Page 8 of Benefactor to the Baroness (The Seductive Sleuths #3)
F or the second time in as many days, Fontaine sat in a carriage across from Mrs. Summersby, whose long-sleeved, muddy-brown, cambric gown clasped her in a drab embrace. This was in sharp contrast to the lacy nightgown that she had worn in Fontaine’s dreams the previous night, where Mrs. Summersby had twisted her hips in a motion that even now had Fontaine squirming in her seat.
It wasn’t right, imagining her apparent new friend in such licentious scenarios, but when Mrs. Summersby had held her, it had felt so right . Like she had finally found something she’d wanted since she’d been a young woman but had never dared to pursue.
The freedom to choose.
Her whole life among the social elite had been planned, starting from the moment her father had plucked her from obscurity. After she’d recovered from the shock and anger of learning her true identity, she’d realized how much she owed him and had resolved to obey the earl’s every command. If he wanted her to attend a finishing school with dozens of other girls who cared nothing for her beyond her connections, she would attend. If he wanted her to become the darling of her first season, she would throw herself into learning the complicated social games required to fit in with the ton . If he wanted her to marry, she would walk joyfully down the wedding aisle.
It was not as if marriage had been terrible. She had enjoyed Malcom’s companionship, even if he had rarely come to her bed. However, remembering her husband’s affections did little to stir her passions, whereas the very thought of Mrs. Summersby sent her skin aflame. It was a pointless attraction—Mrs. Summersby was as stoic and as proper as any society lady and would likely gasp at the mere mention of anything sapphic—but one could not deny one’s own desires.
“I believe we have arrived,” Rosemary said.
Fontaine jerked her head toward the window. The carriage had indeed stopped. In moments, they were once again walking up the long path to the Whitechapel workhouse. The smog that emanated from the chimneys fouled the air, making Rosemary cough. Even Fontaine was affected, even though she’d once lived with dozens of other children ranging from infants to nearly adult, with few opportunities to bathe.
“Press your handkerchief to your nose if it becomes too much,” Fontaine said as she noticed Mrs. Summersby’s eyes watering.
It was hard to believe the woman had agreed to come with her on this second trip. Fontaine was well aware that most of the ton had looked down upon her from the moment she had entered their ranks. It was as if the day one was born, a seal was placed upon the potential of a person, and one could never strive to exceed that potential.
But Fontaine was very good at breaking into, and out of, all manner of things.
“How many children do you think have come through this place?” Mrs. Summersby asked.
“Thousands,” Fontaine said, linking their arms.
“Will it…” Mrs. Summersby gulped. “Will it be as bad as last time?”
“It will be worse. Some of them might have even died. These places”—she jerked her head toward the towering, stone building—“are designed to break spirits. No one wants to be here, least of all children.”
Mrs. Summersby stopped walking, forcing Fontaine to do the same.
“You could wait in the carriage,” Fontaine said gently.
Mrs. Summersby closed her eyes, straightened her shoulders, then shook her head. “No. Let us do this while I still have the strength.”
Fontaine’s heart swelled. Even if Mrs. Summersby didn’t agree to accompany her to Halifax, she hoped they would remain friends. It was rare to find anyone with such courage.
If Mrs. Summersby balked at the request, she wasn’t sure who else she could ask. There were only so many ladies in London who wouldn’t laugh at such a proposition. She might hire a new lady’s maid, but there was so little time. When she tried to imagine a stranger standing beside her on the docks, the unknown woman invariably transformed back into Mrs. Summersby.
They climbed the steps to the workhouse, but before she could knock, the door flew open, and Mr. Newton stumbled out. His shirt gaped, and a wrinkled neck cloth was slung over his shoulder. She had never seen him in such a state before. He was always impeccably dressed for her visits.
“L-Lady Kerry,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
She removed a stack of bills from her pocket. “I am here to collect the orphans.”
He shook his head. “You cannot.”
So, he was going to demand more money. With Mrs. Summersby standing firm at her side, she would summon the strength to stop Mr. Newton from extorting her further.
“The orphans,” she said, holding out the bills.
“Get out of here, woman!” He smacked her hand. “Take your money and leave.”
Mrs. Summersby gasped. “Mr. Newton!”
The bills fluttered to the ground. Rosemary knelt and snatched them up, getting dirt on her dress in the process. Then she offered them to Fontaine, who shoved them back in her pocket.
“Never come back here,” Mr. Newton said. He took several steps backward into the workhouse, then slammed the door.
Fontaine’s vision darkened for a moment. It felt as though someone had reached inside her chest and wrenched out her heart. The next thing she knew, Mrs. Summersby was dragging her back toward the carriage. Fontaine peered over her shoulder. A light flickered on in a window on the second floor of the workhouse and several faces peered out.
The children.
