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“Yes, they seem a dreary lot. I can’t imagine how you manage them.”
She glanced down at her teacup. “It’s been an uphill battle since Roger died. There was quite a lot of slippage right after his death. Unfortunately, I was not in a . . . a proper state of mind to deal with the foundation until several months later.”
Those bleak, blank months had felt like she was standing on the edge of a precipice, facing nothing but an empty, howling wind. Most days, she’d been too weak to even get out of bed.
He leaned forward, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Grief is a tremendous challenge, both physically and mentally. You cannot blame yourself, my lady.”
For just a brief moment, she found herself back on the edge of that precipice. “It’s hard not to,” she whispered.
He reached over and took her teacup, placing it on the table. Then he took her hand in a firm, warm grip. Samantha couldn’t help but notice that he had fine hands. Long-fingered, strong, and slightly calloused, they were hands of a man who worked hard and knew what he was about. His very touch seemed to pull her back to herself.
“As your doctor, I forbid it,” he said. “No blaming allowed.”
Samantha let out a watery laugh. “Are you going to write a prescription to that effect?”
“If I must.”
He held her gaze for a moment longer before releasing her fingers. She felt strangely off-kilter, as if she’d lose her balance without his steadying grip.
“So, it sounds like boys have been going missing for at least two years,” he said.
She nodded, grateful for a return to the business at hand. “Once I took up my position on the board, I checked the records.”
“How many?”
“Twelve, in all.”
“All about the same age?”
“The first three boys were older, thirteen and over.” She opened her hands. “Old enough to begin champing at the bit. At that age, running with a gang might seem more exciting than apprenticing or going into service.”
“But the others were younger.”
“All under the age of eight.” It made her ill just thinking about it.
“And there have been no formal attempts to investigate?”
“John and Arthur thoroughly questioned the staff. Arthur even talked to his contacts among the police to see if they had any information about new gangs recruiting children, that sort of thing. Unfortunately, nothing turned up.”
“That Baines supports you was very evident at the board meeting,” he said in an oddly flat tone.
“Arthur was my husband’s dear friend, as well as his barrister. He helped Roger set up the foundation. And . . . and he was very good to me after Roger died.”
“I’m glad to hear you had such steadfast support.”
For some reason, she felt compelled to explain. “Roger’s grandfather, Lord Beath, wished to shut down the foundation. He also insisted that Roger’s sister, who lived with us, return with him to his country estate. Felicity and her grandfather do not get on, so Arthur convinced Lord Beath to leave the foundation untouched and to return Felicity to my care.”
He frowned. “Why would Lord Beath wish to shut down the foundation?”
“Because he’s a nasty old . . .”
“Twiddlepoop?” he supplied.
“I was about to say bastard,” she confessed.
When he laughed, she suddenly felt quite a bit better. Talking about those months after Roger’s death was always difficult. But Kendrick seemed to take the conversation—and her—in stride, with an easy empathy that was enormously appealing. That also meant that she needed to have a care. She couldn’t afford to trust him, no matter how kind and sympathetic he might be.
Not to mention handsome, competent, and strong.
