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

F ontaine watched the woman sitting across from her in the cramped cab with interest. Mrs. Summersby’s cheeks were flushed, her lush lips were slightly parted, and there was a smear of soot just above her right elbow, marring her otherwise perfect complexion. She clutched her black-gloved hands in her lap and stared wide-eyed out the window, as if they were descending into hell and not simply the very fringes of Whitechapel.

Unfortunately, it was too late to turn around and deposit her in a more fashionable district, because Fontaine had an appointment to keep. At the previous month’s meeting, Mrs. Eris had casually remarked that the latest batch of children they had sent to Halifax had been half the size of the previous. As Mr. Hill had not yet announced which candidate he officially supported as his replacement, enterprising and community-minded Fontaine had volunteered to source more orphans. When she inevitably took over as chair in four short weeks, she would steer the foundation toward supporting the poorest of London’s inhabitants. Until then, she would doggedly pursue any venture that would encourage the other members of the board to vote in her favor.

She exhaled harshly out of her nose. The members of the ton could not see it, but in most cases, the only difference between the wealthy and the poor was the circumstances of their birth. It was that understanding that led her to spend most of her widow’s portion on charity. The only items of true value she possessed were gifts from her late husband—a set of gold-and-diamond earrings, a matching necklace—as well as a ring her father had given her mother. The necklace she kept in a velvet-lined box in her bedroom, but the other items she wore daily.

“What business do you have in Whitechapel?” Mrs. Summersby asked.

Fontaine returned her attention to the woman, who was fashionable even in her plain, woolen gown. The cut of her bodice was of the latest style, her hair was decorated with delicately carved pearls, and she spoke as if she were being observed by society at all times.

Before today, Fontaine had never thought much of Mrs. Summersby beyond the occasional wince of sympathy when someone had commented upon her late nephew’s carousing or, later, the family’s dire financial situation. Fontaine had certainly never considered the outwardly stern Mrs. Summersby the kind of woman who would have chased her into an alley. But now that she knew Mrs. Summersby had hidden depths, she found herself curious to see what else the woman was hiding.

“It would be best if you remained in the carriage,” Fontaine said. “The conditions in the workhouse are likely to shock you.”

Mrs. Summersby narrowed her eyes. “I will be the judge of that.”

Fontaine leaned back, more amused than annoyed. “As you wish.”

The carriage rattled to a stop, and she opened the door to a familiar sight. A towering, brick building rose out of the earth, surrounded by wide swaths of gravel-filled land on all sides. It was a place she would never forget, as even decades after leaving its walls for good, she still had nightmares of being dragged along the path, kicking and screaming. During her younger years, she had usually been taken to an orphanage after being found on the street, but as she’d grown, it had more often been a workhouse instead, owing to appearing older than she’d been.

It was this very workhouse where she’d first been assigned the job of matchstick seller. Any income she’d received had been taken and the few times she’d tried to hide some coins in her clothing instead of surrendering them, she’d invariably been discovered and beaten severely.

She’d survived, but so many other children still suffered. That was why she returned, week after week. As long as she had the means with which to rescue other children from this hell, she would do so.

She exited the carriage and attempted to close the door, but Mrs. Summersby elbowed her way out. A slight shudder was soon disguised by a stiffening of her shoulders and a jutting of her chin forward. Both signs that Mrs. Summersby would not be deterred.

With a resigned sigh, Fontaine looped their arms together and turned toward the workhouse. The building loomed over them as they approached, and the wind made a high-pitched sound as it flowed along the bricks, almost like a scream.

Fontaine gulped but forced her feet to keep moving. When they reached the steps, the old, oak door creaked open and the owner, Mr. Newton, stepped outside, wearing a well-tailored black suit. He was a head shorter than both Fontaine and Mrs. Summersby and stood with his arms stiff at his sides. As they climbed the steps to greet him, his lips thinned.

“Lady Kerry,” Mr. Newton said. “Have you come to select more servants?”

His words dripped with skepticism. Mrs. Summersby huffed. Fontaine elbowed her in the ribs and raised her voice. “I am to acquire two today.”

She had established the lie that she was staffing a summer house the foundation operated months ago, and so far, Mr. Newton had not questioned it. Based on previous interactions, two orphans were the most she would be able to negotiate using the funds she had on her person. Mr. Newton was a shrewd businessman, and his rates increased with each visit. Unfortunately, there was little she could do but bear the cost. Bartering might cause him to investigate her story, and Mr. Hill would be apoplectic if he learned how she was truly using the funds the foundation provided for her alleged “companion.”

