Page 10 of Benefactor to the Baroness (The Seductive Sleuths #3)

F ontaine stood on the banks of a muddy river behind the Whitechapel workhouse in the dead of night, breathing shallowly through her mouth. Lady Lowell and Mrs. Summersby waited beside her, their faces tinged faintly green. Only Lady Briarwood was missing, as her husband had forbidden her from joining them, owing to her current pregnancy. Fontaine studied Lady Lowell. The marchioness was nothing like the high-ranking members of her late father’s circle. Those ladies and gentlemen had treated her like a curio, a thing to be gawked at when not carefully stored away. Perhaps that was why she’d fallen to pieces when Lord and Lady Lowell had been so sympathetic to her cause. She’d never had trouble entertaining a crowd, but her audiences rarely held titles higher than viscountess.

The rattle of wheels and whinny of horses sounded in the distance. Fontaine shifted her stance. The ground squelched beneath her feet.

“Is it almost time?” Lady Lowell asked. She plucked at the fabric of her skirt. “I fear I will have to burn this gown when we are done.”

“Soon,” Fontaine said. She still couldn’t believe Mrs. Summersby had not only agreed to this impromptu rescue but had involved others. She owed Mrs. Summersby a debt and didn’t know how she would repay it.

The screech of a whistle pierced the air, a signal they had agreed upon with the men, who would cause a distraction at the front of the workhouse while they snuck in through the back.

She pushed through the muck to the door she had snuck out countless times as a child. None of the other orphans in the workhouse had used it, fearing they would be discovered by mud stains on their boots. She had been the only child willing to risk beatings for brief moments of freedom.

Choosing this entry point had been a calculated risk, but she felt confident that Mr. Newton would not have fixed it after taking ownership of the workhouse, even after so many years, and her guess was proven correct as she placed a palm on the door and it creaked open.

She exhaled slowly, emitting a large cloud of mist that vanished into the smoggy air above them. “Let’s go.”

They entered the chilly, dimly lit house and crept down a narrow hallway toward a rectangle of light: the entrance to the kitchen. When they reached it, she held up a hand to instruct the others to stop, then peered around the doorframe. There were three elderly women inside the kitchen, but all of them had their backs to her. She waved Lady Lowell and Mrs. Summersby past her, then darted across.

The floorboards gave a faint creak with each step, but she could barely hear it over the pounding of her own pulse in her ears. When they reached the stairs, the sound of voices approaching had them freezing in place.

“Go,” Lady Lowell whispered. “I’ll take care of it.”

Fontaine hesitated for only a moment before taking Mrs. Summersby’s hand and rushing up the stairs. The children would be in a different room than the one they had seen on their last trip. That room was used during inspections. At all other times, the orphans slept in the attic. They would remain there all hours of the day when they were not working, not leaving even for fresh air or exercise.

Mrs. Summersby squeezed her hand as they approached the room. It was locked, but Fontaine knew the trick of the door, having forced it open many times. She pulled a piece of twisted wire from her pocket and stuck it in the keyway. A jerk of her wrist was all it took, and the lock clicked open.

“Wait here,” she told Mrs. Summersby. “They might need convincing.”

The other woman looked as if she were going to argue, but then she heaved a sigh and nodded. “Be quick.”

When Fontaine entered, the smell that greeted her was even worse than before. The children inside lay on the floor, clutching each other and shivering in the darkness. The only light came from the dingy windows, which were nailed shut and lacking curtains or blinds.

One child stood and moved toward them. “You came back.”

It was Annie, sporting a large bruise on her cheek. As Fontaine stepped forward, Annie cringed.

“I’m sorry,” Fontaine whispered.

Annie touched the bruise on her face with her fingertips. “Did you come to take us away?”

“Yes.”

The other children huddled closer together, whispering words she couldn’t quite make out. She understood their fear, their reluctance to trade their awful, but known, situation for one that might be even worse.

