sick room. You might be pleased to know that since its inception nearly nine months ago this preventive measure appears to have greatly reduced the occurrence of illness among both the children and the staff.”

A rush of admiration swept through him. “You deduced this on your own?”

Only her eyes were visible above her mask as she turned to face him, but even so, he could tell she was smiling. “As a matter of fact, I did,” she said, her voice warm with pride. “I have asked for help in the confirmation of my hypothesis, of course. I am no doctor, although William often told me I would have made an excellent one had I been born a man. I believe as he did, in a scientific, logical approach to problems.”

“Of course you do,” he muttered, immediately biting his tongue. As William’s fiancée, it would only have been natural for her to mold herself according to his preferences. That she maintained the shape despite his death was yet another testament to her love for him.

“There was no harm in instituting the practice and little related expense,” she went on. “That it has seemingly succeeded brings me great joy. I carefully recorded my findings, too, and presented them to several doctors in London. They are now proposing that other facilities try it. If similar results are seen, then my hypothesis will be proved. If such occurs, it is likely to lead to a better understanding of contagion and how to prevent its spread, thereby benefiting everyone.”

No wonder William had taken to her. Plain she might be, but her way of thinking would have been much to his liking. And if William had thought her intelligent enough to be a doctor—
and train her to run this facility
—he must have been greatly impressed by her mind. He eyed her with renewed wariness. He had underestimated her, a terrible mistake to make with any enemy.

They came to a door with a small window in it. Peering in, he saw a young boy whose skin was discolored by large blotches of angry red. Roland frowned. “What is wrong with him? Is that...”

“Scarlet fever.”

It was all he could do to resist the urge to bolt. Instead, he forced himself to back away slowly.

“You need not fear,” she said. “William told me you both had it as children.”

She’s right.
He breathed again, though only shallowly. The mask he wore was no guarantee of safety, and God knew what else might be lurking in this place. He now sorely regretted his hasty show of bravado. “Even with the precautions you’ve mentioned, scarlet fever is extremely contagious. Do you not worry it will spread?”

She shook her head. “He was brought to us having already broken his fever, but we are keeping him up here for a while as a precaution anyway. We have dealt with scarlet fever here before, you know. Last year there were seven cases of it. He is doing much better now that he has begun eating again.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Regrettably, his parents and siblings did not survive. He would have died as well, had not a neighbor heard him crying for help and called the guard. The instant his condition was discerned, no one would have him. He was brought here as a last resort.”