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Chapter Seventeen

H aving at last declared his feelings toward Lady Geny, and given her his word that he would seriously pursue her in six months if she still wished for it, a fire now burned inside John to make sure it happened.

He needed to find concrete evidence of the earl’s fraud and dishonesty—if there was any, although there could not be any doubt of his perfidy—and he needed to find a way to regain his standing in society. If at all possible, he needed to do it in such a way that would not harm his chances with the only woman he had ever cared for. At the moment, he could not see how all of this might be achieved.

His first step was to confront Lord Hollingsworth with the new piece of evidence, and he went to Blackstone’s with that purpose in mind. At the club, he was shown into the drawing room, where he looked around but did not find his target.

He needed luck on his side, for there was much to do. After his conversation with Lady Geny, he was beginning to feel that he had too little time in which to do it. He went into the billiard room next, but there were no players there. Finally, he poked his head into one of the card rooms and was rewarded for his efforts. Lord Hollingsworth was there, playing with another member.

“Good afternoon, my lord. I am loath to disturb you when you are in the middle of a game. I am hoping to have a word with you as soon as you are free.”

Lord Hollingsworth responded amiably enough, announcing he was about to relieve Eckert of his purse and would be with John in five minutes. He could wait for the earl in the private room on the first floor that he would find by climbing the stairwell and entering the room directly above this one.

John thanked him and found the room easily enough, taking a seat in one of the leather chairs to wait for Lord Hollingsworth. As the earl had predicted, his game did not take long, and John performed the usual civilities as they ordered something to drink and raised a glass to each other. When this had been done, John laid his business before the earl.

“One of the partially load-bearing walls in the foundling asylum weakened, and the stones crumbled and fell. It laid bare a large hole that now looks into the adjoining chapel. When this occurred, a marble plaque was revealed that appears to have been concealed between the wall and the reredos built around the cross inside the chapel.”

“Most interesting,” Lord Hollingsworth took a pinch of snuff but said nothing further, as it was clear that John had not reached the point of his visit.

“Your name was etched on the marble plaque, along with other early donors, and I saw the sum of seven hundred and fifty pounds recorded.”

Lord Hollingsworth chuckled softly. “Ah, my whimsy comes back to haunt me. Yes, I was inspired to make a donation to the asylum in hopes of showing my abiding affection for Lady Goodwin—and perhaps irking her husband.” A reminiscent smile lingered on his face. “Mr. Adam Woode had the marble plaque made and presented it to Goodwin at the opening ceremony.”

“How did he know the amounts given for each donor?” John asked, certain it meant that the entries were once recorded in a more faithful manner than they were now.

“They were made public at first, likely in an attempt to encourage more people to donate. It spoke of one’s status.” Lord Hollingsworth raised his eyes as though thinking back. “There had been a fuss about how the donations would be used, and Mr. Woode loudly championed the earl and had the plaque made as a demonstration of candor. As I did not return to the asylum after its opening, I never knew what became of the plaque.”

John nodded. He had no reason not to believe this. “The thing that troubles me, my lord, is that your donation was never recorded in the early books as having been received. However, there is a record of an anonymous donor who gave seven hundred and fifty pounds in sponsorship of an orphan by the name of Gabriel Smith.” John stopped, hoping that Lord Hollingsworth would become voluble and fill in the missing pieces.

Hollingsworth was not stupid, and he turned an amused set of eyes John’s way. “I suppose that you are implying Gabriel is my baseborn son.”

John felt a flush of embarrassment. This was more awkward than he had intended for it to be.

“I will admit that my first thought was that he was yours and Lady Goodwin’s—” He stopped when he saw an indignant look flash upon Lord Hollingsworth’s face, rushing on to add, “But I quickly deduced that her character would never have allowed for such a thing. However, I could only draw as the most obvious conclusion that you stepped forward to support Gabriel because he was yours. ”

Hollingsworth sipped his drink and set it down quietly. “Did you never suspect Lord Goodwin?”

