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Prologue
Leicester, England
1828
“PLEASE, PAPA, DON’T MAKE me go in there.”
The child hung back, tugging to free herself from her father’s iron-clad grasp. Terrified, she stared up at the dingy brick building, the rotted sign heralding The House of Perpetual Hope looming over her like some odious monster.
“This inexcusable behavior is precisely why you’re accompanying me.” Harwick Wyndham, the Marquis of Tragmore, scowled down at his eight-year-old daughter, determined that once their visit to the dilapidated workhouse was concluded all semblance of nonsensical tenderness would be forever erased from the delicate features now tilted imploringly up at him. “Come,” he ordered. “ ’Tis time you saw the unsalvageable waste that is allowed to drain the strength of our country and squander our tax money. Then perhaps you’ll save your pity for those more deserving.”
Purposefully, he dragged her along, ignoring her frightened protests, until they reached the heavy wooden door. There, he knocked.
“Wot ye want? Oh, it’s ye, sir.”
A vile stench accompanied the soot-covered man who admitted them, his sunken eyes dilating as he recognized the marquis. “Mr. Barrings wasn’t expectin’ ye, m’lord. I’ll tell ’im ye’re ’ere.”
“No need. The Duke of Markham and I aren’t scheduled to meet with Mr. Barrings until Thursday. I’ve come today merely to show my daughter about.”
The man gaped. “But, sir.”
“That’ll be all. You can return to your duties.”
“Yes, sir.”
Tragmore pivoted to face his daughter. “Daphne, I’ve decided to be kind and spare you the horrors of the dead and diseased rooms in the hopes that the debauchery you’ll witness right here will be enough to set your mind straight. However, if need be, we’ll visit every nook and cranny of this workhouse in order to harden that foolish heart of yours.”
Daphne’s little fists knotted in her gown. Assailed by an unimaginable dread, she dragged her shocked gaze from the peeling walls that encased her to the rotted floor beneath her feet. “Please, Papa, I…”
“Did you see the man who greeted us?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“And what was your impression of him?”
“That he needed a bath, Papa. And a new set of clothes.”
“Is that all?”
“I wondered if we might find a way to give him those things.”
“We’re already giving him far too much,” Tragmore growled, “and it’s time you realized that.” Scanning the hallway, he gestured toward the far corner. “Look over there.”
Daphne looked, spying two ill-kempt women on their knees, alternately scrubbing the floor and wailing undistinguishable sorrows to each other.
“Filthy trollops,” the marquis muttered. “Foul vermin who breed disease and immorality. They’re given a place to live, food to eat, and yet look at them, Daphne. Look well. They do naught but deplete what we provide them and then demand more. To what end, I ask you?”
Silently, Daphne stared at the two women. “They’re in pain, Papa,” she said at last, her young face filled with anguish. “Perhaps they’re ill. See the smaller one? She can scarcely catch her breath. Why is she scrubbing? She should be abed.”
Tragmore’s jaw clenched so tightly he felt it might snap. “Any illness she possesses she herself caused and is now spreading to others.”
“Are you acquainted with her, Papa?” Twisting a strand of tawny hair about her finger, Daphne kept her voice even, devoid of sentiment. Her father despised emotional displays; were she to give in to one now she would doubtlessly feel the weight of his hand.