She could have found another workhouse in a different area of the city, one that would gladly offload children to her without payment, but the orphans in those workhouses were treated comparatively well, owing to the city workers who performed frequent inspections. Those children would survive without her intervention. They did not need her as the children of Whitechapel did.

“I have brought a friend with me,” Fontaine said. “Mrs. Summersby, this is Mr. Newton.”

The man gave a slight incline of his head.

Mrs. Summersby sniffed.

“Come this way,” Mr. Newton said. “I will show you our latest stock.”

Mrs. Summersby made a strangled sound of outrage. Fontaine squeezed her arm and pulled her forward. Objecting to Mr. Newton’s crude description of the children would only show the man how desperate they were, which would likely cause him to increase his rates yet again. It might not have bothered her to pay him, except that she knew the funds would never benefit the poor children who lived within the building.

She distinctly remembered sleeping in the attic on mildewy cots piled on the ground, huddled together with the other orphans like puppies to keep warm in the winter and splayed as far apart as they could in the summer, sweating profusely. It was a wonder so many had survived.

“Prepare yourself,” Fontaine whispered to Rosemary as they strode deeper into the house. The walls were stained with mold, the floor creaked with each step, and a putrid smell wreathed around them, forcing Fontaine to breathe shallowly through her mouth.

“Here they are,” Mr. Newton said as they reached a door. He pushed it open, and Mrs. Summersby gasped.

There were four children. Two whom Fontaine guessed were over four-and-ten, and two who were eight or nine.

The children lay on thin mattresses in narrow beds and stared at her with sightless eyes. Their heads were shaved—a workhouse precaution against lice—and they were clothed in tattered, oversized rags.

“I will leave you to make your choice,” Mr. Newton said.

When he closed the door, an older girl with sharp cheekbones and wide shoulders slid off her bed and approached them.

“Who are you?” she asked. She must have been new to the workhouse, as there was little fear in her voice or posture.

“I’m Fontaine, and this is Mrs. Summersby,” Fontaine said.

“I’m Annie,” the girl said. Then she pointed at the other children. “That’s Peter, Winter, and Xavier.”

Those were not their real names, of course. Fontaine didn’t expect they would tell her their real names, even if she took them away. She was an unknown element. They might not even know their real names. She had been called “Frannie” until her father had found her and informed her that her birth name had been Fontaine.

The other children did not speak. They were almost unnaturally still, as if tensed to run at a moment’s notice. Between their shaved heads and identical clothing, she could hardly tell them apart, but she made an effort.

Xavier was similar in age to Annie. He was short and stocky and had wrapped his arms around a pillow. Winter was likely a year or two younger and was lean and long-limbed, suggesting he might be preparing for a growth spurt. He picked at the paint on the frame of his bed and let the flakes fall to the floor. The youngest, Peter, glared at her with the expression of a boy who had seen much in his short life. The fuzzy hair on his head was slightly longer, but his eyebrows had been shaved off.

A thump came from upstairs, making Annie flinch. She scrambled back onto a mattress and watched Fontaine with wide, shining eyes.

“This is horrific,” Mrs. Summersby said in a tight voice.

“These are the ones who are too young or weak to become matchstick girls or pickpockets,” Fontaine found herself saying. “The older boys are sent to the army or to anyone seeking an apprentice. The older girls are prepared to enter service as maids of all work or nannies.”

Sickness often tore through workhouses and left behind a huge number of dead. Mr. Newton would not spare a single shilling for medicine. The children who survived the fever and the conditions in the house were the strongest and would earn the most income.

“My father found me here,” Fontaine said. “I was as weak as they are. He had been searching for me for months. His mistress had told him there was a child, but she had died and left me on the street before telling him where to find me.” She smiled, remembering how imposing the Earl of Adeline had seemed when he had arrived at the Whitechapel workhouse. The other orphans had been afraid of him, but she’d met his gaze stubbornly, hiding the youngest children behind her, a mother hen even at her tender age. Only later had she learned he had seen immediately that she was his—they shared the same prominent nose, the same star-shaped birthmark on their necks. She supposed she should have been grateful that she had inherited little from her mother, a woman she barely remembered, or her father might not have recognized her.