This came as a jolt of surprise. Somewhere in his conscience, despite the evidence to the contrary, John had continued to exonerate Lord Goodwin of wrongdoing when it came to immorality.

“I didn’t, but perhaps I should have.”

“I do not, in general, allow orphans to come under my notice, but I remember the boy because at the opening ceremony, Lady Goodwin pointed him out to me with pride. She said such a bright and handsome boy would represent the asylum in a favorable light, and all of society would see what a good thing they were doing.”

He stretched his legs out, although John did not know if he was attempting insouciance, or if he truly felt it. Lord Hollingsworth continued his story in an unhurried manner.

“I didn’t think much of it at the time, but I chanced to hear one of the workers saying that he had been brought in from Windsor, where his mother had recently departed this world. I confess that I was intrigued by that little piece of information, for as you likely know, Lord Goodwin’s estate is located in Windsor.”

John had not known it, although it would have been an easy thing to find out.

“I did a little digging,” the earl said, “and it turns out that Gabriel’s mother had been the daughter of a blacksmith and a servant on Lord Goodwin’s estate. She was turned away from it for her shame and spent the remainder of her short life in a cottage paid for by the earl himself.”

Comprehension dawned, and John was staggered by the implications. “So Gabriel is Lord Goodwin’s by-blow. The earl did not see fit to use his own money to sponsor the boy and see to his well-being, perhaps for fear of being found out. So he used your donation for the purpose. ”

“Poetic justice, I suppose,” Hollingsworth said.

John puzzled over this for a moment. “Did you inform Lady Goodwin of what you had discovered?”

Hollingsworth met his look with a weary one, as though John were not above average in intelligence.

“I loved Lady Goodwin. I didn’t wish to destroy her happiness.” He ruminated in silence a time before saying, “But as she died of an infection of the lungs that she had nearly recovered from, I have long wondered whether someone with less scruples apprised her of the fact.”

John shook his head, thinking of Lady Geny’s loss. “It’s unfortunate.”

“’Tis. Ah, if only Lady Goodwin could have known all of this before she pledged her troth to Lord Goodwin, her marriage might have been to me instead.” Lord Hollingsworth drank the rest of his wine in one gulp.

This was nothing John could respond to. Hollingsworth turned to him. “Do you intend to do anything with your information?”

“I do not know.” John still had no evidence that could terribly hurt the earl, even though it was bad ton to use another peer’s funds to sponsor his own illegitimate child. “Perhaps, but I must think it through. The knowledge will hurt Lady Eugenia.”

“The woman you hope to persuade to the altar.”

This brought John’s gaze back to Lord Hollingsworth. “If there is any way I can do so, yes. Given the fact that I am attempting to expose her father, I find it difficult to imagine how it can be accomplished.”

“Well, I wish you luck. I will put off my suit for Lady Eugenia at present, for I have not been entirely persuaded that she can make me happy in the place of her mother.”

John offered up a silent prayer of gratitude for that .

“However,” the earl continued, “if you do not achieve your objective, I will assume that my way is clear.”

The idea that he would lose Geny to anyone goaded John beyond measure. “I will find a way.”

Early the next morning, John decided to pay a long-overdue visit to Mr. Peyton. It was the next step in his plan to get to the bottom of the missing funds, both the five hundred pounds that Mr. Thompson was purported to have donated, and also the peculiar bookkeeping records that showed no disbursement for Sir Edward Burbank’s donation early on, and which let Lord Hollingsworth’s go missing. He hoped that Mr. Peyton would be as honest as he had thought him when he first applied for the job. The clerk soon showed him into the agent’s office.

“Mr. Rowles, a pleasure. Please come in.” Mr. Peyton stood and gestured to the chair across from him. “I would have thought that your work at the foundling asylum must have kept you too busy to come and pay a visit to me.”

“It does indeed keep me busy, especially now that the wall has become more damaged than originally thought. I assume you received my letter?”

“Indeed, I did.” Mr. Peyton shook his head. “It’s a terrible business.”

