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“Here we are at last,” his wife exclaimed.
Godric glanced out the window and saw that the carriage was indeed drawing up outside the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children. The building was only a couple of years old, a clean, neat edifice several stories high and taking up most of Maiden Lane. The bright brick stood out, fresh and new, against the other, older and destitute buildings in St. Giles.
Godric waited until Lady Margaret’s footman had set the step and then jumped down to help the ladies. Great-Aunt Elvina rose precariously. The lady was at least seventy, and although she disdained the use of a cane, Godric had noticed that she was at times unsteady on her feet. She held her pregnant pug in her arms, and Godric swiftly realized he would have to do the gentlemanly thing.
“If I might take Her Grace,” he enunciated into her ear.
The elderly lady shot him a grateful glance. “Thank you, Mr. St. John.”
Godric gingerly took the warm, panting little body, pretending not to notice when the animal drooled on his sleeve. He held out his free hand to Great-Aunt Elvina.
The lady descended, then frowned, glancing around. “What a very disreputable area this is.” She brightened. “Won’t dear Lady Cambridge be scandalized when I write her about it!”
Still holding the pug, Godric helped Sarah out and then took Lady Margaret’s hand, warm, trembling, and alive, in his. She kept her gaze lowered as she stepped from the carriage, the curl of hair bobbing gently against her face. The scent of something sweet lingered in the air. She made a show of shaking out her skirts when she stood on the cobblestones.
Damn it, she wasn’t looking at him. On impulse, he reached out and took that wayward tendril between thumb and forefinger, firmly tucking it behind her ear.
She glanced up, her lips parted, so near he could see the swirls of gold in her pretty brown eyes, and he suddenly identified her scent: orange blossoms.
Her voice was breathless when she spoke. “Thank you.”
His jaw flexed. “Not at all.”
Godric turned and mounted the steps to the home, knocking briskly.
The door was opened almost at once by a butler who looked haughty enough to be attending a royal palace rather than an orphanage in St. Giles.
Godric nodded to the man as he entered. “My wife and her friends are here for the Ladies’ Syndicate meeting. I wonder if Makepeace is about?”
“Certainly, sir,” the butler intoned. He took hats and gloves from the ladies as they entered in a flurry of skirts and chatter behind Godric. “I’ll fetch Mr. Makepeace.”
“No need, Butterman.” Winter Makepeace appeared in a doorway farther down the hall. He wore his usual black, although the cut of his clothes had improved noticeably since his marriage to the former Lady Beckinhall. “Good morning, St. John. Ladies.”
“Oh, Mr. Makepeace.” Lady Margaret caught his hand, smiling brightly, and Godric frowned, feeling a flicker of jealousy—which was completely ridiculous. His wife seemed to smile at everyone brightly. “May I present my sister-in-law and my dear great-aunt?”
Introductions were made. Makepeace inclined his head gravely to each lady rather than making the more usual sweeping bow, but neither Sarah nor Great-Aunt Elvina seemed at all put out.
The manager of the home turned to Godric and the panting pug in his arms, his eyes lit with a gentle amusement. “Who is your companion?”
“Her Grace,” Godric said curtly.
Makepeace blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
Godric began to shake his head when a small white terrier came barreling down the hallway. The animal was making a sound rather like a bumblebee, but on sight of Her Grace, the terrier erupted into hysterical barking.
Her Grace yipped back—very shrilly—while both Lady Margaret and Sarah made futile shushing noises, and if Godric wasn’t mistaken, Great-Aunt Elvina aimed a surreptitious kick at the terrier.
Makepeace stepped to the side, opened a door into the sitting room, and cocked an eyebrow. Godric nodded and in a few brisk movements deposited the pug back in Great-Aunt Elvina’s arms and ushered the three ladies into the sitting room where the meeting was being held.
Makepeace shut the door so swiftly the terrier nearly lost her nose. He glanced at Godric. “This way.”
The home’s manager turned toward the staircase at the back of the hall. “Really, that was most inhospitable of you, Dodo.”
The terrier, trotting adoringly by his side, tilted her head, perking up one ear as if listening attentively.
“You’re quite lucky I don’t lock you up in the root cellar.” Makepeace’s voice was calm and reasoned as he chided the dog.
Godric cleared his throat. “Does, er, Dodo always attack visitors?”
