Page 9 of The Marquess of Secrets

But Sister Monica was made of sterner stuff. She met his angry gaze and jutted out her chin in defiance.

“It may be none of my concern, my lord, but I worry for you toiling away down here hours at a time, night after night. Someone has to speak truth to you and care about your welfare.”

His irritation dissipated. Sister Monica was right, and he was grateful for her concern.

“Please accept my apologies for my curt response. Blame it on weariness and frustration. I told you to call me Harrison when we’re alone. After five years, I think you can manage it—Monica.”

He took a long drink of tea, savoring the bite of the Irish whiskey. “I’m aware we cannot keep up this pretense much longer. The time has come to take this public and set up a society of sorts and garner the support of benevolent donors. Outdoor relief is increasing at last. There are those working outside the stringent Poor Law Act. I believe we do not need to operate in secret any longer.”

Sister Monica frowned. “Harrumph. I don’t care for the Charity Organization Society with their draconian methods of determining who are the deserving poor or undeserving poor.”

“I completely agree. You have to admit, some take advantage of relief efforts to avoid work. We’ve seen a few down here and more than once.”

“Well, shouldn’t that be the government’s job? It seems to me the government is handing more responsibility onto private concerns. Harrison, it’s not right.”

She finally called him by name, and he smiled. Who would have thought he would become friends with a liberal-thinking nun in her sixties? Harrison admired her and the others for basically running a soup kitchen-clinic outside the scope of the New Poor Law. The problem was the charitable proposition devoured money. His fortune had been depleted by more than two-thirds in his bid to aid the destitute.

There must be a better way.

Also, if he were honest, his own health began to suffer. He was in a rundown condition, exhausted, running on little sleep and even less food. Harrison dropped eight pounds in the past four months alone. This enterprise was running away from him while completely engulfing his life.

A few years ago, Harrison had been ennobled by Queen Victoria by a writ of acceleration, meaning even though he held the courtesy title, he was able to attend the House of Lords. It was a rare occurrence and showed how the queen liked and admired his father. Between sitting in parliament and his physician duties at night, he was done in. Both commitments were suffering.

“I concur. Remember, it’s the government that ran those horrific workhouses. It took decades of slow incremental change to see even the slightest improvement, and it is still not enough.”

Harrison took a spoonful of stew. “Allow me to broach the subject with Sam Kenward, and I will also discuss it with my father. Perhaps a charitable public clinic for those in need may be the answer we seek. A temporary place of reprieve.”

“I will leave it in your capable hands. Here are the totals for today,” Sister Monica announced. “Fifteen new cases. From the grand total, seven have been moved to the tuberculosis infirmary. Two more have started jobs at the docks. A family of six agreed to head to the workhouse on Waterloo Road.”

Where they would be separated.

No wonder families chose to live on the street before heading to one of those abominations. As he’d mentioned to Sister Monica, the places had improved since it was decided to house the infirmaries in separate locations, but the conditions were still deplorable in his view.

As he took another spoonful of the hearty stew, his mind wandered to the young woman with onset pneumonia. Attractive—and he’d no business thinking such under the circumstances.

Harrison would hazard to guess her situation was more recent than most due to her mode of clothing, though the garments were worn and dirty.

“The young woman with the golden hair, have you found out her name and situation?”

Sister Monica arched an eyebrow at him. “No, not as yet. I decided to let her sleep since she was dead on her feet. There is time enough tomorrow. Did she touch you in some way?”

When he took her arm, a sizzling awareness moved through him like a wave crashing on a shoreline.

But that was not what Monica meant. The nun spoke of his heart.

Harrison had learned long ago to keep his heart hidden and protected. It was a habit he intended to keep.

“She is not the obvious poor we see down here is the reason,” Harrison replied. “The young lady diagnosed herself. Her mode of dress suggests a middle-class upbringing and possible education.”

“I’ll see to her personally, never fear. She claims not to be a prostitute, and I believe her. She doesn’t have the look of the street.”

Monica placed her mug on the desk. “Now. You have seen everyone, and most have settled in for the day. After you eat, I insist you return home and rest. We have enough food to see us through to the end of the week and enough chalk lime for the cesspits. Doctor Sam will be here in the morning. So there is no need for you to come again until tomorrow night. Sleep, and eat a hearty breakfast. That is an order, my lord.” She gave him a warm smile. “I mean, Harrison.”

It wouldn’t hurt to follow Monica’s instructions. A good night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast sounded like a brilliant suggestion.

Yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about the young woman.

What was her story? What brought her to such a low point? What caused the weariness and fear he’d seen in her remarkable green-blue eyes?