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Chapter One

April, 1817

Mayfair, London

“ M y lady, you wished to be woken at ten.” Charity, maid to Lady Eugenia Stanich, hesitated, the curtain only partially open. “However, you’d be excused for staying abed, you would.”

Geny shook her head, which sent a small throb of pain through it from fatigue. “No, for if I do not go, who will read to the orphans? I cannot allow society’s amusements to keep me from doing what is most important.”

Her maid opened the curtains wide and allowed the sun to stream into Geny’s room of gold, white, and yellow. Normally the brilliance and the colors cheered her, but this morning they seemed almost an affront. She tossed the covers to one side and put her legs over the edge of the bed, refusing to give in to her exhaustion. After all, it was not often her father insisted she attend a ball that would last until the wee hours. She would like to attribute such delicacy to his abiding affection for her, but she feared it was more due to his distraction—that he had forgotten he had a daughter at all. That was, until he had a potential match he wished her to consider.

But perhaps that was unkind.

“I’ve brought you chocolate,” her maid said as she went over to the wardrobe and began to sift through the gowns there.

Geny allowed her to choose one. After all, her maid had good taste in clothing, and she did not particularly care. She went over and sat in the chair in front of the dressing table where the chocolate was placed. Rarely did she take hers in bed. With each sip, thoughts of all there was to do flew through her mind, and it made her feel restless, as though she were wasting time even pausing to dress. The poor did not have a choice of whether they wished to take chocolate in bed or wake at the crack of dawn to begin work.

“I will lay out the blue cotton dimity.” The maid performed the action as she spoke, then came over to brush her hair.

Geny took another sip of the sweet chocolate and wished it were tea. Charity separated the strands of her hair and pinned them in the modest, plain style Geny favored.

“Miss Buxton’s maid has gone sweet on Jimmy what works in the Buxton stable.”

“Is that so?” Geny was not particularly interested in gossip, but her maid’s was never unkind, and it soothed her to listen to someone prattle. Goodness knew the house was quiet enough in the years since her mother had died.

“’Tis. He wants to offer for her, she says, but Mr. Buxton doesn’t take kindly to his maids finding husbands.”

“Not many employers are in favor of their servants marrying.” She glanced up at Charity in the mirror, a smile hovering on her lips. “And you? Have you found a sweetheart?”

The maid returned an inelegant snort. “My lady knows I’m not likely to attract a husband.”

It was true that with her bulbous nose and thick features, Charity would easily be overlooked as a candidate for marriage, even though her spirit was beautiful. Fortunately, her maid had told her she was perfectly happy remaining single. And Geny had no desire to lose her.

Charity made quick work of her hair and helped Geny into her stays and gown. It was early enough in the spring that she put on her velvet-lined bonnet and warmer pelisse. The ride to Bloomsbury was sometimes as long as an hour when the roads were congested, and as they went, the chilly air tended to seep into the carriage. Once they were on their way, her maid fell silent, allowing Geny to entertain her own thoughts. She needed this time of solitude, for once she arrived at the foundling asylum, there would be little rest. Each week, she taught her own class and on other days assisted in others; she gently admonished younger orphans who disobeyed the rules and welcomed visitors interested in seeing how the asylum worked—or those desiring to see how their donations had been put to use.

Geny wished her father had continued his interest in the asylum, for that might have brought them closer. She believed the earl had begun it with a good heart. He staffed his house with those who had been trained in the asylum, Charity being a perfect example of this. But even before Geny’s mother died five years ago, the earl had already begun to show less interest in the orphans. After her mother was gone, he showed none whatsoever. Not only did he never step foot in it, he gave full control to his agent, Mr. Peyton, to oversee its running. Until last week, Jacob Biggs had served as steward, and when the orphanage had grown large enough, Mr. Dowling was retained as headmaster. It was he who placed the orphans who had completed their training, hiring them out to various London establishments. Everything had run smoothly until Mr. Biggs announced it was time he retired from his position as steward. Now, change was inevitable.

