To Ruin a Rake (6 page)

Above all, her husband must treat her with respect. She was not a mindless ninny and would never endure being treated like one.

There were a good many things she’d decided she would never tolerate in a husband, actually. The standard to which she’d become accustomed while engaged to William was a hard one to meet, if indeed such a thing was possible. Never had they fought or even argued. There had never been cause for conflict between them. They’d shared the same beliefs, goals, and ideals. His dream had coincided with hers, and the two had blended together seamlessly. It had been most agreeable.

Chances were she’d be forced to settle for less than perfect this time. There had to be a comfortable middle ground somewhere—a man with whom she could at least be content, if not deliriously happy.

William’s brother’s face popped into her mind.
Good heavens! Why on earth am I thinking of
him?
Seeing the blackguard had rattled her more than she’d thought. The
Gazette
had confirmed her suspicion the morning following the Twickenham ball—he had not been a hallucination. But why she should think of him just now was beyond comprehension. She blamed tiredness for the strange intrusion and dismissed it.

Opening her door, she looked with longing at her bed and turned away. If she so much as sat down right now, she would be asleep. She picked up the bell and rang for her maid.

As she was dressing, her rebellious thoughts again wandered to the current Lord Manchester. Frustrated, she shook herself. He would be coming to see the Hospital soon.
That
was why he was weighing on her mind—certainly not because of the indecent memories of their last, horrid encounter.

Pleased with her reasoning and satisfied with her appearance, she nodded at her reflection, dismissing her maid. She’d been successful in avoiding the man for two years. She could do so again. In fact, it was imperative she did.

Another public confrontation with him was the last thing she—or her family—needed.

One Week Later

Roland
knew he was in a foul mood and didn’t care. He had a good excuse for his bile. This was the dreaded day, the day he was obliged to visit William’s bloody charity project and once again
earn
his right to the title he’d inherited. “Damned disagreeable nuisance, that’s what it is,” he muttered, knocking back another glass of sherry. He needed the fortification.

William’s “legacy” awaited. It amazed him that despite his brother’s premature demise, everyone still expected him to conform to his mold, to somehow magically become something he wasn’t. To become
him
. They were in for a grand disappointment. All of them.

Where was that blasted Blume fellow, anyway? He ought to have been here by now. He’d said one o’ clock, hadn’t he? And here it was a quarter past. He watched the clock’s slow minute hand make its way past another mark. Now it was twenty. Twenty minutes late.

Lack of punctuality in a solicitor was inexcusable. Damned if he would wait another minute for the man. “Whole thing is a monumental waste of time anyway,” he muttered, rising. “Might as well get it over with.” Blume could bloody well find him. “Have my carriage brought ‘round,” he barked to a footman.

By the time his conveyance came to fetch him, it was half past one, he’d had another sherry, and the fuse on his temper had shortened even further. The ride was bumpy, causing him to spill some of the liquor from his flask, which served only to exacerbate his rotten mood. When he finally alighted before the front steps of the Foundling Hospital, his jacket stained and exuding vapors of brandy, he was spoiling for a fight.

Looking up, he was stunned to see crews of men streaming in and out of the building bearing tools, lumber, and paint. To the north, he saw men in the process of installing an ironwork fence. To the south, he saw bricklayers crafting a new enclosure. He squinted at the plaque by the front door. This was indeed the Foundling Hospital.
What the devil is going on here?
Reaching up, he gave the bell cord a mighty yank.

A few moments later, the door opened a crack and a curious face peered out. “Yes, sir?”

“I wish to see Mr. R. Dun,” he announced without preamble, pushing his way in. “You may tell him that His Grace the Duke of Manchester has arrived.”

The woman’s brows drew together. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but there is no one here by that name.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, woman—the Assistant Administrator—I wish to speak with him at once.”

Her eyes widened and her mouth hung slack as she stared up at him.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” he thundered, making her jump. “Be quick about it! I haven’t got all bloody damned day.”

Without a word, she turned and trotted off, her heels clicking rapidly across the floor. She opened a door on the far side of the foyer and with one panicked backward glance, slipped through.

That’s more like it
. Satisfied, Roland reached into his jacket and pulled out his flask. After taking a swallow of liquid courage, he jammed the flask back into his pocket. An instant later, he realized it was upside down—and that he’d forgotten to put the cap back on. Cursing, he jerked it back out, but it was too late.

Empty.
Damn.
And now he positively reeked. He tossed the empty flask into an umbrella stand in the corner, disgusted. Perhaps he ought to rethink this whole thing and come back tomorrow. Where was that silly woman? Why was it taking everybody so bloody long to do everything?

The door she’d gone through beckoned, tickling his curiosity while at the same time inspiring apprehension. He was already here and didn’t fancy having to come all the way back another day.

Before he knew it, he was turning the handle. The hallway beyond looked much the same as the foyer. Pictures hung on the walls at intervals, and thick carpets dampened the sound of his footsteps. It actually looked...nice. Like one of his own halls at home.

Trepidation eased as he progressed. These were just offices. He recognized the names of the other governors on the doors. There was one with his name on it, as well. It was locked. Another door bore a sign that said “Consultation” and another said “Records.” The door at the end opened on another hall exactly like the one behind him, save for the warm light streaming in through the occasional window. He decided to go right.

Peeking into one of the open doors, he saw an empty bedroom with three small beds in it. Toys and books were scattered about. Opening the wardrobe, he took out one of several bundles of gray cloth and shook it out. It was a small pair of breeches, the sort worn by every little boy. He put it back and returned to the hall. Exploring farther, he found more rooms like the first one. All were empty. It was eerie, the silence. Where were the children?