“And that is what brings me to your office.” John looked up as a servant came in carrying tea. Mr. Peyton offered him a cup, but he shook his head.

“I am surprised at the lack of newer donors that forces such restrictions on our spending. It is for this reason that I’ve come to call. To begin with, there were two discrepancies that I could find from the early accounting book.”

Mr. Peyton held up a hand. “Perhaps you would care to explain to me why you are looking into the early accounting books?”

John had expected the question and was prepared for it. “I wanted to research how the spending had been done in the past to make sure I was continuing to disburse the asylum’s finances in a similar manner, if not improve it.”

“I see. That was a good notion.” Mr. Peyton appeared to accept this, but John detected a new reserve in him, as though he were displeased.

“There are entries which I cannot account for, and some of these are recent in the last months. For one thing, some of the entries on the ledger are listed as capital redirected for mill and housing works. May I ask what this is?”

Mr. Peyton sent him a patronizing look. “Mr. Rowles, were you not hired to see to the affairs of the asylum in its present state? I hardly see why you must look into past entries.” He settled more comfortably in his chair. “The earl is a charitable man. He is building a mill in Manchester, along with housing for the workers, not that it is any of your concern. In the mill’s early stages, the donations were being split between the asylum and the mill as needed.”

John absorbed this surprising information. Did Mr. Peyton think him stupid? One did not invest in one venture and accept that the funds would go to another without being notified of it—unless the donors did know of it at the time of their donation. He decided against questioning the agent too closely for fear of drawing suspicion on himself.

“I see. Perhaps you might enlighten me as to Sir Edward Burbank’s donation of five hundred pounds in the asylum’s early stages? The amount was not redirected, nor was it added to the overall surplus. I did not discover how it was used.”

“That I can easily explain,” he replied. “Sir Edward donated before we had begun meticulous record-keeping. We used the money in the early setup of the orphanage. There were many expenses at the time, of course.”

“I understand.” John would let that one pass, as well. There were other, more important issues to address.

“However, when we discovered a marble plaque listing the early donors, I saw that the Earl of Hollingsworth had donated seven hundred and fifty pounds, and yet that figure is nowhere to be found unless it is for the anonymous sponsorship of the orphan, Gabriel Smith.”

“ Hmph .” Mr. Peyton leaned in with a patronizing look. “Had it not occurred to you that perhaps Lord Hollingsworth might have had personal reasons for doing so.”

“It did, and so I asked him if Gabriel was his.”

Mr. Peyton could not have looked more astonished. “Surely you did not show up at the earl’s residence uninvited? How are you connected with Lord Hollingsworth?”

This John had not thought through. Of course, it would seem strange that he—a man who supposedly had no connections nor was even gentleman-born—could approach someone of Lord Hollingsworth’s caliber.

“It was, I admit, under unusual circumstances that we were presented. However, the opportunity was enough for me to ask him the question and explain the reasons for my curiosity.”

Mr. Peyton stared hard at him. “It still seems to me an outrageous thing to do. Are you sure you know your proper position, Mr. Rowles?”

John felt a trickle of sweat roll down his neck. He had to move carefully, for he could not afford to lose his place at the asylum.

“I do know my position. As I said, the circumstances allowed for such frank speech between us. But I do not make it a habit of going about asking members of the peerage if they have any illegitimate children.”

Mr. Peyton’s posture eased, and John began to suspect he was hiding something. He still needed to ask about Mr. Thompson’s donation.

“There is something else that is curious. Our record books show that we have very little money in the coffers, and I am unsure how we are going to find enough to pay for the structural weakness that has allowed the partial collapse of a wall.”

Mr. Peyton lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Mr. Rowles, I’m sure you will understand that the foundling asylum is not my only concern. I merely distribute the funds as I receive them. I cannot conjure up money where there is none, nor can I tell you how best to use the funds to good purpose. If you feel yourself ill-suited to the position, however?—”

“Mr. Mark Thompson has recently made a donation of five hundred pounds. Yet that money has not come to me. I have received nothing more than the usual small donations for the general running of the orphanage.”

