Page 22 of The Marquess of Secrets

“Then may I suggest a celebratory brandy and a short nap before dinner? You look weary, my lord.”

It was worse than weary, he looked utterly done in. Most peers would not tolerate such forwardness from a valet, but Gillis had been with him since before he came of age. Harrison wondered if Gillis suspected the secret doctor life he led. If his valet did, he never let on.

“I believe I shall—”

The door opened. “Pardon me, my lord,” Youngston announced. “Doctor Kenward requests an audience. Shall I tell him you are not available?”

So much for his nap.

“No, show him to the study and pour us a couple of brandies, then we wish to be left alone.”

“I shall inform Mrs. Wickes there will be one more for dinner.”

His staff was well used to Sam arriving at mealtimes. Deciding to keep his dressing gown on, he joined Sam in the study ten minutes later. His friend was already sitting comfortably before the fire with a brandy snifter in hand.

“Sorry old stick, I couldn’t wait. I had to know how the meeting with the earls went. Thank you for the invite for dinner. Could use a good meal, and by the looks of you, so could you.”

Harrison sighed, gathered up his snifter, and sat opposite.

“Where have you been the past three days?” Sam asked. “You appear as if you have hardly slept, and you haven’t been at terminus except for an hour here and there—”

Harrison raised a hand to silence his good friend.

“On the night of the ball, I was on my way to the terminus. I stopped for a call of nature in an alley; and found a young woman in distress.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Do not tell me you brought the alley cat here to your home. Why didn’t you bring her to terminus? We could have cared for her there. Harry, bringing home strays is not exactly prudent.”

No, it certainly wasn’t.

He could have taken her to one of the infirmaries, the workhouse, or to any number of places. The police even. Perhaps he’d grown soft.

Harrison swirled his brandy. “Do you know of someone I could hire, a private investigative type who is discreet and trustworthy?”

“I do, as a matter of fact. William Robins is a retired detective sergeant from this area. He also worked in the East End and is quite familiar with the streets and those who live there. Is it with regards to this young woman?”

“Yes, but first, let me relay the conversation with Shaftesbury and Carnstone. They both expressed a genuine interest in the clinic. They want us to find a suitable location, nothing too large or elaborate, and write up a proposal we can present to a small select group of prospective donors.”

Harrison took a sip of brandy. “Carnstone will be involving his son, Aidan Wollstonecraft, Viscount Tensbridge, as well. He is a Member of Parliament for Kent. I will make sure my father and brothers are in attendance, well, Tremain at least. I’m sure Spencer will forego such a gathering. It appears I will be coming out of the shadows as you predicted.”

“Yes.” Sam’s brows furrowed. “Nothing too large or elaborate. What do they mean?”

“I asked the earls that exact question. Shaftesbury believes we should start at fifty beds. With room for expansion.”

Sam gave a sharp bark of laughter. “We have hundreds at the terminus on any given night.”

Harrison sighed as he stared into the depths of his brandy. “Yes, we do. But let us be truthful, it was to be a temporary solution. The cesspits are nearly full. I’m surprised that human waste hasn’t spread disease before now. Terminus is a glorified soup kitchen, a shelter that offers the thinnest veneer of medical care. This will be an actual clinic for the truly poor.”

“And what of those with nowhere else to go, those who are not ill?” Sam asked. “Do we turn them away as the infirmaries do? Isn’t that defeating our purpose of starting our underground shelter?”

A bolt of pain shot through Harrison’s head, and he rubbed his temple to dull the throb.

“Damn it all, I have run through nearly all my inheritance, Sam. The well is dry. I’ve no more to give financially for the long-term.”

And he was beginning to believe he had no more to give physically or emotionally either. Never in all his thirty-four years had he felt this fatigued.

Sam’s eyes widened. “You’re destitute?”

“No, not as yet. When my brothers and I came of age, my parents bestowed a fair-sized legacy to each of us to use in any manner we wished. Investments and such, mad money more than anything. I still have an income from my country estate in Eastbourne, and I’ll inherit other properties and money when I become the duke. But in the short term, the money is not enough to keep the clinic running. Hell, I should have invested some of the money; the profit would have allowed the clinic to remain open longer.”