Rakecombe just smiled. “I thought you’d like to see it.”
“How the devil do you know about that?”
“As patron I’m required to approve donations. Make sure you’re not all mouth and no blunt. You, at least, have both in abundance.”
“Patron? I…” Jack spluttered.
Pursing his lips, Rakecombe debated how much to share.
Twenty-three women currently lived there, largely prostitutes with disease or awaiting childbirth, although any woman was welcome if they wanted to escape the Rookery. There were other hospitals, but this one was closest to his heart. A woman called Mary Lane ran it with a strict head and a soft soul, having experienced the worst that mankind could offer.
“Hmm,” he merely said.
“I read of the incident,” Jack reflected. “Buildings destroyed and eight people died, did they not? Including children. I prayed they didn’t drown. People say it’s a peaceful death, but I cannot imagine it so.”
Rakecombe frowned. He’d forgotten… What platitudes could he offer for Jack’s drowned mother? He’d heard them all himself and although the sentiment was well meant, it didn’t help. Not deep down. “Your hefty contribution to repair the hospital was much appreciated.”
“I’m glad,” the marquess murmured. “But I thought you hard-hearted, utterly ruthless, and now I hear of this patronage. It leaves me feeling quite upended.”
“No need to fret,” drawled Rakecombe, picking a piece of lint from his woollen waistcoat. “I am feeling positively pitiless tonight.”
They strode on in thought for a while, dodging nefarious liquids, dogs and hogs.
“So, are you patron of other charity hospitals?” enquired Jack, as they turned left down an alley, veering to avoid two scraggy chickens. A hackney might have got them so far, but the walk to the Rookery always focused Rakecombe’s mind. Would he find Penbury? What had dragged the astute fellow so low.
“A few.”
“All in London?” Jack harped on.
“No, some are in Wales,” he answered, distracted by a lad brushing overly close to his coat pocket.
“And when did you become patron of this hospital?”
“Eleven years ago, after Gwen’s death. It was in her memory that I…” He snapped his mouth shut.
Damn and blast. What was it about Winterbourne that made one gabble so? The bugger could draw blood from a stone, so he clenched his fist to iron.
“I remember you mentioning Gwen. A sister who died young?”
“Yes,” he replied curtly. He never spoke of dearest Gwen. How could he? The blame for her death was a burden he must carry forever. A wound that would never heal.
“It affects us,” Jack said, eyes empty. “Loss. It steals a part of our soul that we can never recover.”
Rakecombe nodded. He cloaked himself in a ruthless mien, but it appeared he wasn’t the only one with a veil hiding inner darkness.
They simply concealed it with differing tactics.
∞∞∞
Their destination on Bainbridge Street did not appeal.
Squalid, with a splintered door, it gave the impression of abandonment until you peered in and noticed a few patrons sprawled over tables, glasses still held in limp fingers, possessive even when cup-shot.
So far, they’d gained little information. Rakecombe had questioned a few familiar ruffians whom he paid to keep an eye out for anything untoward – although in the Rookery that term was loose. One lad had told of seeing a chap with Penbury’s description, but nothing was certain.
A surprise had been Jack. Well, himself and Jack. They made a good – he almost choked on the word –team.
Whilst he himself frightened informants to death, Jack coaxed information with good humour. Two doxies were on Rakecombe’s payroll and with Jack’s geniality, they’d admired that waistcoat of his and wittered on, revealing more about this bowsing ken on Bainbridge Street.