Mr. Peyton now looked ill at ease. “If Mr. Thompson donated this money as you say, how did you learn of it?”

John was caught between the crosshairs. “Once again, it was an extraordinary circumstance that allowed for this information to come to me. I merely wish to apply to you as the asylum’s managing agent to learn if you knew anything of it.”

Mr. Peyton was quiet for long enough that John became aware of the ticking clock near the wall.

“I will look into it, but my guess is that this Mr. Thompson, whom I have never heard of, was more likely boasting at having done a good deed in order to impress someone rather than disclosing a donation he truly made. In any case, I have received nothing from a man by his name.”

John knew when a battle was over and was wise enough to know that he had lost this one. He got to his feet. “I understand. You must be right. I will make do with what we have then.”

Mr. Peyton’s features softened slightly, and he accompanied John to the door. At the last moment, John turned to him, hoping for the element of surprise.

“Would you be able to give me the direction of Mr. Biggs? I would like to get his advice regarding certain aspects of the foundling asylum.”

Mr. Peyton looked taken back before he recovered himself. “I do not believe I can, in good conscience, give you the direction of someone who has requested to retire quietly and live a simple life. I am sorry to disoblige you.”

John accepted this final defeat. Although he was disappointed, he would find a way.

“I understand. Good day, Mr. Peyton.

When he returned to the office, Timothy was waiting for him and seemed restless and more talkative than usual.

“I have done all of the sums you have set out for me and have found the dis…the dis…”

“The discrepancy,” John finished for him.

“The discrepancy in the record books that you hid for me. Do you have any more?”

John looked at him with amusement. “What has happened to you, Timothy? You are asking me for more sums?”

“It is only that I wish to join Mason Cook, for he is to bring the support beams today.” He could scarcely stay still in his eagerness.

John laughed. “Now it all makes sense.” A small figure appeared in the doorway, and he turned. “Gabriel, are you up at last? I am glad to have you rejoin us.”

Gabriel looked pale, but he attempted a smile. “I am afraid I will not be able to write, though, for I have broken my writing hand.”

John ushered him to where he usually sat. “Did you know that it is possible to learn to write with your other hand?” Gabriel looked at him doubtfully, and John held up a pencil to show him. “It won’t look as nice as the hand you are accustomed to, but why don’t you start practicing?”

Gabriel seemed eager and relieved to have something to do. He took the paper in front of him and attempted writing sums with his other hand.

John turned his attention back to Timothy. “You may go out and join Mason Cook.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Timothy started toward the doorway, then stopped suddenly as though reminded of something. He turned to walk over to the small corner closet, whose shelves were surprisingly deep.

“I had forgotten. You asked me to arrange the closet. I found these letters, and I thought they might be important.” He handed him the stack and was off like a flash.

John brought the bundle over to his desk, animated by nothing more than curiosity. He slipped the cord that tied the papers and flipped through them, finding letters from the curate that mentioned certain orphans to be brought in. It was dated before Mr. Dowling had taken up his position.

As John flipped through the pile, he stopped at one letter in particular, written in a flowing hand and addressed to Mr. Biggs. He opened it and perused the contents, coming to the end where it was signed by a Miss Amelia Biggs, whom he deduced to be the old steward’s sister. Her direction was at the top of the letter, and it was just outside of London.

John stood suddenly, newly inspired. He glanced at his pocket watch and saw that it wanted fifteen minutes to three o’clock. He had time if he left now. Perhaps his efforts would still be in vain, for he knew not if these orphanage discrepancies would pin anything on the earl. However, it was all he had to go on.

“Gabriel, I need to go out for the rest of the afternoon. If you wish to remain in the office rather than staying in your room, you are welcome to do so. I will give you the same record-keeping that Timothy has been working on in your absence. See if you can do the sums there, using your left hand.”

Gabriel flashed him a smile. “Yes, sir.”

John took a hackney to the address indicated on Mr. Biggs’s letter and paid the driver. The house appeared to be a comfortable size.

