Page 3

Chapter Two

J ohn stared after the departing figure of Lady Eugenia and then at the empty doorway once she had gone. It had been a shock to discover that she volunteered at the earl’s charity. After having raised the capital to begin the foundling asylum, Lord Goodwin had tapered off his involvement. Following the death of Lady Goodwin, it had dwindled to nothing. The light digging John had done into the institution had been enough to tell him that. But no one had thought to mention that the earl’s daughter spent her time assisting at the orphanage, and apparently did so on a regular basis.

That had been his first shock. His second had been the cordial way in which she had taken leave of him. She had not been so during their brief interview, and the last thing he expected was for her to return and bid him farewell. John had taken her for the frigid sort, especially after having learned she was Lord Goodwin’s daughter. He should have known her parentage from the moment he had first set eyes on her. She had an air of her father, particularly in her bearing. And although she had still appeared cold when she bid him farewell, the action was not of one who had no finer feelings.

He brought his eyes back to the ledgers in front of him. At last, he had achieved his ambition to secure a place in the orphanage the Earl of Goodwin had established seven years hence. It was a start toward repairing his reputation with the ton and had only taken five months to bring into effect. After having witnessed the earl’s meeting with the courier that ill-fated morning, he had correctly read the expression in Lord Goodwin’s eyes: If you indeed overheard what I think you did, then you had best keep it to yourself, or there will be consequences. Well, John had been foolish enough not to keep it to himself. No, what had he done? He abandoned his idea of driving to his brother’s estate and instead returned to London. The very next day, he had gone straight to Lord Perkins’s house to disclose what he had seen.

Lord Perkins believed the assurances of his friend the peer, of course, not some young upstart who was nothing but a commoner. The rejection had not been immediate, but John felt the frost of it even before the invitations began to drop off. And then, not only did Parliament shoot down the proposed bill to raise steam duty taxes, there was a post-war boom in trade that led to high profit margins for those who invested in steam-powered machines. So Lord Goodwin’s evil intentions of pawning off bad investments were never exposed. Instead, he loudly regretted having sold off thirty percent of his investment and looked upon others with a saintly expression of regret—and had John shunned from society. White’s was the first to inform him that he would not be welcome there. Boodle’s was next. And then two of his friends gave him the cut direct on Bond Street. Lord Stuart had already left for his estate, and John hadn’t dared to seek him out to see what reception he might receive from him. Stuart was the highest-ranking of his friends and the biggest stickler for good ton .

That had been over three months ago; his life had since changed, and not for the better. After having spent the holidays and early winter on his brother’s estate, he resolved to find out if Lord Goodwin could be charged with bad dealings in other areas. Since John was closed out of every social circle that might allow him to obtain this information, the asylum was quite literally the only area left to him. Any twinge of conscience that he should not be looking for revenge in an orphanage he covered with the consolation that if Lord Goodwin had kept any of the investment money for himself, John would be bringing good to the orphans rather than harm by exposing it. If he could take down Lord Goodwin at the same time, all the better. He was not entirely comfortable with his decision to use his unknown birth father’s name instead of his stepfather’s who had adopted him. But he could not see that he had any choice in the matter.

Mr. Dowling entered his office without knocking. “How are you getting on, Rowles? Are you finding everything?”

John lifted his eyes. The question had been politely worded, except for the familiar nature in which Mr. Dowling left off the honorific of “mister.” He had already taken Mr. Dowling’s measure. This was a lower-status gentleman who wished to show his superiority to anyone he thought beneath him. Besides despising such things, John was not accustomed to having to report to anyone. The agent who hired him had told him that the position would largely be an independent one. He would report back to Mr. Peyton’s office and not to a senior officer. Certainly not to Lord Goodwin, which had been his fear.

“Thus far I am. I have only just begun, however.” He offered a polite smile that made it clear he was not interested in building a relationship, especially with one he would be forced to see every day and was not sure he liked.

Taking the hint, Mr. Dowling replied, “Of course,” before leaving to enter his own office.

It was not like John to be unamiable, but his misfortune had changed that. Besides, he suspected Dowling was a mushroom. He did not need any social climbers in his entourage, even though it would not be apparent to anyone that he was someone worth seeking an acquaintance with. For another thing—and this had been hard to bear—it would be better not to make any friends in the asylum at all. He was not ready to have anyone else shun him once his reputation came to light. He hoped it would not in this smaller sphere, but one never knew.