As it was, the earl had taken her to his home that afternoon, where she’d been subjected to a bath, a meal, and an introduction to a governess—in that order. In the days that followed, she’d been forced to dress in fancy wear, sit for hours at a table, and listen to boring lectures on etiquette. She had tried to run away many times, but the earl, who felt duty to one’s children was of the foremost importance, would not allow her to leave. Eventually, she relented, and even grew to love her father, although her stepmother and half-siblings despised her for her intrusion in their lives.

“How do you decide whom to take?” Mrs. Summersby asked.

Fontaine shrugged off the ghosts of her past and stepped closer to Mrs. Summersby so that they could speak without the children hearing. “I’ve been doing this long enough that I can tell which won’t survive the long journey.”

She wished she could rescue them all, but until she succeeded Mr. Hill, that was beyond her means. Of the four, Xavier and Peter had a blue tinge to their lips and breathed with shallow gasps. They were likely beyond her ability to help. That left Annie and Winter.

The door creaked open, and Mr. Newton entered. “Have you made your choices?”

She swallowed the lump in her throat and pointed to the children she recognized as the strongest. She wished she could reassure them, but they wouldn’t believe anything she said. They had no reason to trust her.

Mr. Newton cleared his throat. “Would you rather not take these two boys? Their youth makes them quite desirable. They’ll grow into strong workers.”

She shouldn’t have been surprised that he was trying to offload the sickest of the children.

“And spread illness throughout my household?” she said. “I think not.”

It pained her to leave the boys behind, but she had to make the most use of her slim resources. Children died every day in Whitechapel. That was a cruel fact of life.

“Perhaps just the one boy, instead of the girl?” Mr. Newton asked. “My other customers find much more value in girls. I could give you a discount.”

“Enough,” Fontaine said sharply. Then she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from telling Mr. Newton exactly what she thought of his other customers .

“Lady Kerry has made up her mind,” Mrs. Summersby said.

Mr. Newton narrowed his eyes and glanced around the room, as if searching for another excuse. Before he could come up with something, she turned and strode confidently down the hallway, forcing Mr. Newton to rush ahead of her.

“You know, you might not find as many next time,” Mr. Newton said as they walked back down the stairs.

“What do you mean?” Fontaine asked. The way Mr. Newton had spoken suggested a sense of self-righteousness, as if he were smug that he had bested her. But there were always children on the street, always unwed mothers giving up their babies or leaving them on the steps of churches or orphanages. As cruel as it was, starvation was a powerful motivator.

“There are fewer orphans by the week,” Mr. Newton said. He gave a scowl. “It is rather cutting into my profits.”

“Where are they going?” Fontaine asked, although she didn’t expect Mr. Newton would answer. He saw her as competition, despite her saying many times that she had no desire to profit off the backs of children. To Mr. Newton, her presence week after week in the workhouse could mean nothing else.

Mr. Newton shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea. I do not go seeking supply. They are brought to me.”

Such a cold reflection of the business of selling orphans, but if she expressed that sentiment, Mr. Newton would use her sympathy and anger to extort more money out of her. She had to maintain the illusion of a dispassionate woman who cared little for the children beyond what they could do for her. But what were the chances that the next time she returned, Peter and Xavier would be gone?

She couldn’t leave them behind.

“You have convinced me, Mr. Newton,” she said. “I will take the other two boys as well, if you believe the stock will be low on my next visit. I would not want my housekeeper to be vexed.”

Mr. Newton’s brows drew together. “If you wish, Lady Kerry.” Then he named a sum, and the amount made her swallow heavily. It was three times her budget. She could barely sustain her lifestyle with the funds she had. It was not that she cared for the dresses and shoes and all other manner of things the ton insisted upon, but that she required these things. They were necessary for her to blend in. Without them, no one would believe she belonged. Then it would be even more difficult to convince the men and women of society to give up their money to support the foundation.

But she couldn’t leave the children, either.

“Done,” Fontaine said.

Mrs. Summersby gasped. “Lady Kerry, do not be so—”

“I will return tomorrow with the rest,” Fontaine said as she laid a stack of bills into Mr. Newton’s hand.

She wished she could take the children away at that very minute, but her carriage was barely large enough for two adults, and finding a cab in Whitechapel willing to transport four street children would be impossible. She would have to request one of the foundation’s carriages. It would be difficult with such short notice, but she dared not wait any longer, as Mr. Newton’s ominous warning made her suspect that if she did, the children might not be here for her to rescue.