Chimney Sweep Over a Marquess
TheMetropolitan Review’soffice hummed with activity as Amelia sorted through her notes from the charity fundraiser. The door burst open, and Elisha, Duchess of Lancaster, swept in with familiar confidence.
“I heard Viscount Norwich was paying you particular attention at Hereford’s charity event,” Elisha announced without preamble, settling into her favorite chair.
“Who told you?” Amelia looked up from her notes.
“Edgar heard it from his secretary. Lord Norwich is apparently quite taken with your articles on reform.”
“He was knowledgeable about industrial reform,” Amelia said, setting aside her pen.
“Hmmm. I wonder if it’s just your writing he’s admiring,” Elisha added with a knowing smile. “He hasn’t courted anyone since his wife died fifteen years ago. He’s devoted himself to raising their daughter, but she’ll make her debut next Season. Perhaps that’s why he’s finally showing interest in someone.”
Amelia laughed. “If you’re suggesting what I think, you’re being ridiculous. A man like Lord Norwich wouldn’t look twice at an illegitimate daughter of a disgraced viscount.”
“You underestimate your appeal. You’re intelligent, beautiful, passionate—”
“And a cripple,” Amelia cut in. “Notto mention nearly twenty years his junior.”
“Men prefer younger women,” Elisha countered. “And he’s quite handsome for his age. More importantly, he shares your passion for reform. Unless you’re interested in a certain rakish marquess…”
“Lord Hereford?” Amelia scoffed. “That spoiled boy who thinks life is one grand game? I’d sooner marry a chimney sweep.”
While Elisha laughed at the jest, a messenger arrived with a calling card. Amelia read it, her cheeks warming. “Lord Norwich requests to call on me this afternoon for tea to discuss my articles.”
“How providential,” Elisha’s smile widened. “Would you like me to join you? As chaperone, of course.”
“Yes, please,” Amelia replied. “Though purely for professional reasons.”
“Of course,” Elisha stood, smoothing her skirts. “Though you might want to wear that green silk that brings out your eyes. For professional reasons, naturally.”
“Out!” Amelia threw a wadded paper at her friend, smiling despite herself.
Elisha paused at the door, her demeanor suddenly serious. “How was your visit with Dr. Morrison? I waited for you as long as I could, but Edgar needed me at home.”
Amelia’s smile faded. “Enlightening in the worst possible way.”
Elisha closed the door and returned to her seat. “Tell me everything.”
“He called me there to confess something horrendous,” Amelia lowered her voice. “My leg could have been saved. The amputation wasn’t necessary.”
“What?” Elisha’s face paled.
“The factory owners refused to pay for months of treatment. They decided amputation would be more economical.” Amelia withdrew the yellowed letter from her desk. “He gave me this.”
Elisha read the cold, clinical words silently, her face paling.
“This is monstrous,” she whispered. “Does it say who sent it?”
“No signature. Dr. Morrison said the orders came from one of the proprietors, but he never learned which one. The letter went through the foreman first.”
“The handwriting is distinctive,” Elisha observed. “Someone educated, clearly.”
“I need to identify all three owners Morrison mentioned,” Amelia said. “I’ve already confirmed the foreman, Peter Moore, still works at Crown Street. He’s now the site manager.”
“You shouldn’t investigate alone,” Elisha cautioned. “That part of London is dangerous.”
“Perhaps Lord Norwich’s connections could help,” Amelia mused. “If he truly supports reform, he might inadvertently provide access to information I couldn’t otherwise obtain.”
