“I do. But I can’t tell you what I don’t know.” She sighed and scrubbed her hand over her face. “How about this? How about I question her for you? She trusts me, and I’m a woman. I think if she knows anything, she’ll be more likely to tell me than you.”
Although he’d rather do it himself, he couldn’t deny her logic, but he had a feeling she had an ulterior motive, that she didn’t want him to know the truth. Who was she trying to protect? “All right,” he said begrudgingly. “I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”
She nodded. “Well, I need to get back to my work. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
He shook his head, his earlier euphoria having faded. He didn’t like being at odds with her. He didn’t like it at all. “No. I think I’m done for the day. I’ll get some supplies and return tomorrow.”
Chapter Five
The next day, afterall the children were sleeping, Fiona made her way to an empty bedroom on the third floor. They’d moved Christina and Bridget, the current occupants, downstairs for the night, so they wouldn’t have to breathe the paint fumes.
Morgan and his children had been around all day, but she’d mostly managed to avoid them. When he’d paused in her office door to say he was leaving, she’d just smiled and said goodbye.
Brookhaven’s children had been buzzing about the mural all evening long. It had dominated the conversation around the dinner table. The consensus seemed to be that Mr. Strathmore was the greatest artist who had ever lived, and that Christina and Bridget, beaming with delight, were the envy of all.
Even though Fiona had been dying to see what he’d done, she’d managed to restrain herself all evening, going about her many duties and helping Marjorie and Judith, the nighttime staff, get the children down for the night. However, it was impossible to pretend she wasn’t aware that the most fascinating man she’d ever met had painted something enchanting in the girls’ room.
Pausing for a moment outside Christina and Bridget’s door, she took a deep breath, trying to prepare herself in case she was disappointed.
She shouldn’t have worried. The entire room really had been magically transformed.
She’d expected that the mural would be confined to one wall. Instead, he’d painted the entire room. The theme he’d chosen—probably after having consulted the girls, since she knew it was their favorite book—wasBlack Beauty. One wall portrayed Black Beauty as a colt, in the pasture with his mother, Duchess. The next showed him at Birtwick, with Merrylegs, Ginger, and Sir Oliver. Thankfully, he had chosen not to show any of the sadder periods of the horse’s life and instead, had stopped for the night halfway through another scene of Black Beauty happily retired in a field.
The animals were crafted with stunning detail, so lifelike that they could have walked off the walls. The green fields and lush, bright-colored flowers made it seem like she stood in a beautiful garden instead of a small room in an orphanage.
“Oh, Morgan,” she breathed, turning in a slow circle. She hadn’t expected him to be this talented. In fact, she’d half-feared that he had no talent at all.
But this... never in her wildest dreams had she imagined something so breathtaking. The girls would feel like princesses in this room, and they’d had too little beauty and artistry in their lives.
She didn’t even realize she was crying until the tears were already streaming down her cheeks. Twice in one week! She wasn’t even sure why she was so emotional, except for perhaps that she had just felt so alone for so long. And Morgan’s sudden interest in the orphanage, even if it was only fleeting, had made a little of that loneliness go away.
Brushing at the tears, she stumbled back and left the room, running lightly back down the stairs and into her office, where she’d already packed her bag for her night’s adventure. It had been nearly a week since she’d rescued Molly, and the clawing need to go back out, to find another child in need of saving, had been building to a fever pitch.
Perhaps it was stupid to risk it, knowing that Morgan Strathmore could very well be out there waiting for Prometheus to make a move, but she felt the possibility of helping someone outweighed the risk, and she couldn’t bear to be alone with her rioting thoughts.
Stealing out through the back door once again, she kept to the shadows, skirting the edge of the property and then hailing a hack once she’d reached a more populated street. As she gave an address in the East End, she leaned back against the seat, which smelled of smoke and sweat, wondering if she truly had the courage to keep doing this.