And then there was Lady Eugenia.

John focused his eyes on the numbers, refusing to think of her and what her presence in the asylum might mean. Perhaps her father was not quite as hands-off as he had thought and would soon appear at the orphanage. After all, how could he let his daughter go to the asylum unattended? Leaning back in his chair, John lifted his eyes to the walls, which were bare. In the corner was a door to a closet that would need straightening from what his quick look had informed him. And there was a narrow table on the other wall to his right, next to the window. From what he had seen of this and the other rooms thus far, the interior of the orphanage was shabbier than what one might expect for a charitable institution that bore Lord Goodwin’s name. The window overlooked the courtyard, and he stood and went over to it.

Some of the older orphans were grooming the horses in front of the stable under the watchful eye of the groom. In the plot of earth beyond the cobblestones, other boys worked the soil in preparation for planting. This plot of land sat in front of another section of the building where he could see benches and tables through the stretch of windows. Then, from a room on the far corner, sounds of clanging and smoke issuing from a pipe in the brick wall indicated the kitchen, and the smell of bread that reached him even from across the courtyard confirmed it. Surprisingly, there was something in the sight of such activity that soothed the pressure he had been carrying—even from before his disastrous run-in with Lord Goodwin. He didn’t know why that was .

Perhaps it was the safe, orderly routine that gave the young children the best hope they could strive for, given their lot in life. This struck a personal chord. John’s mother was a gentleman’s daughter with no close relations, and his father a gentleman. His late father had not been wealthy, however, and his death had left his mother destitute. In fact, if his mother had not remarried Maxwell Aubin, John’s own fate might not have been any better than these boys’. The asylum’s structure and routine more closely resembled a boarding school in its focus on order and training, though he was unsure if they were taught any skills other than what they were apprenticing for. Reading, writing, and sums, for instance—would anyone teach them those?

He went back to his desk and resumed his seat in front of the most recent ledger, attempting to focus on the numbers and connect them to the expenses, but there was nothing immediately evident to indicate foul play. What madness had he taken on? Did he expect to find something on the first day and be able to resign his position? John tightened his lips, irritated at himself. Yes, that was precisely what he had hoped for. When would he stop being so rash?

As long as he was here, though, he might as well do some good. Perhaps there were areas of the asylum that required better management than what it had thus far received. The walls might be brightened with a coat of paint as a start. He would do his best while he was here. After all, he had not been entirely fabricating his claim about serving as steward to a gentleman’s estate. Murray had certainly trained him thoroughly enough in the two years he had worked on his brother’s estate. That decision had been satisfactory to everyone concerned, especially once his elder brother made the decision to give Westerly to John. He would need to know how to run it.

John left the orphanage at the close of the day. It was an odd feeling to hold a position as though he were an ordinary citizen and not a gentleman. He had enough to live on with the four thousand pounds he had won from Jack Barnsby—another act that his conscience did not quite sit comfortably with, since he had ruined the man. It had gone far beyond a friendly game of cards between gentlemen, and he should never have let it go so far. He had been egged on by friends, and drunk on spirits and his winning streak. But all that was in the past. What could he do about the matter now?

Besides his own fortune, it would not be long before he was in possession of the income from Gregory’s estate. His elder brother was in the process of legally turning over Westerly to John in order to live a quiet life in West Riding with his wife, and act as rector of the local parish. They had been unable to have children and had no need of an inheritance, and his brother Greg had decided he would make a better landed gentleman. Whether this were true, John was not sure, but as he soon would be one, it was only natural that he should feel the constraints of his current position as steward.

At last he was able to flag down a hackney cab, and he gave him his direction in Chelsea before climbing into it. The interior was shabby and smelled of laborers, reminding him of how far he had fallen. The days of freedom and seeking his own pleasure were gone. He couldn’t live by his whim—heading to Tatts if he wanted to look over the horses there, whether or not he had any intention of buying one. There was no wandering into one of the clubs to see what sorts of games the gentlemen had going on there. And there was no point in going to the opera at night, for it would only involve facing all of society and watching them turn away, one by one. For heaven’s sake, none of the society matrons of note would extend him an invitation to their gatherings, even when they were desperate for single gentlemen with good prospects. He knew this without having applied to them.