The carriage pulled into the covered opening of the foundling asylum—a large, brick building with windows in every room. The structure formed a square with a courtyard in the middle, spacious enough for a stable and small garden for those being trained in the outdoor professions. Behind them, the iron gates clanged shut, and when the carriage came to a halt, Geny opened the door rather than waiting to be assisted.

The cold air assaulted her cheeks and brought with it a barely discernible smell of earth and spring. At the moment, only two boys were visible in the plot of land, crouched down in the thawing mud to weed around the shoots. Other boys were training as stable hands or as caretaker of the asylum’s small number of livestock. Charity crossed the courtyard to go to the kitchen where she would visit with old friends and assist where she could.

From inside the asylum came sounds of life as children of different ages carried on the responsibilities they were being trained for. Older girls watched over the small children and babies, learning to care for them and feed them. Others were engaged in spinning wool or needlework. Children of both sexes were employed in the kitchens and would rise to positions according to their ability. Geny’s friend Margery Buxton had told her it was all quite progressive, and she had to agree.

Simply walking through the asylum’s orderly rooms brought her satisfaction. It also consoled her, both in her ongoing grief at having lost her mother and her sorrow at bidding farewell to her ten-year-old brother, Matthew, who had returned to Eton. Or—if she were being precise—Lord Caldwell, Viscount Fernsby and heir to the Earl of Goodwin. The father Geny rarely saw these days.

She stepped into the entrance and strode toward the corridor where a group of girls in pinafores hurried forward, stifling their laughter. They nearly ran into her and stopped short, throwing their hands over their mouths to cover their exuberance .

“I’m sorry, my lady,” the girls murmured, dipping into curtsies.

“Have a care, girls,” Geny said, hiding her own amusement with a stern expression. They saw right through it, however, and she heard the escape of hushed giggles as they continued past her.

She delighted in their youthful spirit and joy, knowing they were well looked after in the asylum. They would have found little to laugh over had they been left on the streets. However, it was important to train them to be discreet if they were to be employable. The asylum must be known for the quality of its trained help so it might continue to attract donors.

Geny went into the office she shared with the head matron and set down the wicker basket she had brought with her. The head matron came from an adjoining room and dipped into a curtsy.

“Good day, my lady.” Mrs. Hastings dressed soberly, with no frills or color. Geny suspected she would have done so no matter what her station was in life, for she did not possess a ready sense of humor. The earl had approved her position, and there was no need to change it, of course. But Geny would have preferred for the children to receive more warmth from a head matron.

“Good day, Mrs. Hastings. I have brought the new stockings for the children that Miss Buxton and I made.”

“They are fortunate to have you dote on them, my lady.” She arranged the books on her desk in a neat stack. “Mr. Rowles, who has come to take over the steward’s role, is waiting to speak with Mr. Dowling.” Mrs. Hastings indicated the meeting room with a dip of her chin. “I told him he was early, and that Mr. Dowling wasn’t expected for another hour.”

Geny’s first thought was that she would regret Mr. Biggs’s departure. At the very beginning, there had been a nasty rumor spread about that the investments her father had solicited from his peers had not been wisely put to use. After the initial pledges, the donations had trickled down to nothing. If it had not been for Mr. Biggs’s work to disprove the rumor—and a large donation from Mrs. Buxton, the wealthy wife of a ceramics merchant—the asylum might not still be functioning. Geny had trusted Mr. Biggs with the smooth running of the asylum, and it was important to find someone equally as trustworthy.

She also wondered why Mr. Dowling was late. It had happened more than once, and she was beginning to think she should speak to him about it. Although she was a woman, and therefore stripped of the power to make decisions, she was the daughter of an earl. Not only that—it was her father’s asylum. That meant she could meet this Mr. Rowles and assess his qualifications for herself before Mr. Dowling made his own determination.

“I will meet Mr. Rowles.” Geny had not yet removed her bonnet or pelisse and did so now before retrieving her basket.

