Page 25 of Bewitching Benedict (The Lovelorn Lads #1)

With a roiling belly and trembling hands, Claire worked the carriage curtain out of the way so she could peer forth again.

Both children clung to Graham's legs, and he smiled at them often, touching their hair as he spoke with the woman.

She pointed at the children, lip curling, and the girl hid her face against Graham's leg.

Claire's heart twisted in sympathy, and without thinking, when Graham suddenly shook the children off and stalked away, Claire leaped from her carriage to approach the woman caretaker.

She was not five steps out of the carriage before she knew she had made a dreadful mistake.

Lean, calculating shadows detached themselves from the blue and grey hues of buildings, observing her.

She was not haut ton , perhaps, but she was of better quality than anyone in sight, and worse, a woman alone.

In palpitations, she cast a single look at the carriage and was purely astonished to find Worthington a mere step behind her, his expression as absolutely mild as it had ever been.

Still, he startled her so badly she clutched her heart and gave a high, soft laugh. The corner of Worthington's mouth turned up and kindness softened his eyes as he said, "This way, I think, Miss," while gesturing to allow her to lead the way.

Had she been moving at any rate of speed, Claire would have tripped over her own feet. Words escaped her lips on a whispered gasp: "You're not going to stop me?"

"You've come this far, Miss," Worthington said placidly. "It wouldn't be my place to delay a woman with a purpose."

Charles would never forgive her if she somehow managed to steal Worthington away from him, but just then Claire was convinced she would do nearly anything to keep the stalwart valet at her side.

Not that it would be appropriate for a man to do the work of a lady's maid, but perhaps as butler to her own household when it was established… .

These unlikely thoughts carried her forward, and Worthington's silent presence at her back bolstered Claire's courage immeasurably as she approached the iron-haired woman, who looked on them both with disfavor. "What is it you toffs want?"

"The gentleman you were speaking with." Claire cleared her throat, trying to put strength into her voice. Her heart beat wildly, bringing heat to her face and icy tingles to her fingers, but she was committed; she couldn't stop now. "Mr Jack Graham."

"What about him?"

"What business has he with you?"

A sneer that revealed snaggled teeth where any existed at all appeared on the woman's face as she looked Claire up and down. "Not what he'd want with you, missy. Can't remember."

"You can't—! He was just—!" Partway through her outburst, Claire realized what kind of forgetfulness this was, and, faintly, said, "Worthington?"

As if it was a rehearsed expectation, the valet stepped forward with a glitter of coins at the ready.

Two were deposited into the woman's hand—pounds, Claire saw with some surprise; a considerable sum—and the rest remained between Worthington's fingers, waiting for information deemed worth of them before they fell.

The woman tested one of the coins in her teeth, eying both young lady and valet suspiciously before shrugging a thin shoulder. "Them two nips are his to care for."

It was the only possible answer, and yet its cold confirmation struck Claire as surely as a blow.

She did not—quite—step backward with the shock, though she was for long seconds unable to act beyond making sure she still breathed.

She had not often been conscious of the act of breathing before; it seemed strange and awkward now.

"And you…" The question faded because she had no clear idea what she should ask, but when Worthington, beside her, drew breath to press the woman, Claire suddenly rallied.

"And you are their caretaker," she said with an unfelt briskness. "The caretaker of all these children?"

Another unpleasant smile revealed more missing teeth.

"You hope so, don't you? Hope I'm not the mother, don't you?

" The ugly smile faded and the woman glanced toward the children, all gathered a safe distance away and staring at Claire with a lack of expectation she found worse than hope.

Unable to bear it, she returned her regard to the woman, who, in the moment Claire had looked away, had entirely changed her mien.

She was still iron-haired, too thin, lined with age and her cheeks hollow with toothlessness, but her carriage was that of a gentlewoman.

Her eyes were still unforgivingly angry, but her voice was shocking in its culture.

"I am not the mother of any of them," she said with soft rage.

"My own child was taken from me and died in a workhouse after I shamed my family by bearing him out of wedlock.

They cast me out, but I would never have gone back to them if they had begged.

