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Tonight he had done himself proud.
Heading upstairs to bed, Pierce reflected on how damned good it had felt to place the tin cup of money right on the headmaster’s desk, to brazenly invade the bloody sanctuary he hadn’t dared enter as a child—not if he wanted to live. Not when it was Barrings’s domain.
Thankfully for the current workhouse occupants, that scum had died five years ago, and his replacement was reputedly a compassionate sort who would use the money to better the workhouse, rather than to line his own pockets and the pockets of the two corrupt noblemen who’d ensured his position.
Noblemen.
Dropping wearily to his bed, Pierce gritted his teeth, recalling the first time he’d overheard those unscrupulous blackguards talking with Barrings.
Hunger pains had awakened him that winter night, gnawing at his gut until lying down became an agony impossible to bear. He’d slipped from the sheets, the cold air invading his blood, causing his eight-year-old body to shake uncontrollably. But still, he’d stolen down to the kitchen to pilfer some food.
Taking a shortcut back to his bed was a mistake, for it led right by the headmaster’s office. By the time Pierce spied the light burning through the crack in Barrings’s door, it was too late to retreat, and the cold in his bones was replaced by terror. If the headmaster found him up and about, and with stolen bread, no less, he’d whip him mercilessly.
Inching past the door, Pierce prayed that Barrings had fallen asleep at his desk.
“Here’s a hundred pounds more, Tragmore.”
The headmaster’s voice dispelled that hope.
“Excellent. And the rest?”
The sound of a fist slammed on the desk. “Dammit, Tragmore! The local vicarage only donated three hundred pounds. Certainly you don’t expect me to give all of it—”
“I most certainly do,” Tragmore interrupted. “Three hundred pounds, divided equally between Markham and myself.”
“And what of me?” Barrings snapped. “What do I gain from this little arrangement?”
“What you always gain. The opportunity to retain your upstanding position as headmaster. Isn’t that right, Markham?”
“Fine, Tragmore. Right.” The third man’s chair scraped as he rose to his feet. “Now let’s end this meeting and be on our way.”
Taking advantage of their noisy preparations to depart, Pierce had bolted, not stopping until he’d reached the safety of his bed.
But all night he was plagued by memories of that conversation and its implications—implications even a child could understand.
Once again, the haves were prospering at the expense of the have-nots.
Dragging himself back to the present, Pierce swore softly, rubbing his eyes, wishing he could just as easily rub out the memories. He half wished he’d never promised Daphne he’d go to the House of Perpetual Hope. The other half of him, however, felt a smug and overwhelming satisfaction that the money he’d provided to aid this particular workhouse was pilfered from the very nobleman who’d exploited it for so many years: the despicable Marquis of Tragmore.
Pierce doubted not that the funds would be wisely spent. He’d ensured that by adding a little something to the money in his tin cup: a note that read, Use this endowment for the workhouse, or I’ll be back.
A sudden thought sprang to mind, making Pierce chuckle, despite the night’s fatigue and emotional upheaval. Daphne would approve of that additional touch. Doubtless she would applaud the bandit for his cleverness and integrity. He wished he could see her face when she read the details in the newspaper.
Daphne. Just the thought of her made Pierce smile. She was the most bewitching, complex enigma he’d ever encountered.
He could see her as vividly as if she stood right there in his bedchamber, shy and withdrawn, intelligent and tenacious, principled and compassionate.
And so bloody beautiful that she stole his breath and his reason, prompting him to take a risk that might have meant his downfall.
But Daphne would never betray him.
How the hell he knew that, he wasn’t certain. He just did—and had, even before she’d awakened, looked up at him with those melting eyes, and helped him rob her home. There was an intangible but implicit understanding between them, a commonality rooted in something deep and meaningful. He’d felt it at Newmarket, then again in her room—tenderness, affinity.
And desire.
Desire so powerful it had nearly brought him to his knees.
The combination was intriguing as hell; fascinating, exciting…