She’d come to deliver them to a better life, as her father had done for her.
“I can’t leave them,” Fontaine said, without taking her gaze off the window, which was growing smaller by the second.
Leave no one behind. That was the rule of the street.
Except she had left them behind.
When her father had rescued her, she’d turned her back on her people in an instant and hadn’t returned to visit them until after Malcom’s death. It wasn’t that her husband had forbidden her from visiting Whitechapel, but that she’d wanted to forget she’d ever been “Frannie,” outside of the occasional story he’d found fascinating when they’d been alone. Her new wealthy friends and elegant surroundings had made her feel guilty and ashamed, and it had been easier to bury those feelings than confront them. It had taken the losses of both her husband and father in short succession for her to realize that she’d become one of the willfully ignorant nobs whom Frannie had once ridiculed.
Mrs. Summersby ushered her into the carriage, blocking her view of the workhouse.
She clenched her hands in her skirts. “I told them I would take them. I promised them.” She wanted to run back up the path, throw open the doors, find the children, and gather them into her arms. But her limbs felt impossibly heavy, as if she were weighed down by chains.
“You will accomplish nothing by forcing your case,” Mrs. Summersby said. “It’s not as if you have a contract. No constable will help you.” She rapped on the roof. “We are on our own. Be rational, Lady Kerry.”
The carriage jerked into movement, and Fontaine peered out the window at the departing building. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, Mrs. Summersby was right. They had no leverage to force Mr. Newton into surrendering the children. Their agreement had hardly been within the law. She had no way to prove that he had taken her money. If she stormed inside, she would only anger him, and then he might refuse to let her take any other orphans in the future. Assuming he didn’t call constables to take her away or report her actions to the foundation.
“I won’t give up,” Fontaine whispered.
Mrs. Summersby huffed. “Whoever said we were giving up? We are simply gathering reinforcements.”
Fontaine turned to the woman. “You don’t disapprove?”
Mrs. Summersby folded her hands in her lap. “I thought you were completely scandalous at first. I couldn’t understand why you would risk so much for a group of children. But then…” She sighed. “Do you know that I almost did not accept my nieces and nephew when they were brought to my door?”
Fontaine shook her head. The proper, stern Mrs. Summersby didn’t seem like the kind of woman who would get involved in the affairs of children who were not related to her by blood. It had been an odd choice for her to become their guardian, but Fontaine hadn’t considered it to be any of her business when she’d learned of the baronet’s death.
“What changed your mind?” Fontaine asked.
Mrs. Summersby’s lips twisted. “I saw the fear in their faces and realized that they were as alone as I was. I thought that if we were together, I wouldn’t feel the pain of my husband’s loss so keenly.” She sniffed. “So, you see, it was not for the children at all that I accepted them. It was for my own selfish reasons.”
The pain in Mrs. Summersby’s face, a mirror of Fontaine’s own, chased away all thought of the workhouse. She put her hand on the woman’s knee. “You might feel that it was selfish, but I disagree.”
Mrs. Summersby sniffed. “What do you mean?”
Fontaine nudged closer so her fabric-clad knees were pressed against Mrs. Summersby’s. “You didn’t want the children to fill a gap in your life. You felt what they felt. It would have been much easier for you to throw them out, but you didn’t. You were young, and recently widowed.”
Fontaine remembered the death of her own husband. Even if they had not been in love and had only married because her father had encouraged the match, Malcom’s death had still hurt. They had been friends. She had struggled to find a sense of purpose after his death.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Summersby whispered.
At that moment, Fontaine realized how close they were. Mrs. Summersby’s soft cheek was inches from her lips. Their foreheads were nearly pressed together. A faint aroma of roses tangled in her nose. Here was a woman who knew exactly what Fontaine had felt.
Mrs. Summersby’s cheeks were significantly pinker than they had been moments ago. Her lush lips were slightly parted, and a soft puff of air came from her lips and brushed against Fontaine’s.
All she had to do was reach out and press their mouths together or slide her fingers into Mrs. Summersby’s hair and draw her close. Their curves would press together in all the right places, and—she couldn’t think of such things. Mrs. Summersby had shown no sign of returning Fontaine’s interest. There had been no subtle touching, no fluttering of her eyelashes, no whispered invitations to take themselves somewhere more private.
Mrs. Summersby’s eyes dilated. The tip of her tongue flicked across her lips.
Or had she merely overlooked the signs?
“Mrs. Summersby,” she whispered. She moved her face fractionally closer.
“W-What is it?” Mrs. Summersby asked. She did not pull away but scooted even closer. The space between their lips was hardly more than the page of a book.
Fontaine’s heart hammered in her chest, and a thrumming kind of tension passed through her, coalescing in that special spot between her thighs.
The carriage bounced, shattering the moment.