I called in every favor, every guilty conscience and every drab of sympathy I could twist from those who had once been my friends, and I began this place, St Sophia's Institute for Wayward Children.

It is a house for unwanted children, and here I do my best for them.

They are fed. They are housed. They are educated, and if they work hard and are lucky they can find themselves a position as a governess or a tutor, or perhaps a decent lad or lass to marry. "

Claire, trembling, asked, "How often are they lucky?"

"Not very."

This, too, came as a blow. Claire let her eyes close and swayed before finding the strength to ask, "And what happens to those who aren't?"

The woman's bitter shrug answered as fully as words.

Claire pressed her lips together until they hurt, then spoke as carefully as she could.

"I admire your efforts. All of Society should, though it is, of course, more comfortable for Society to pretend such duties as yours are not necessary.

Madam, I do not wish to offer insult, but I wonder if I might somehow be of assistance to you. Food, clothing…"

"You'll ruin yourself," the woman said flatly. "If you got found out, it'd be a moment's leap in the gossip rags to conclude you were caring for a child of your own and your prospects would end."

Claire's face crumpled with agreement, but she rallied and said, "Worthington," in a tone both sharper and more pleading.

"Miss," he said gently, and Claire knew that every coin he had on him went into the woman's hand.

Her hand, nails blunted with work, age spotted and with thick veins marring them, closed around the coins. Claire, gazing at those long fingers, could imagine them gracefully at needlework once upon a time. "It won't hurt," the woman said begrudgingly. "I thank you for it. The children do, too."

Claire nodded once, then spun away as tears rose and sentiment threatened to embarrass them both. Half-blinded, she bolted for the carriage, and instead blundered directly into Jack Graham's well-tailored chest.

Jack Graham blurted, "Miss Dalton!" and visibly swallowed a curse all at once as their abrupt encounter sent a shower of fruit and hot pasties tumbling from his grip.

Miss Dalton seized her skirts and made a basket of them so quickly that not one of the apples hit the ground, and Graham rescued two of the tumbling pasties before they could stain her skirt.

Worthington had not imagined the young woman had such quick reflexes, particularly as he saw the sudden pallor of her face as she recognized and was identified by Graham.

Still, not a single precious bite of food fell to the earth, and rather than respond to Graham in any way she simply turned toward the children and shook her skirt a little, offering them the bounty she had caught.

Like little ponies they raced forward to seize apples and pasties alike, the youngest burning their mouths on the latter while the older ones were wise enough to taste the fruit first. When Claire's skirts were emptied and settled down, Graham stepped around her to offer the caretaker another satchel of apples and, judging from the scent wafting up, pasties alike.

Discreetly, the sandy-haired man slipped more coins into the woman's hand, then turned from her to kneel.

The two children he had embraced before ran to him.

They were both pretty in the way of youth and innocence: large eyes, hair that had not yet darkened to a mature hue, dirt everywhere, making them indistinguishable in gender save for one wore trousers and the other a dress.

Both showed their work-roughened little knees.

The girl swallowed a bite of her pastie and peeked over Graham's arm at Miss Dalton, then, in a stentorian whisper, asked, "Shall she be our Mama, Uncle Jack? "

Miss Dalton went white, then red, and settled out at a shade close to her normal complexion, as if her emotions were in such turmoil that neither cold nor warm humors could dominate.

Graham , to Worthington's satisfaction, turned equally crimson with appropriate mortification, glanced once at Miss Dalton, then kissed the girl on top of her head.

"That isn't a proper question to ask, Emma.

She is a friend, and I must go and speak with her now. "

Children of their age—no more than four or five, Worthington surmised—ought to express dismay when their only family, having just arrived, announced he must now leave.

Neither child did. Together they stepped back, hollowness beneath their eyes, and with very pretty manners bowed and curtsied before chorusing, "Good-bye, Uncle Jack. "

"Good-bye, Emma. Good-bye, John. I'll come visit again as soon as I may." Jack straightened and turned toward Miss Dalton with both face and voice strained. "Miss Dalton. Perhaps you would allow me to escort you home so I can…explain."

"I would like that," Miss Dalton said unwisely but not unexpectedly.