Page 24 of Bewitching Benedict (The Lovelorn Lads #1)
" M r Jack Graham to see you, Miss. Are you at home?
" Worthington veritably bristled with disapproval and for once chose not to hide it.
No one in the Dalton household could approve of Graham's visit after the previous night's fiasco.
Not that anyone save himself, young Master Dalton, and Miss Dalton—as yet—knew about it, but it was inevitable that before the day was out, Mrs Dalton would be aware of the dreadful behavior displayed by her niece's escort.
The hour was so early that Miss Dalton still wore morning clothes, though the simple cream gown needed only a smart overcoat to be suitable for going out in.
This was important to Worthington; had she been entirely unsuitably attired he would have told Graham that Miss Dalton was not at home at all.
As it was, she, pale already, paled further at the sound of his name, but straightened with impeccable poise.
"I am home," she announced softly, "but I would appreciate it, Worthington, if you might remain in the drawing room with us.
I should not like to be alone with Mr Graham, under the circumstances. "
Worthington would not have left them alone together in any case, but was decidedly glad to reply, "Of course, Miss," to her very sensible request. Miss Dalton smiled wanly, stood, and nodded for him to fetch Graham.
The young man entered like a guilty puppy, hands wringing together.
His abject brown gaze would soften the hearts of harder women than Miss Dalton, but had no effect on Worthington, who positioned himself by the hearth, glowered, and did not offer Graham refreshment.
The air itself seemed weighted by Graham's arrival.
Worthington glanced at the hearth to make certain the flues were open and that the heaviness was in his imagination only.
Miss Dalton performed precisely as much curtsy as necessary.
Graham bowed far more deeply than convention required but not nearly as much as his ill behavior demanded, in Worthington's opinion.
"Miss Dalton," Graham quavered. "I won't take much of your time, as I have business to attend to, but I felt I had to apologize for last night's… outburst."
"What happened last night, Mr Graham?" Miss Dalton's tones were wonderfully cool. Had he been, say, Evander Hewitt, Worthington would have applauded her for them. Being only a manservant, he merely retained every degree of stiff disapproval at his disposal.
Graham, glancing Worthington's way, appeared to feel appropriately quelled, and swallowed several times before speaking again to Miss Dalton. "You must have guessed by now that I am…previously acquainted…with Miss Hurst."
"I had," Miss Dalton said frostily, "deduced that, yes."
"Yes. Well." Another nervous gulp slid down Graham's throat. "We didn't part on the best of terms, and have not—had not—seen each other in…" He cleared his throat. "In some time. It is indelicate to mention the number of years, given that it might put an age to Miss Hurst."
Miss Dalton, slowly and with careful precision, said, "I believe at this late date her age may be immaterial, Mr Graham, although I will not press you on the number. What, exactly, was said last night that your…reunion…ended in a scream and a slap?"
"I confessed that I—" Graham gathered himself, glanced at Worthington, and deflated as if a pig's bladder suddenly emptied of air.
He was not an accomplished liar: his voice became listless and dull as he spoke slowly, looking for the right words to say.
"I confessed that I had never been as wealthy as she imagined me to be, a statement which only sealed my apparent betrayal of her all those years ago.
Miss Hurst is a woman of high passions and could not contain herself in the face of such news.
I hope that you will still call her friend, Miss Dalton, for I once admired her greatly and would hate to be the cause of a rift betwixt you.
And now I have said all I came to say, and business calls; I shall leave you in peace. "
So abruptly that Miss Dalton had no time to respond, Graham turned on his heel and hurried out.
The heavy air lingered in his wake, Miss Dalton breathing shallowly as the door drifted shut.
Without taking her gaze from it, she said, "Worthington, did it seem to you that his confession of finances seemed…
insufficient? That he was perhaps deliberately misleading me? "
She had been quick-witted and clever enough that he had felt something had to be done to take her from the country to the city.
Now, Worthington thought ruefully, it might have been better if she had been just a little less insightful.
He might have lied, even so, but it went against his grain to do so. "Yes, Miss."