Chelsea was a fashionable area for the younger set and for nobles wishing to play at the artistic lifestyle. Few knew him there, for he lived on the fringes and avoided places where the more fashionable might frequent. John stepped down in front of his rented lodging and paid the driver his fare, then climbed the steps just as a strange man was stepping out of the front door. There were only two other rented rooms, but John knew who lived in them, and he did not recognize him as one of the lodgers.

The man stopped short and touched his cap. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. John Aubin?”

“You do,” John said, cautiously. He was reluctant to use his last name, now that he had given a different one to the orphanage. And although he would, of course, proudly admit to the Aubin name, he was not lately in the habit of this being well received.

“I’ve just left a card with your servant but now appear to be in luck since you’ve come yourself. Name’s Ronald Sacks, and I work for Lord Blackstone. I was wondering if I might have a word?”

John climbed two steps until he faced him, all the while cogitating on what he should do. His late interactions with society were prone to bad news, so why should this be different? Although, he supposed, if the man wished to harm him, he was more likely to have waited for him at night and pulled him into an alley.

“May I ask what this is about?”

“Nothing of an unpleasant nature.” The man waited patiently, and John threw caution to the wind.

“Very well. Follow me.” John stepped past him, opened the door, and began to climb the stairs to his living quarters. The rooms were cleaned and chimneys swept by a maid, and hot meals were offered for the price of seventeen shillings a week. For the rest, he had a servant who performed the basic services of valet and footman combined.

He opened the door, and Owen hurried forward to take his hat and cane. His valet raised his eyes as the visitor stepped in behind John.

“I was to give you his card, sir, but I see that he has returned.”

“Indeed. We will sit in the parlor.” His rooms took up the entire floor and consisted of two bedrooms, a small sitting room, a more formal parlor for guests, and a servants’ quarters where Owen could heat water and prepare the most basic refreshments, such as coffee and tea.

John divested himself of his cloak and gestured for the man to precede him into the parlor. He did not have the look of a gentleman, but Sacks was representing a peer. And until he knew what the man wanted, he would not offer refreshments—especially when he looked more like he would appreciate a glass of ale at the local pub over a fine glass of claret.

When they were both seated, John lifted both hands in a gesture to invite him to begin.

Sacks shifted more comfortably in his seat, not looking particularly ill at ease in addressing a gentleman. “Lord Blackstone understands that you have been blackballed from White’s and Boodle’s, and he wishes to offer you a proposition.” It was a blunt way to come to the point.

“Is that so?” John hardly knew what to think. The last thing he might expect was for someone to seek him out because he had been blackballed. It could not be for any good purpose. “I do not know Lord Blackstone.”

“Few do,” Sacks replied, with what seemed almost a cheerful air. “He is a viscount. Has an estate in Norwich, but he was blackballed from three clubs years ago. A bit eccentric, he is—it did not worry him a bit, and my lord befriends those who had been blackballed or barred from entering other clubs.” He paused before adding, “Provided the reason was not too shocking, mind you.”

“And he deems my reason for being blackballed not too shocking?” John asked, in spite of himself. He had a strange urge to laugh.

“I assume so. He generally has a keen eye for those he chooses to reach out to, but you’ll have to ask him that for yourself. His lordship does not confide in me.”

John felt a rush of some emotion that was too complex to identify, but it seemed to spell out hope that he might have a friend in this world. He would still need to be cautious, for he did not know who Lord Blackstone was. But it had been months since anyone had treated him with a degree of openness and decency.

“You may tell Lord Blackstone that I would be glad to meet him.”

Sacks pulled out a card from the pocket of his simple brown waistcoat. “I left my card with your servant, but I was instructed to give you Lord Blackstone’s if you agreed to it. Here is the direction to where he stays. Just hand the footman there your card and you will be admitted. Say—any afternoon next week?”

John stood. “I have started a new project but I believe I can come on Friday afternoon, once I’ve had some time to grow comfortable in my work.”

Sacks stood as well and put his hat on his head. “Then I will tell his lordship to expect you on Friday.”