Page 4 of The Marquess of Secrets

Her expression was serious.

“If any man deserves true love, it is you, my dear. I know my severance package indicates that you will be shopping for a young lady of the aristocracy to be your bride. Such a cold and loveless arrangement. I don’t see that for you, Harry. I have a feeling you will follow your brothers down the path of true love with a woman not of your class.”

She gave him a sad smile. “She may even be entirely inappropriate. If you meet such a lady, do not dismiss her. Nor dismiss what you feel. True love is rare, and many never experience it. Promise me you will give it a chance.”

“Quite a speech. I have obligations—”

“Are your parents insisting you make such an aristocratic match?” she asked.

“No, not at all.”

“Then do not force the issue. Look by all means, but do not settle for anything less than true love. I’m giving advice, and perhaps I’m overstepping my boundaries, but it is kindly meant. I wish for you to be happy. As I said, you deserve love and all it offers.”

He nodded, too moved to speak. Blast it all, he didn’t think his parting from Francesca—Annie—would affect him this deeply.

Clearing his throat, he said, “May you find all you desire, Annie.”

“And you as well, my dear.”

Slipping on his greatcoat and donning his hat, he exited the room and trotted down the stairs. Stepping out into the night, he thought about her emotionally spoken words, “I have a feeling you will follow your brothers down the path of true love with a woman, not of your class. She may even be entirely inappropriate. If you meet such a lady, do not dismiss her. Nor dismiss what you feel.”

He was the heir with an unspoken duty to marry well; and, because of it, couldn’t afford the luxury of loving someone not of his class.

It would be prudent to remember it.

Chapter 2

A week later

Of all the wretched nights Lydia Chesterton had endured the past few weeks, tonight was the worst. She’d run out of money four days past and, as a result, slept out-of-doors.

The past night had been spent in a dingy alley with her crammed in behind empty beer casks.

Though she managed a few hours rest, the temperature dropped during the night, and she’d caught a chill.

Truth? Lydia had been feeling poorly for more than a week.

She understood enough to be aware that she was dehydrated, malnourished, and well on her way to developing full-blown pneumonia. In her previous life—one that seemed to belong to someone else—she worked as a nurse at a well-respected hospital.

How far she had fallen.

But now was not the time to ruminate about her past and the many mistakes therein. Lydia needed immediate shelter and medical care.

Where could she possibly go?

The voluntary or charity hospitals turned away the truly destitute, which at the moment described her current condition. There was the option of a poor law infirmary, but then once recovered, she’d be forced into at a workhouse.

A fate she wished to avoid.

Last night she overheard a conversation in the alley, two men speaking of an underground respite from life on the cobbles. The place was housed in an abandoned, partially dug underground railway line next to St. Dunstan’s Church in Stepney.

More of an illegal soup kitchen of sorts, yet the Anglican nuns offered a pallet and a blanket, and there was a surgeon that tended the sick for no cost. The men referred to him as Doctor Damian.

It sounded too good to be true. Clutching her pathetic bundle, Lydia calculated the distance she would have to walk. If she didn’t collapse from exhaustion or sickness, she could be there in less than an hour.

First, she must eat.

Lydia pulled the stale raisin bun from her wool coat pocket. She’d located it in a rubbish bin outside a tearoom. When one was starving, one could not be fussy. Because of unbridled hunger, she ate it far too fast, and her stomach roiled in response. But she had no choice but to push on.