“I know you don’t trust me,” she said. “But if we don’t leave now, I don’t know what will happen to you.” She crouched down so her head was level with the girl. “I was living ’ere, ’afore the place was owned by a toff.”

All the children gasped.

“Were you really?” Annie asked.

Fontaine pointed to a corner of the room. “Check over there. I carved my name into the wall.”

Annie narrowed her eyes but walked to where Fontaine had pointed.

“Frannie,” Fontaine said. “That’s me.”

She remembered getting on her hands and knees and carving her name, a few scratches at a time, using a nail she had pried out of the floor. She had feared her own death was imminent and had wanted to ensure that some part of her remained, even if it was only a series of rough marks made by her own hand.

Annie returned to stand between Fontaine and the others. “That proves nothing.”

At that moment, Fontaine realized there was someone else in the room, a slim figure tucked beneath several blankets in the corner.

“No!” a new voice cried as Fontaine walked toward the shape.

When she was close enough to make out the child, her throat grew thick. The poor creature was little more than skin and bones. His damp hair stuck to his head above his wide, cloudy eyes.

“You don’t want him,” Peter said, shoving himself between her and the mattress. “He’s too sick to do you any good.”

The fear shining out of his face made her want to drop to her knees and wrap her arms around him, but that would only elicit more fear.

“I can help him,” she said.

The boy’s face held a mix of hope and fear. She knew how he felt. It was difficult to trust when you had been let down so many times. She had to show him she meant well.

“I’ll make sure you aren’t separated,” she said. “But we have to get out of here right now.”

His eyes filled with tears. “Do you promise?”

She nodded, although part of her wondered how they were going to get a sick child out of the building without being caught.

“We have to go,” Mrs. Summersby whispered.

Fontaine jumped. She had been so focused on the orphans that she hadn’t noticed the other woman entering.

“Take the others,” Fontaine said. “I’ll stay with Peter and…” She looked at the boy on the ground.

“Quinn,” Peter said. “My twin brother’s name is Quinn.”

“Don’t do this,” Mrs. Summersby whispered. “Those two will only slow us down.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Fontaine said. She knew what it was like to be left, how heartbreaking it was to watch her friends disappear one by one. She would not inflict that upon another child if she had any other choice. She had seen enough death in her time to recognize when it was near. By her estimation, Quinn would be dead before the week’s end.

Mrs. Summersby huffed. “You leave me no choice.” Then she grabbed Fontaine’s upper arm and wrenched her toward the door.

“No!” Fontaine shouted. “I can carry him!” Even though Mrs. Summersby was right. Quinn would get them caught. She struggled, but Mrs. Summersby was stronger than she appeared.

“It’s too much of a risk,” Mrs. Summersby said softly. “We have to get the rest of them to safety first.” She turned to Annie and the others. “If the rest of you want to live, follow me.”

Then the children mobbed them, and it was too late. She couldn’t fight off Mrs. Summersby without risking hurting a child. As they exited the room, she turned her head, catching one last glimpse of Peter standing beside his brother, his arms at his side, his expression twisted in betrayal.

She wanted to scream, to force the children that clung to her skirts away and claw her way back, but she knew she couldn’t. She swallowed her anger, forcing her mind to the challenge still in front of them: escaping the workhouse without being caught.

They slunk through the twisting hallways of the building, using routes she knew from her time as a resident were the least used. They had made it to the main floor when she heard shouting and banging. Hopefully, that meant their distraction was working. She would owe Lord Lowell and Lord Briarwood a boon for their part in assisting her.

“We’re almost there,” Fontaine whispered. Then she bumped into someone and nearly screamed. Thankfully, she recognized Lady Lowell at the last second and clenched her jaw shut.

“There you are,” Mrs. Summersby said. “Lady Kerry, take the children. We’ll watch from here.”

Fontaine ushered the orphans on, but when she glanced over her shoulder, Mrs. Summersby was whispering something to Lady Lowell. The other woman nodded, then rushed off in the other direction. Fontaine didn’t have time to ponder the implications of the interaction because in the next second, they reached the kitchen. She gestured to the children to press their backs along the wall, then peeked around the edge.