Another door waited at the end of the corridor. He opened it and looked in on an enormous dining hall. Long tables filled the space, their surfaces worn but spotless. The smell of food cooking assailed his nostrils. Though he’d not eaten this morning and it ought to have made him salivate, his stomach roiled in protest. Hastily, he shut the door and made his way down to the opposite end of the hall. As he passed by the exit, he knew he ought to go back and wait in the foyer, but bugger it, he was curious.

The next hallway he found was lined with what looked like classrooms. There was also a small library. He picked up the pace and strode down to the end with purpose. Another door. The place was a damned maze. Ah, a staircase. Upon ascending it, he encountered another hall lined with rooms. At the far end was yet another door. Approaching, he saw a sign bearing the words: “Sick Ward.”

God.

Anything smacking of sickness was to be loathed and above all avoided. Illness, an invisible killer, had robbed him of everyone he had ever cared about. His entire family had succumbed to it. It was an enemy one could neither hit nor shoot nor cut with a blade.

William had invited Death by deliberately putting himself in close proximity to its agents—
here, in this very place
. All it had taken was a cold. A particularly nasty cold had settled in his chest and turned into pneumonia. His brother had drowned in his own fluids.

Roland turned around and went back the way he’d come, or so he’d thought. The hallways all looked the same to him. A moment later, he stopped, arrested by a soft, motherly voice. Going to the one door that wasn’t quite closed, he eased it open a bit more and looked in. There was a boy, a very pale, thin little boy in the bed. He was emaciated. Every bone in his face and the arm atop the coverlet stood out in sharp relief.

The woman he had heard was spoon-feeding him from a bowl, her back to the door. “I know you want more than broth, but this is what’s best for you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” sighed the disappointed boy.

Roland watched as the child dutifully opened his mouth to accept another meager mouthful. When the bowl was empty, the woman stood.

“But I’m still hungry,” complained the boy.

“I shall tell the night nurse to bring you a bit of bread in a few hours. Now, I want you to rest.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Roland backed away. His blood boiled. He’d recently signed away a small fortune to support this place—quite a lot of it for provisions. Where had it all been spent? Surely not on
broth
. He waited until the woman came out. The instant the door closed behind her, he grabbed her and spun her about to face him.

She gasped, her eyes growing huge above the edge of the white mask she wore over her nose and mouth. The bowl dropped from her hands and landed on the floor with a clatter at his feet.

“What sort of an establishment is this?” he demanded, kicking the crockery aside. “Do I not pay to feed them better than broth? Why are you depriving that child of food?”

Her brows snapped together. “Depriving him?”

“Yes, depriving him!” Reaching out, he twitched the ridiculous mask down until it hung off the end of her nose. Strangely, the woman did not flinch. No indeed—she had the temerity to glare at him as though he were a recalcitrant child. He looked down at her, at the stains on her apron, at the messy brown hair straggling out from beneath her white, rumpled cap. There was something familiar about her...

“I was
not
depriving him!” hissed the insolent wench, yanking her arm out of his grasp and edging away. “He came here yesterday morning at death’s door from starvation. His stomach cannot yet handle more than broth—if I were to feed him anything else, it would only make him ill and do him no good at all.” Her hands went to her hips. “Now, I don’t know
why
you’re here early, but I must ask you to leave this area at once and wait in the foyer.”

Despite her frumpy dress and imperious manner—
or perhaps because of it
—he suddenly found her attractive. He’d always liked a woman with spirit. “My apologies. I misunderstood your intent,” he said, smiling his most charming smile and moving a little closer.

She shrank back, the bridge of her nose wrinkling above her skewed mask.

Damn.
He’d forgotten about the brandy. He must stink. She, on the other hand, smelled of lavender. It reminded him of...something. “You know, I believe you might be in the wrong line of work. A pretty thing like you belongs in silks and velvet, not this”—he picked at the ruffle on her apron—“coarse thing.”

He expected her eyes to fill with admiration and hope. After all, it wasn’t every day a duke paid compliments to what amounted to a scullery maid. Instead, the girl’s brows pinched together in an expression of complete outrage. His gaze belatedly dropped to her left hand, searching for a wedding ring. There was none.

However, the presence of another, altogether different and very familiar ring stopped him cold. His gaze rose, fixed upon it as that hand traveled up to remove the mask entirely. Once more, he met the woman’s furious, hazel-green eyes.

Oh, my God.

~ * ~

“My Lord Manchester, I demand that you remove yourself from this facility immediately. And you are not to return until such a time as you are sober and can conduct yourself in a manner befitting a gentleman. I believe you know the way out.”

Harriett gave him her back and began walking, making every effort to keep her spine straight and her legs steady. The nerve of the man! Not only to show up a day early, reeking of spirits and poking about where he didn’t belong, but to
proposition
her! It didn’t matter that it had only been a coarse joke. The fact that he’d even
said
such a thing was, was—

Heavy footsteps sounded behind her, and she quickened her pace.
Dignity be damned!
But it was too late. Before she could reach the door, a vise-like hand gripped her shoulder and again spun her about.

“What the devil are
you
doing here?” growled Manchester, moving closer, forcing her back a step until she bumped up against the wall.

“I happen to be volunteering my services!” Perhaps, if she was quick, she could slip past him.

He must have read her thoughts, for he raised his arms and laid his palms on the wall on either side of her, trapping her.

“Still playing the martyr, Harriett?” His voice was a soft rasp that caused gooseflesh to break out across her skin despite the heat reaching across the scant space between them. “Do you really think my brother is beneficently watching from on high? That he sees and approves of your toil and sacrifice in his name? I can assure you he does not. The dead have no care for the living.”

His breath stirred the hair at her temple, and she was transported back to that awful day. William had just been buried, and this horrid man had disrupted the memorial service with his drunken irreverence. Giving him the benefit of the doubt—she’d seen he was mad with grief—she’d taken him aside to calm him.