Page 25 of Benefactor to the Baroness (The Seductive Sleuths #3)
F ontaine nodded and smiled as well-dressed strangers chatted about which lady had worn a gown of last year’s fashion to Mrs. Tallow’s garden party, or which gentleman had been kicked out of a gambling house for starting a drunken fight. Matters she could not have cared less about but were the pinnacle of importance to these people.
“Who made your lovely gown, Lady Kerry?” a woman wearing a fortune of rubies and diamonds asked. “I am looking for a new modiste. My current one”—she plucked at the fine, knotted, cream lace decorating her bodice—“has not met my expectations.”
Fontaine murmured something appropriate, as it was clear the woman did not actually want her to answer the question. She was making a statement to redirect the conversation to herself.
Halifax society, as far as Fontaine could tell, was nearly identical to that of London with fewer titles but no fewer people thinking themselves to be of great importance. The vain, fluttering members of the ton cared only about themselves. They might occasionally summon an ounce of empathy to raise funds for a faraway cause, while ignoring the suffering going on a block from their homes. But even that would be to make themselves feel magnanimous.
If the previous week had not already proven it, this event of Mr. Prue’s had confirmed for Fontaine that she didn’t belong in society. Regardless of her parentage, she had raised herself in an environment wherein one’s chosen family had been more important than one’s blood relatives.
Except she’d pushed her chosen family away.
A tear dripped down her cheek. She quickly dashed it away. Rosemary simply couldn’t understand the pressure she was under. She had tried doing everything herself. She had tried offloading work to others to act in her place. She had tried everything , but no matter what she did, children suffered. Mr. Prue was right. It made more sense for her to operate in the shadows, where she could do more good.
The musicians in the corner of the room started up a country dance that Fontaine didn’t recognize. Rather than allow one of the well-dressed gentlemen to escort her onto the dance floor, she begged a megrim and retreated to a corner to watch. Mr. Prue had finally left her alone, and she would enjoy every moment not in his company.
“Lady Kerry?” a male voice asked.
Fontaine turned to face the man who had approached her. It took a moment for her to recall his name from when Mr. Prue had introduced her earlier that evening. Rowan Martin. He wore the same black suit, vest, and trousers as most of Mr. Prue’s guests. The only thing that set him apart was the thick, curly beard that covered the bottom half of his face and most of his bulbous nose.
“I apologize, but I do not feel like dancing,” she said. It was rude, and it would have earned her a cut in London, but Mr. Martin only smiled, or so she assumed. She could not see his mouth, but his pale-green eyes crinkled at the edges.
“That is not what I wished to speak to you about, Lady Kerry,” he said. He looked around the room, then continued in a quieter voice. “Mr. Prue mentioned you are to take over his operation?”
So, her future husband was already creating a reputation for her. She straightened. Here was a chance to undo some of the harm he had caused.
“I am indeed, and I can assure you my first action will be to remove children from inappropriate placements.”
Mr. Martin stared at her, wide-eyed, for a few seconds before clapping his hands together. “Excellent!”
Her jaw dropped open.
“I’d be pleased if you would tell me more about your plans,” he continued. “I have long had issue with Mr. Prue’s operation.”
She had to blink several times before she realized he was not at all the same as the other men present. “I-I had intended to start a boarding school,” she said. When Mr. Martin didn’t scoff or dismiss her, she continued. “A place for the poor to earn the skills needed to take up a trade.” She didn’t know why she was telling Mr. Martin so much. The words seemed to pour out of her.
“Lady Kerry, I cannot say how pleased I am to hear this,” Mr. Martin said. “My wife will be similarly pleased.”
“Mrs. Martin did not accompany you?”
She did not remember being introduced to such a lady, and any woman who was interested in charitable ventures was someone with whom Fontaine wanted to become more acquainted.
Mr. Martin shook his head. “She does not approve of Mr. Prue.”
Even better. If Mr. Prue required her to maintain a presence in Halifax society, she would need allies.
“I would love to speak more,” she said before spotting Mr. Prue heading her way. “Perhaps Mrs. Martin might join me for afternoon tea next week?”
She barely had time to hear Mr. Martin’s agreement before Mr. Prue reached them.
“Mr. Martin, if you might excuse us, I need to take my future bride away,” he said before Mr. Martin could do more than say a word in response, leading Fontaine onto the dance floor. “Where is your darling companion, Mrs. Summersby?” he asked. “It is only proper that she remains at your side when you are not with me.” He squeezed her hand to the point of pain, making her shudder.
“She was… not feeling well,” she said.
He huffed. “Well. In any case, I don’t want you associating with Mr. Martin.”
“Why?” She attempted to put some distance between them, but Mr. Prue drew her tighter to his side.
“I only invited him because Halifax society is quite small. There are more useful connections you might form,” he said. “A dutiful wife would do well to abide by my requests.”