He might have cracked a buggy whip over her, so swiftly did she respond. "I thought so. Worthington, please fetch my coat. I shall be going out directly. You may tell my aunt I am visiting Miss Fairburn and may be some time."
Worthington cleared his throat. "And where will you actually be, Miss?"
Miss Dalton gave him a sharp, smiling look. "Discovering why I am being lied to."
"That," Worthington said, though not loudly enough to be heard, "is what I feared, Miss," and went to fetch her coat.
Claire had not expected Worthington to acquiesce so easily, and did not think to look over her shoulder as, barely two minutes after Jack Graham had left, she hurried out of her aunt's house and scouted the street until she saw his sandy-headed form climb into a carriage.
She ran to her uncle's waiting carriage, gasped, "Follow that cab!
" to the driver, and didn't notice Worthington step quietly from the curb to the rumble at the back of the carriage, and from there, signal the driver to pursue Miss Dalton's quarry.
To her mind she commanded the entire escapade, though as Graham's carriage drove into a darker and danker part of London than she had ever seen, she began to question her wisdom.
And yet, having come so far, she was determined not to stop now, even as the streets broke from cobble into mud and houses became hovels, standing only because they leaned too closely against one another to fall.
Hither and thither in the decay were great swaths of land that stood empty of buildings but held cattle, horses, graves, or rough-sleeping men whose clothes were the faded shades of old and forgotten uniforms. Claire pressed knuckles against her lips and stared through the carriage's gauze-shielded windows with the horror of one born to comfort and never truly appreciating the degradation of the poor.
Not that she had neglected her duties to the poor of Bodton, but in truth, while often wretched, they were also often still encased in the leaking but solid stone walls of a country farmer's home.
She had been inside houses that stank of animals kept inside for warmth and she had made garments by the dozens for the parish's poorest children, but they had never been gathered in such numbers, or under such bleak London skies.
Everything seemed grey to her, as if rising soot had turned the sky to charcoal and it had leaked onto the world below.
Ubiquitous shadows ranged from dull blue to coal black.
From within them peered pale, filthy faces who judged her carriage as dangerous but rich pickings.
She could imagine no possible business for Jack Graham to have here, not even when his carriage drew up to a ramshackle but forbidding building of huge, soot-dark stones.
By comparison to nearby shanties, it had an aura of permanence.
It stood three stories in height, with small windows and an enormous black oak front door that opened onto a rough cobblestone courtyard.
The courtyard was unlike anything in the previous half-dozen streets: no one had built into it, encroaching into its space.
Claire wondered what manner of person or people lived within to retain such sovereignty over the courtyard when there were clearly so many desperate people nearby.
Her question was answered nearly before it was formed.
The tremendous oak door opened ponderously.
Through it came a narrow and hard-faced woman whose iron grey hair showed the remains of once-lustrous walnut brown at its loose ends.
No fewer than a dozen children, and perhaps as many as twenty, spilled out around her.
They ranged in all sizes, from infants barely able to walk up to boys and girls of twelve or thirteen years, nearly all of them as grim as the woman who fronted them.
Two of the children, a boy and a girl of perhaps four, broke from the group and ran toward Graham, who bent and caught them into a long embrace. He kissed each of them atop the head, then stood again and strode toward the woman, offering a small purse which she dumped into one palm.
The glitter of coin was clear even in the distance.
Claire fell into her carriage seat, dizzy with shock.
She had not known what to expect in following Graham, and yet had unquestionably not expected to find him the—the father?
she wondered in abject horror—of two small children.
He had said nothing of being married, which left only one answer as to the children's parentage.
They could be nothing other than illegitimate, their mother some poor creature abused by Graham.
Had he taken the children and delivered them to this—this caretaker?
Was the mother out there in the world somewhere, wondering what had happened to her babies?
Or had she been relieved not to have the mouths to feed, having perhaps already chosen to sell her own body to survive?
But if Graham could offer support to this hard-faced caretaker, surely he might have done the same for the mother of his children?—!