Page 1 of Benefactor to the Baroness (The Seductive Sleuths #3)
London, 1866
F ontaine Shepherd, the Dowager Lady Kerry, stood with her back straight and her hands clasped at her waist as Mr. Hill, the chair of the London Foundation for the Betterment of Destitute Orphans, hunched over his desk and flipped through the pages of her report with knobby, slightly trembling fingers. He adjusted the steel-framed spectacles perched precariously on his nose, then gave a rheumy cough, splattering his desk—and her report—with bits of saliva.
She tugged at the bodice of her dark-blue walking suit, feeling as if the tall bookcases that lined the walls on either side of her were inching closer with every passing second. Mr. Hill had opposed her appointment to the board of the foundation two years prior, although she didn’t know if it was her parentage or her sex that offended him. She had only secured enough votes by befriending the treasurer, Mrs. Eris, a task which had required two weeks of carefully following the woman to afternoon teas, charity galas, and any other event that Mrs. Eris fancied.
Mr. Hill reached the end of her report, flipped the sheaf of papers over, and slid it back across his desk toward her. “Good.”
She swallowed her initial response to that monosyllabic review of her painstaking work and inclined her head slightly. Mr. Hill was less than a year away from mandatory retirement. If everything went according to plan, he would endorse her candidacy as his successor, and then she would be in a position to bring about actual change. As chair, she would put an end to the foundation’s long-held mandate that any recipient of their charity must show sufficient piety and freedom from vices. She knew better than anyone that the “undeserving poor” were the ones who required their help most of all.
Before her father had lifted her out of poverty, she had treated every meal as her last. She had never known when she might spend a night shivering with cold or hunger. Even decades later, she spent many restless nights feeling like she wasn’t Lady Kerry, widow of the previous Baron Kerry, darling daughter of the Earl of Adeline, but only little Frannie, the matchstick girl.
“The orphanages are full,” she said, proud when her voice did not waver in the slightest. Every movement, every word, of her speech had been practiced in front of her mirror weeks in advance of this meeting. “The streets of London are overwhelmed with orphans.”
Her dream, one that she dared not voice in front of Mr. Hill, was to open a boarding school that would train and educate both wealthy and poor children. But she was a long way away from having enough funds to support such an endeavor.
Mr. Hill folded his fingers together. “I find no fault in your logic, Lady Kerry, especially since Mr. Blake’s report mirrors yours.”
Her pulse pounded at the back of her neck. Of course it did because Reginald Blake, Mr. Hill’s cousin, a solicitor, and the only other member of the board who was under the age of sixty, cribbed from her at every opportunity. She would have raised his behavior to the board, but she had no doubt that under the current leadership, the board would invariably side with Mr. Blake. Not only because of his connection to Mr. Hill but also because so many of her peers looked down on her. As if by coming in contact with her, they were exposing themselves to the same noxious fumes that rose from the Thames and engulfed the poor area of the city.
She would show them she was more than a street child, but first, she had to convince Mr. Hill that she was the most appropriate choice to replace him, starting with earning his approval on her proposal.
“The Viscountess Briarwood did mention that she wanted the foundation to expand into more charitable ventures,” Fontaine said, using the weapon she had reserved as a last resort. The Lord and Lady Briarwood were two of the foundation’s most significant patrons. At their latest fundraiser, Fontaine had overheard Lady Briarwood tell Mr. Hill that she wanted them to spend more of the funds she provided on London’s poor.
Mr. Hill pressed his lips together as a vein pulsed in his temple. “What do you suggest, precisely?”
If he had actually read her report, he would not have needed to ask, but she wouldn’t let that small injustice bother her. “I propose that the foundation establish a branch in Canada. The new world hasn’t been struck as badly by epidemics. We can transport children there and settle them in new situations.”
She had visited the bustling city several times before her husband had died. Unlike the new Baron Kerry, her late husband’s cousin, who preferred to spend his time drinking and gambling to excess, Malcom had loved the journey so much that she’d often wondered if he would have pursued life as a sailor were it not for his title. For that reason, and many others, she was certain he would have approved of sending children to Canada. The air was much fresher, and there were plenty of opportunities for older children to take on roles as maids or footmen in larger homes.
Assuming Mr. Hill approved her plan.
After a lengthy silence, in which Fontaine had to bite the inside of her cheek to stop from babbling reasons Halifax was the perfect place to send London’s many unwanted orphans, Mr. Hill sighed, then flipped open her report and squinted at the first page. “Where do you propose we acquire these children?”
He was considering it!
She forced herself to stand as straight and tall as possible, even as her heart thundered in her chest, and rattled off several of London’s more well-known orphanages, ones that were frequently supported by members of the peerage. As she spoke, the deep fissures on Mr. Hill’s face eased. He did not need to know that she also intended to venture into workhouses in the East End. It was not as if he would have any part in managing the operation once it began. A man like Mr. Hill was content to make decisions, then step away, trusting others to execute his orders.
“You will do this by yourself?” Mr. Hill asked.
She heard the alarm in his voice and grasped for a suitable response. She hadn’t anticipated that he would be so set upon seeing to her welfare—the poor, widowed, childless woman—that he would find a point of impropriety in her plan.
“O-Of course not,” she said. “I will bring an escort.”
“A companion?” Mr. Hill asked, leaning forward. “If you will not take my advice and remarry, then you should hire a companion.” He opened a drawer in his desk and withdrew a bulging, leather purse. “In this situation, the foundation can provide the necessary support.”
“That will not be required,” she said, as he thumbed through a stack of bills thicker than her report. The infuriating man scrutinized every proposed increase in charitable expenses but seemed eager to supply her with funds for such a trivial matter.
“This woman will be involved in foundation business, Lady Kerry,” Mr. Hill said.
The set of his shoulders told her this was not a battle she would win. The stuffy, old man couldn’t resist meddling in her life. She inclined her head slightly. “Of course.”
If it secured his support, she would obey his commands. Or, at least, pretend to. She had no desire to employ a gently bred woman to lounge around her home like a housecat. It would be much easier, and less disruptive, to pretend that she had hired such a woman. Mr. Hill, who rarely ventured beyond his home and the foundation’s office, would never know the difference. If it became necessary to produce her “companion,” she knew a dozen ladies who would play whatever role Fontaine asked of them without question, given sufficient monetary incentive.
Mr. Hill sniffed. “Far be it from me to get in the way of a woman who wishes to dedicate herself to the poor. You have my approval to access foundation funds to execute your plan. I will expect monthly reports.”
Which you will not read , she thought as she glanced at the stack of papers she had painstakingly prepared sitting on his desk. Nevertheless, the buzzing in her chest intensified. She had succeeded and was one step closer to securing Mr. Hill’s support.
“Of course. Thank you, sir.”
She dipped into a deep curtsey, then turned and strolled out of Mr. Hill’s office with her head held high.