“You, my lady?” Mrs. Hastings sounded disapproving. “If you wish, I can accompany you.”

“Nonsense,” Geny said cheerfully. “I am not fresh out of the schoolroom. I have been accustomed to volunteering in all aspects of the asylum for the past three years, and in a limited capacity for the three years before that. Who better to meet this new hire than I, if Mr. Dowling is not here to do it?”

She walked into the next room, which was used as an informal parlor, then continued on to the larger room nestled at the end of the offices. This served as a board room or meeting place for anyone visiting on official business. Her breath had quickened from the pace she’d set, but she was also aware that the change in personnel was making her nervous. The asylum was the one place she found peace and order—where she had a part in bringing goodness and light into a shadowed, tumultuous world. Her mother had made the orphanage the bright place it was, and it was all she had left of her mother.

Geny opened the door and turned to close it behind her, hearing the chair scrape as the visitor came to his feet. She turned back just as he stood upright, and her breath left her at once.

This…this specimen of masculine attractiveness standing before her was nothing less than a gentleman of the ton . Surely he must be! There was nothing flashy about his appearance—on the contrary, it could only be described as understated. Yet, it was evident in his bearing, his attire, even the jaunty expression that lurked underneath his serious demeanor. If the close fit of his coat was any indication, he was a Corinthian to boot. Surely his life must consist of clubs and…well, whatever other less savory pastimes such gentlemen engaged in, not that she would know. Thank goodness her father was above such things. And yet, if he was a gentleman, why was he here ? He would have had a formal education, but no gentleman of birth would apply for a steward’s position in a foundling asylum.

Mr. Rowles bowed. “Good day, Miss…?”

He paused, and she realized she was staring. Her manners had fled.

“Lady Eugenia,” she corrected. “Good day, Mr. Rowles. Please, resume your seat.” She gestured to his chair and took the one across the table. Not directly across, for that seemed too intimate. The table was not wide.

“My lady,” he murmured before sitting again. His brow had wrinkled, and he seemed as much at a loss as she was.

Mr. Rowles was likely not accustomed to dealing with women in such a capacity, but he would soon learn that she cared too much for the children to give up her active interest in the asylum. As for her, she was struggling to make sense of who he was. Not once had she imagined a gentleman applying for the role of steward—and such a distinguished one at that. It was as though a member of the ton had come calling here in the orphanage. It was out of place.

“I understand you are here to serve in the capacity of steward for the asylum’s financial and daily operations,” she began in a brisk tone. It would be better to direct them to the matter at hand without delay. “What experience do you have to recommend you in assuming this role?”

He looked at her oddly, and she could easily guess why. He wondered what she, an earl’s daughter, was doing taking a hand in the inner workings of the orphanage. It was one thing to volunteer. Many gently bred women did that. But to interview him as though he—a man—were her inferior? It was not as though Mr. Peyton had not already interviewed him for the position. But she would not back down. This was her orphanage. Or, more accurately, it was her father’s, and it had been a project close to her mother’s heart. She would not let it be run into the ground because some gentleman had decided to take over the operations for a lark. It would not surprise her in the least if that was what this was.

“I have served as steward to a gentleman’s estate,” he answered at last.

So, he was not a gentleman. How was it then that he looked so much like one? His gaze remained unwaveringly upon hers as he replied, and she had to fight the urge to lower her eyes.

“If you held such an honorable position, why have you sought and accepted this one?” she asked. She did not mean to sound accusatory, but it was a curious thing to give up the running of a gentleman’s estate to work in a foundling asylum, unless it was because…

“Was the estate solvent?”

A hint of a smile—a scant turning up of the lips—appeared on his face. It was so brief she almost missed it, but it made Mr. Rowles more attractive—dangerously so, she admitted to herself, if she were to be in his presence on a regular basis. It should not even be a consideration for she was so far above him in station, but she was a woman.