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from responding. Instead, she spent a few seconds imagining what her life would be like if she were to cultivate a new life here, without Mr. Prue. If Mr. Martin was any sign, she might be able to gather sponsors whose support would allow her to open her boarding school on her own.
The temptation was strong, but there were too many ways such a path could go wrong. Most importantly, Mr. Prue was a man, and she was a woman. Even in Halifax, far away from the scandals that had tarnished her name, she had little chance of winning in a direct confrontation against him. Especially if anyone discovered the true nature of her relationship with Rosemary. Halifax society was no less judgmental than the ton .
No, as lovely as the idea was, she had already given her commitment to Mr. Prue. She would be married again, even if it meant breaking her heart.
*
Hours later, after suffering through an entire evening of smiling and dancing, Fontaine sat in front of her dressing table, turning a suspicion around in her mind. The possessive way Mr. Prue had led her around the room that evening made her wonder if he would really allow Rosemary to remain living with them. She would have to ensure that was put in writing. Then again, she didn’t know if Rosemary even wanted to stay with her. They hadn’t spoken since the fight. Neither had she seen Peter or Quinn, although Mr. Prue assured her that they were well and that she would be allowed to see them as soon as he and Fontaine were wed.
She put down her brush and closed her eyes. She couldn’t give in to despair. Not yet. She still had her wedding night to endure. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t had sex with a man before, if only the one. She had even occasionally enjoyed the experience with Malcom. But thinking about Mr. Prue’s sweaty, grunting form crouched atop her made her shudder. She would rather spend another night curled up against Rosemary’s side. More than once, she’d wished that Mr. Prue’s home was smaller. Then she might’ve been forced to share a room with Rosemary as they had on the ship, even if she wasn’t sure the woman would invite her touch.
Fontaine rose and realized the door to her soon-to-be husband’s room was open. That was likely his doing, ensuring she was reminded of what would come after their wedding. She rose and entered his chamber. It would be better to get used to her new situation, so there would be less chance that she would balk when the time came.
She aimlessly strolled to his desk and picked up an unfinished letter he had been writing. She expected it to be more tiresome business, but her eyes stumbled upon a phrase that made her pause. Rather than return to her room, she lit a candle with a match from a box on his desk, then held the flame close to the paper. With each word that she read, the sour taste in her mouth intensified, until she felt she might cast up her accounts all over his desk.
Mr. Prue had written to Mr. Blake with instructions that more children should be sent to Halifax at the earliest opportunity, and that Mr. Blake should inform the board that all the children had been placed in excellent situations. He also included a note specifically for Mr. Hill, confirming the foundation would receive its portion of the funds collected on schedule.
She shoved the paper aside and rifled through Mr. Prue’s desk until she found another letter, a response from Mr. Blake telling Mr. Prue of her impending arrival in London.
He had known she was coming.
The next sheet in the stack tallied the amount of money Mr. Prue was gathering for each child. He had not simply placed the orphans into mines and factories—he was leasing the children, gathering part of their income, ostensibly to save it until they were older, but she doubted he had any intention of returning the money to the children.
But the last item of correspondence was the worst. In the letter, again addressed to Mr. Blake, Mr. Prue advised that the volume of children did not meet the demand in Halifax. If Mr. Blake could not gather children from orphanages or workhouses, Mr. Prue wrote, perhaps there were other avenues they might explore.
It was so much worse than Fontaine had realized. He was not only responsible for the ‘snatchers’ whom he had mocked her for believing in, but he was actively stealing children from the streets of London, too. That explained his connection to the Whitechapel workhouse.
She put his desk back in order, resisting the urge to spit upon his beautifully polished mahogany chair, and returned to her room. She had to find Rosemary and tell her everything that had happened. Then they could figure out what to do next because she no longer had any intention of marrying Mr. Prue. Unfortunately, neither could they sneak out in the dead of night without revealing what she had learned. She had to continue exactly as she had, lest he grow suspicious.
She pulled the rope in her room to summon a servant, but when the door opened a few moments later, it was Annie who appeared, dressed in the uniform of a maid. It was only Mrs. Feather, standing in the hallway behind Annie, that stopped Fontaine from crying out with joy. Mr. Prue’s housekeeper crossed over her chest and watched Annie with narrowed eyes.
“How may I help you, my lady?” Annie asked. When Fontaine met her gaze, she winked.
Was it possible that Mr. Prue hadn’t realized Annie had been one of the children they’d transported from London? The orphans had stayed out of sight of the guests on the ship, and Mr. Prue had only told her that ‘the children’ had been moved from the boardinghouse. He hadn’t mentioned Peter’s or Quinn’s names or specified how many children.
Fontaine blew out a breath and smiled. “Please summon my companion.”
They had much to discuss.