His mouth fell open as his eyes roamed over her regal stature. “Dear Lord, you’re… you’re a lady.”
Amelia nodded once and watched the man process her new station. He abruptly stood on shaking legs, moving to a secretary desk. “I kept these. Don’t know why. Guilt, maybe. Or knowing someday someone would come asking.”
He withdrew a folder with trembling hands, offering it to her. “Another little girl was deemed disposable eight months after youraccident. Their orders. Still unsigned. Still no identity of the owners.”
Amelia opened the folder, seeing flowing ink on documents that had sealed another poor creature’s fate. When she looked up, Moore was covering his mouth with his hand as if he was going to be sick.
Moore’s knees buckled then. He fell to the floor, sobbing. “Forgive me. Please, Lord, forgive me. I have children—I understand what I took from you and the others. Every day I see them run and play, and I remember.”
“Peter?” Mrs. Moore appeared in the doorway, alarm on her face. “What’s happening?”
“This lady,” Moore choked out, “she’s the girl from the factory. The one whose leg…”
Mrs. Moore’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, Peter.”
“You held my hand,” Amelia said softly, her own voice unsteady now. “When I was screaming, you stayed with me. You sang that song about spring.”
“You remember,” he whispered.
“I remember the kindness mixed with the horror.” She moved toward him and offered her hand. “You were following orders you couldn’t refuse without destroying your own family. I understand that.”
From the kitchen, children’s voices rose again—an argument over the last piece of pudding. Such normal, beautiful sounds of childhood.
“I’m sorry,” Moore said as he took her hand and rose to his feet. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“I know,” she said softly as she stepped toward the door, documents clutched in her hand. “Thank you for keeping these.”
With Moore’s and his wife’s voices faint in the background, Amelia emerged from the house just as a familiar carriage pulled up to the curb. Charles stepped out, followed by Carlisle, Patrick, and Steven. They stopped short at seeing her.
“Amelia?” Steven’s shock was evident. “What are you doing here?”
“The same thing you intended, apparently.” Her voice turned cool as she looked at Charles, the afternoon’s discoveries about his factory ownership fresh in her mind. “Though I’ve already obtained what we need.” She held up the folder. “The direct orders. Their identities are still hidden.”
“You confronted Moore alone?” Charles moved toward her, concern evident despite her coldness.
“I confronted the man who carried me, bleeding, from that factory floor.” She stepped back from his reach. “Just as I confront anyone who profits from workers’ suffering.”
Charles’ expression shuttered at her pointed tone, clearly catching the accusation beneath her words. The other men exchanged uncertain glances.
“Perhaps we should return home,” Charles said carefully. Without a word, she stepped onto the carriage with a footman’s help.
The carriage ride was thick with tension. Amelia sat rigidly apart from Charles, while Steven kept shooting confused looks between them. Patrick and Carlisle maintained diplomatic silence, though their discomfort was palpable.
“Did Moore admit to—” Steven began.
“He admitted to following orders he couldn’t refuse,” Amelia said tersely.
“Did you have to use the cane?” Hereford asked. She shook her head brusquely, catching his meaning. Her husband turned his gaze toward the window.
When they reached the townhouse, the others quickly excused themselves, sensing the storm brewing between husband and wife.
*
Charles followed Ameliato the study, closing the door behind them with quiet deliberation. He sensed her rage, so much so that itseemed to vibrate out of her and ripple in the air.
Amelia moved to the desk where several documents lay spread out—the evidence of his own planning to confront Moore.
“I made some interesting discoveries today,” she said, her voice carefully controlled. “About Penridge Works and several other factories with poor safety records.”