“I assure you, Lady Eugenia, I left the estate entirely solvent and in the capable hands of the next steward. I have not come from ruining one gentleman’s estate with the intention of repeating the blunder with your asylum. I hope that reassures you of my capacity— and my intentions.”

She did not trust him.

Geny allowed her gaze to drop, resisting the urge to fidget, then brought it steadily back to his. She would ask the question that was foremost in her mind. “May I ask why you wish to take on the position of steward here if you had an estate to run, which must surely be a more satisfactory—and better-paid—position? It hardly seems logical.”

He spread his hands briefly, then interlaced his fingers on the table. “Let us just say that I wish to take on this position for personal reasons. When I spoke with Mr. Peyton, I was under the impression that my skills would be welcome.” He left the rest unsaid. That he had not expected to be grilled as soon as he entered the premises.

“You must understand, Mr. Rowles. My father began the foundling asylum”—she paused briefly when she saw the flash of surprise on his face—“and it was of particular interest to my late mother. I am intimately involved in every aspect of the orphanage.”

“Your father, then, is…”

“The Earl of Goodwin.” He had not known her father was Lord Goodwin, she realized. This relieved her mind of one thing at least. He had not come in hopes of worming his way into her father’s good graces by taking a position in the orphanage. That would make for a nice change.

“I see.”

He dropped his own gaze and appeared to be reflecting upon her revelation. She had the odd impression that this point was not in her favor. But surely he had taken the time to discover who had founded the asylum? It was well-known, and it was natural that the man’s daughter would volunteer her time here.

A new worry assailed her. Mr. Rowles had nothing against the earl, she hoped. Her father had not been the same since her mother died. He had never been a particularly doting husband or father, but he was a good man, and had been a faithful husband. However, she saw so little of him now, she did not know what occupied his time.

“My lady, I wish to set your mind at ease regarding my presence here. My intention is to continue the regular functioning of the asylum and ensure that not a shilling is wasted. I am here to improve it, if it can be improved.”

That was a reassuring statement to make, even if there was something odd about mentioning wasted shillings which disconcerted her, considering the early rumors. She hoped Mr. Rowles did not know more on the matter than he was letting on.

“Very well.” When she realized there was nothing more for her to say, she stood. “Mr. Dowling will wish to meet you as soon as he arrives. You will find your office by entering the corridor through this door. It is the one on the far end. The other one is for Mr. Dowling. In the meantime, if you require anything, you need only ask Mrs. Hastings.”

“Thank you.” The visitor bowed, and she allowed herself one last glance at his handsome face. He was an enigma, but that need not be a bad thing. If only he would be good at his duties, that was all that was needed.

Geny left through the same door she had indicated then turned in the direction of the stairwell and went to the classroom that held the five children learning to read. She should not own to having favorites, but she did feel the happiest on Mondays when she taught this class.

“Lady Geny,” Samantha cried out as soon as she saw her. She curtsied with clumsy grace, her face split in a smile that revealed four missing teeth in front. Only the bottom ones had begun to grow back in. The four other children, three girls and one boy, also greeted her with curtsies, a bow, and obvious signs of pleasure.

“Good morning, Samantha,” she said, smiling back at her before turning to greet Anne, Lacy, Martha, and Jack in turn.

She set her basket down on the small table in front of the modern blackboard that had been set up. The six chairs had already been pulled into a circle, and they eagerly sat, each darting their eyes to the basket, knowing that sometimes treats would be hidden inside. Today was one of those days.

After taking a seat, she announced that they would begin by reciting the poem they had learned last week. After that, they would have a chance to write on the blackboard to practice their letters.

“I have a piece of chalk for each of you to use today,” she announced, and the children looked at each other with shy smiles of awe. This was why she loved them so much. Six was such a sweet age, and every day she delighted in the fact that they were safe in the orphanage and would hopefully never know hunger or want again.

They began.

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright.