A wave of cold washed over her. More than a dozen women stood inside, some close enough to the door frame to snatch a child trying to pass. It was too dangerous. They would have to find a different route out of the house.

“What was that?” a voice from inside the kitchen asked.

Fontaine pressed herself as close to the wall as she could. One of the kitchen workers stood with her back to the door, so close that Fontaine could make out the deep wrinkles on her face. If the woman merely turned her head, she would see them.

Fontaine didn’t dare move, lest the creak of the floor alert them. She imagined herself becoming one with the wallpaper behind her, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth, praying none of the children would sneeze or let out a cry. After a full minute had elapsed, she risked turning her head and found Mrs. Summersby had clasped her hands over the mouths of two of the children, and the others were covering their mouths themselves. The eyes of all of them were wide and bright with fear.

Fontaine met Mrs. Summersby’s gaze, and something electric passed between them, shooting straight from Fontaine’s chest to her toes. Time passed slowly, each heartbeat echoing in her head. Then a loud thump sounded above them, and several women inside the kitchen began speaking at once.

“What was that?”

“The children!”

“It must be Annie again.”

The woman standing in the doorway vanished.

Fontaine peeled herself away from the wall and ushered the children down the hall, one at a time, until the adults were the only ones left.

A shouting from deeper in the house had the kitchen workers standing about. Fontaine had no hope of waiting for them to settle back down, and she couldn’t stay where she was, or risk being caught. After a quick prayer for luck, she lifted her skirts and dashed across the gap. The women inside cried out, and the sound of pots banging and knives being dropped followed.

“Run!” Fontaine shouted.

They raced down the hallway, then flew out the door onto the riverbank. Fontaine was the last, and when she closed the door behind her, she grabbed the shaved chunk of wood she had saved for this purpose and shoved it beneath the door from the outside. It would not delay their pursuers for long, but hopefully, they could escape without being followed.

The sucking mud slowed their progress, and the children were tired and exhausted, but in a matter of minutes, they had made it through the muck and shoved the children into the carriage Lord Briarwood had arranged. Not a moment too late, as the door to the workhouse burst open, and Mr. Newton stood in the doorway, looking furious.

Fontaine slammed the door of the carriage shut and settled herself with the children, who were shivering and holding each other. It was a good thing they had brought the largest carriage that any of the adults had possessed, or they might not have had room for all of them.

They sat in silence as the carriage moved through the streets. Fontaine clutched Mrs. Summersby’s hand, heaving cold air into her lungs. She had to see the children safely to the foundation’s staging home. Then they would be safe.

“You shouldn’t have tried to stay behind,” Mrs. Summersby said.

Fontaine stared at her. “What?”

Mrs. Summersby pressed her lips together. “You could’ve been caught.”

Fontaine shook her head. “You don’t understand.”

Before her father had found her, there had been several incidents when a family would come to the workhouse seeking a child to adopt. Then, when someone else had been selected, she’d been filled with bitter jealousy and disappointment.

Mrs. Summersby sighed. “You cannot continue to risk yourself. If you keep doing this, there will be a time when you will lose everything.”

The children watched the exchange with wide eyes, probably unused to being in such fine transport.

The carriage turned a corner and slowed.

“What’s going—” Fontaine started to ask before the door opened and two figures crawled inside the cramped carriage: Lady Lowell and Peter.

“There you are,” Mrs. Summersby said. “I was beginning to worry.”

Lady Lowell threw back her hood and grinned. “How could you ever doubt me?”

Then Fontaine noticed Lady Lowell holding a small, blanket-clad shape in her arms.

Quinn.

“You sent Lady Lowell back for them,” Fontaine said, her voice breaking.

“Isn’t that what you said?” Mrs. Summersby said brusquely. “We do not leave any behind.”

It took every ounce of Fontaine’s willpower not to kiss her.