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Opening her door, she looked with longing at her bed and turned away. If she so much as sat down right now, she would be asleep. She picked up the bell and rang for her maid.
As she was dressing, her rebellious thoughts again wandered to the current Lord Manchester. Frustrated, she shook herself. He would be coming to see the Hospital soon. That was why he was weighing on her mind—certainly not because of the indecent memories of their last, horrid encounter.
Pleased with her reasoning and satisfied with her appearance, she nodded at her reflection, dismissing her maid. She’d been successful in avoiding the man for two years. She could do so again. In fact, it was imperative she did.
Another public confrontation with him was the last thing she—or her family—needed.
Four
One Week Later
Roland knew he was in a foul mood and didn’t care. He had a good excuse for his bile. This was the dreaded day, the day he was obliged to visit William’s bloody charity project and once again earn his right to the title he’d inherited. “Damned disagreeable nuisance, that’s what it is,” he muttered, knocking back another glass of sherry. He needed the fortification.
William’s “legacy” awaited. It amazed him that despite his brother’s premature demise, everyone still expected him to conform to his mold, to somehow magically become something he wasn’t. To become him. They were in for a grand disappointment. All of them.
Where was that blasted Blume fellow, anyway? He ought to have been here by now. He’d said one o’ clock, hadn’t he? And here it was a quarter past. He watched the clock’s slow minute hand make its way past another mark. Now it was twenty. Twenty minutes late.
Lack of punctuality in a solicitor was inexcusable. Damned if he would wait another minute for the man. “Whole thing is a monumental waste of time anyway,” he muttered, rising. “Might as well get it over with.” Blume could bloody well find him. “Have my carriage brought ‘round,” he barked to a footman.
By the time his conveyance came to fetch him, it was half past one, he’d had another sherry, and the fuse on his temper had shortened even further. The ride was bumpy, causing him to spill some of the liquor from his flask, which served only to exacerbate his rotten mood. When he finally alighted before the front steps of the Foundling Hospital, his jacket stained and exuding vapors of brandy, he was spoiling for a fight.
Looking up, he was stunned to see crews of men streaming in and out of the building bearing tools, lumber, and paint. To the north, he saw men in the process of installing an ironwork fence. To the south, he saw bricklayers crafting a new enclosure. He squinted at the plaque by the front door. This was indeed the Foundling Hospital. What the devil is going on here? Reaching up, he gave the bell cord a mighty yank.
A few moments later, the door opened a crack and a curious face peered out. “Yes, sir?”
“I wish to see Mr. R. Dun,” he announced without preamble, pushing his way in. “You may tell him that His Grace the Duke of Manchester has arrived.”
The woman’s brows drew together. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but there is no one here by that name.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, woman—the Assistant Administrator—I wish to speak with him at once.”
Her eyes widened and her mouth hung slack as she stared up at him.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” he thundered, making her jump. “Be quick about it! I haven’t got all bloody damned day.”
Without a word, she turned and trotted off, her heels clicking rapidly across the floor. She opened a door on the far side of the foyer and with one panicked backward glance, slipped through.
That’s more like it. Satisfied, Roland reached into his jacket and pulled out his flask. After taking a swallow of liquid courage, he jammed the flask back into his pocket. An instant later, he realized it was upside down—and that he’d forgotten to put the cap back on. Cursing, he jerked it back out, but it was too late.
Em
pty. Damn. And now he positively reeked. He tossed the empty flask into an umbrella stand in the corner, disgusted. Perhaps he ought to rethink this whole thing and come back tomorrow. Where was that silly woman? Why was it taking everybody so bloody long to do everything?
The door she’d gone through beckoned, tickling his curiosity while at the same time inspiring apprehension. He was already here and didn’t fancy having to come all the way back another day.
Before he knew it, he was turning the handle. The hallway beyond looked much the same as the foyer. Pictures hung on the walls at intervals, and thick carpets dampened the sound of his footsteps. It actually looked...nice. Like one of his own halls at home.
Trepidation eased as he progressed. These were just offices. He recognized the names of the other governors on the doors. There was one with his name on it, as well. It was locked. Another door bore a sign that said “Consultation” and another said “Records.” The door at the end opened on another hall exactly like the one behind him, save for the warm light streaming in through the occasional window. He decided to go right.
Peeking into one of the open doors, he saw an empty bedroom with three small beds in it. Toys and books were scattered about. Opening the wardrobe, he took out one of several bundles of gray cloth and shook it out. It was a small pair of breeches, the sort worn by every little boy. He put it back and returned to the hall. Exploring farther, he found more rooms like the first one. All were empty. It was eerie, the silence. Where were the children?
Another door waited at the end of the corridor. He opened it and looked in on an enormous dining hall. Long tables filled the space, their surfaces worn but spotless. The smell of food cooking assailed his nostrils. Though he’d not eaten this morning and it ought to have made him salivate, his stomach roiled in protest. Hastily, he shut the door and made his way down to the opposite end of the hall. As he passed by the exit, he knew he ought to go back and wait in the foyer, but bugger it, he was curious.
The next hallway he found was lined with what looked like classrooms. There was also a small library. He picked up the pace and strode down to the end with purpose. Another door. The place was a damned maze. Ah, a staircase. Upon ascending it, he encountered another hall lined with rooms. At the far end was yet another door. Approaching, he saw a sign bearing the words: “Sick Ward.”
God.
Anything smacking of sickness was to be loathed and above all avoided. Illness, an invisible killer, had robbed him of everyone he had ever cared about. His entire family had succumbed to it. It was an enemy one could neither hit nor shoot nor cut with a blade.