In the forest of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

They faltered often, but she smiled her encouragement and urged them on. Mrs. Hastings did not approve of her teaching them poetry, and it was true that they needed nothing more than the simple ability to read and write, and to learn a trade. But it was much easier to entice them to learn a string of words if they realized that the string revealed something interesting. And if she had thought Jack to be the only one interested in Mr. Blake’s poem, she was proven wrong. Even Samantha pronounced all the S’s and th’s with gusto, ignoring her lisp.

They went from reciting to writing their letters, and Geny lost track of the time. She was only brought back to it by the appearance of Mr. Dowling in the doorway.

“Lady Eugenia,” he greeted, before stepping into the room and bowing. He turned to the children. “You will find that there is soup for you in the dining hall. You may go and eat it now.” The children scrambled to their feet, preparing to leave, but he put up a hand. “Do not forget to take leave of Lady Eugenia.”

At their looks of chagrin, she sent them a reassuring smile and reached for the basket. “You must not go off without taking the warm stockings Miss Buxton and I have knitted for you.”

“Lor’, miss.” Samantha’s eyes grew wide as she looked at the stockings Geny held in her hands. She corrected herself hastily. “Lor’, my lady.”

“Do not say, ‘lor’,’ Samantha. You must simply say, ‘thank you, my lady.’ Here is your pair of stockings. And here are yours.” She handed one to each of them, including a gray pair for Jack. “Put them in your boxes with your other articles. Mrs. Hastings knows I am to give them to you, so your house maid and master will not be surprised to see them there.”

With enthusiastic expressions of thanks, they ran off cradling their treasures, and she turned to Mr. Dowling. “I could not let them continue in the ripped and dirty stockings they have on now.”

“Of course you could not. You are much too kind, my lady.” He looked at her fondly, which always caused her to grow tense. She knew he harbored feelings for her, although he never went above his station and gave them voice. She was grateful for this reserve, for she did not return those feelings. She had long suspected he had merely taken the role in the asylum because of the earl’s connection to it rather than any charitable instincts.

He turned to walk beside her. “The new steward has arrived.”

“Yes, we have met.” She glanced at Mr. Dowling. “What do you think of him?”

He went silent for a moment as he knit his brows. “I find him to be a puzzle. Why would he leave such a distinguished position only to accept one here? It is unusual.”

“I agree,” she said. Then, out of a strange reluctance to alienate Mr. Rowles without giving him a chance—or to align herself too closely with Mr. Dowling—she went on. “However, it is not unusual for a man to wish to serve in some capacity for a benevolent organization. He said he has personal reasons for doing so, and I will give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“You are very gracious, my lady,” Mr. Dowling said, attempting to catch her eye. She kept hers trained forward. “You need not fear, however. If there is anything out of the ordinary, I will surely discover it and bring it to your attention.”

“Thank you.” Geny’s reply was clipped. It was just this sort of thing that made her keep Mr. Dowling at arm’s length, despite their acquaintance that was above two years. In him was a mix of condescension and obsequiousness that bothered her—such as hinting that she required his assistance on any matter concerning the asylum workers. She did not.

They climbed the stairs to the cluster of offices where she would retrieve her pelisse before returning to her home on Upper Brook Street, and he would go on for his midday meal. Perhaps it was to put Mr. Dowling in his place that she did so, but Geny stopped in front of the doorway to the steward’s office. Mr. Rowles looked up from the ledger he was reading, and when he saw her, quickly stood.

“I am leaving, Mr. Rowles,” she said. “I hope you find your first day to your liking.” The beat of silence that followed was one of surprise, evident in his eyes. She had surprised herself.

“Thank you.” He bowed. “I am certain I will. Good day, my lady.”

She smiled and turned away, acknowledging Mr. Dowling with a nod from where he had paused at the entrance to his own office. “Good day, Mr. Dowling.”

She moved at a sedate pace, retrieving her pelisse and bonnet and going down to the courtyard, although there was something in her that wanted to run. She rarely had that urge now that she was a woman grown, but there it was, urging her in her breast the entire way down the steps. Hurry! Leave! Before even you know what it is you are feeling.