The servant came to the door, and he handed him his card. “I am looking for Miss Biggs. She will not know who I am, but this is my card.”

The servant glanced at it. “Miss Biggs is not at home, but Mr. Biggs might be able to receive you. I will ask him if he is free.”

It took John all of two seconds to realize that, as this Mr. Biggs could not be Miss Biggs’s husband, he must be her brother. His search was at a lucky end. In a few minutes, he was shown into the small sitting room, where Mr. Biggs got to his feet. The old steward was still in the prime of his life, although his hair was graying.

“Mr. Rowles, this is a pleasure. I believe you are my replacement at the foundling asylum.”

John was relieved to be so easily recognized. “You are correct. I hope I have not caught you at a bad time.”

“Now that I am retired, my time is spent entirely in my garden or in reading the newspaper. I don’t think you could come at a bad time.”

He smiled pleasantly. John hoped the visit would prove more beneficial than that of Mr. Peyton’s. When they were seated and a bottle of cold wine had been brought, John came right to the point.

“Mr. Biggs, I am here because I have discovered discrepancies in some of the ledgers. I did not come to accuse you of anything, but I was wondering if you knew something about it.” He was too impatient to word the request more obliquely .

Mr. Biggs sighed. “I had thought it might come to this. You are referring, I assume, to the donations that were never shown as being disbursed. My record-keeping was not as assiduous in the beginning, for I was serving two roles as headmaster and steward.”

“I understand that, and as I said, I am not here to criticize. However, as we find ourselves in a difficult situation?—”

John realized that Mr. Biggs could not know of the collapsed wall. “A large portion of the stone wall between the stable and chapel fell, and we are attempting to locate funds to repair it. As you probably know, it was a partially load-bearing wall.”

Mr. Biggs furrowed his brows and seemed troubled by the news. “No one was hurt, I hope.”

“Gabriel, one of the orphans, was. He was standing too close to it when it happened, and he broke his arm when one of the stones fell on it.”

“Gabriel Smith?” Mr. Biggs’s eyes started. “Does the earl know about this?”

The question was an awkward one. “I have no dealings with the earl, so I cannot tell you. Fortunately, the boy is healing nicely.”

When the old steward offered nothing further, John pressed on. “A marble plaque was discovered with the names of certain early donors and the amounts they had given. It was revealed when the wall fell.”

Mr. Biggs nodded. “Mr. Woode’s gift to the orphanage. His name was at the top of the list.”

And contains the largest amount, John thought, wryly.

“What I would like to know is why the plaque had been hidden.”

Mr. Biggs shifted in his chair, rubbing his chin before replying. “The earl suggested we place it out of view once the chapel was finished to avoid appearing boastful. It was then decided we would store it behind the reredos. That way it would be kept in pristine condition.”

John looked at him with skepticism, which had the result of making Mr. Biggs even more uncomfortable. It was clear that something was hidden, and what was maddening was that he could not get to the source of Lord Goodwin’s corruption.

“Were any of the later donors aware that some of their money was being used for another venture entirely? Did they know about the mill in Manchester?” This caused a look of dismay on the old steward’s face.

“Mr. Rowles, I understand your concerns. I will not say that there are no discrepancies to look into. I am certain I have made some errors, myself. But there are some that are better left as is. Allow me to hint that there are powerful men behind the money that goes into the foundling asylum. I would advise you not to look too closely into any disparities you might find.”

John looked at him steadily. “Is that what you did? Is that why you retired early?”

Mr. Biggs shrugged and rubbed his palms on his breeches.

“I am getting old. It was never my nature to fight against a force too great for me, not even in my youth. I am certainly not equipped to do it now.”

Mr. Biggs offered nothing further, and John realized there was no point in attempting to persuade him to give up all he knew. He would not have more help from the old steward. He thanked him for his time and went out to the street to look for a hackney cab, thinking that it would take a miracle to find anything solid enough to expose Lord Goodwin.

For the first time, he was beginning to fear he would never regain his standing in society. What was more, it was even less likely he would win Lady Geny’s hand.