Page 39 of To Dare the Devil

He shrugged, looking sheepish. “I’m not sure, really. No doubt there are a board of governors or a charitable trust to be appeased if we do things properly. But I thought perhaps we could begin with a visit. If I stomp about the place and make loud noises of displeasure, as I am a near neighbour, that might be a start, mightn’t it? There are benefits to being an earl, you see. People don’t like to say no to me. You could take notes, obvious areas for improvement, and… and we’ll go from there.”

“Oh.” Her hand went to her mouth, and she thought she might cry.

“Miss de Beauvoir!” he said in alarm, moving closer to her, one arm outstretched. “I had no desire to upset you. Please forgive me, if—”

“No!” she said, laughing now and shaking her head even as tears pricked at her eyes. He was standing very close, and the deliciously dizzying scent of him made her foolish. She reached out and placed her hand on his arm. “No, I am only overwhelmed with relief. If you knew how many letters I have written, how many times they have turned me away, refusing to give me a meeting. But they’ll not turn you away, I think.”

He gave a rueful smile. “It’s unlikely,” he admitted. “And I shall chastise them in the strongest terms for not heeding you sooner.”

Oh, Lord, she really would swoon if he kept this up.

His gaze fell to her ink-stained hand, resting on his sleeve, and Kathy blushed, snatching it back, reminding herself sternly that they were merely allies, nothing more.

“Thank you,” she said, hoping he could hear the sincere gratitude in her voice. “Thank you so much.”

He shook his head. “It’s me that ought to thank you. I have had my eyes opened to many things in the past few years, but you are helping me to see with greater clarity. You are helping me ensure the practical work gets done properly, to make change happen in the way it ought. You’re a marvel.”

Her mouth opened in a little ‘o’ of surprise, robbed of speech. It was a good job her brother was not here to see it. He’d consider it a miracle. Mind you, he’d also scold her from now until doomsday for being alone with this man.

“I’m really not,” she managed, once the surprise of his compliment wore off enough for her to remember words and how to employ them.

“I beg to differ. Here I see the unmistakable proof that you work ridiculously hard for me. He reached out and took her hand in his, turning it to display her inky fingers. “You must do, for everything you’ve accomplished in such a short period is nothing short of astonishing. I hope I am not taking advantage of your charitable nature. I should not like you to faint with fatigue.”

Well, she might well faint, but it wouldn’t be from fatigue, she thought ruefully. Kathy swallowed, vibratingly aware of his hands holding hers, his thumb moving gently back and forth over the stained indent in her finger where she’d held the quill pen all morning. A strange, unnerving fizzing sensation stirred inside, her nerves all leaping to attention. She wondered if he knew what he was doing to her, for he was staring at her now, his blue eyes intent.

“I should not like you to wear yourself to a thread,” he murmured, his thumb still caressing her finger. The most peculiar ache bloomed inside her, a flickering of… of something insistent and elusive that began where he was touching her and shot straight between her thighs. Unnerved, she sucked in a breath, heat flooding her cheeks, but did not pull her hand free.

Abruptly, Lord Vane took a step back, dropping his hold on her as if she’d scalded him.

“Forgive me,” he said, looking hazy and appalled, and rather like he had woken from a dream. She knew just how he felt, for she almost followed him, demanding he not stop, and that could not happen in real life. “The workhouse,” he said firmly, the words a little too loud against the quiet room.

“Y-Yes,” she agreed, nodding, though she wasn’t certain that had been a question.

“A visit, then?”

“Indeed.”

“When?”

Kathy considered this, considered the sense of getting out of his company before she did something stupid. Then she considered the poor wretches in the workhouse, and changed her mind. Strike while the iron was hot.

“Now. If that suits you, my lord?”

His eyes widened, but he looked pleased by the prospect. “It does.”

Kathy nodded. “I’ll fetch my coat and hat.”

18th June 1842, The Workhouse, Isleworth, London.

It was worse than Max had imagined and, having had some first-hand experience of living in poverty for a short while, he’d thought he had a fair idea of how bad it might be. He’d been wrong.

“The problem with the reforms to the Poor Law in the 1830s was that it forced anyone unable to support themselves to enter a workhouse. But the government’s fear of supporting the lazy and unemployable drives them to make the places so appalling that any able-bodied pauper would do just about anything but end up here. The people who do come here are truly desperate,” Miss de Beauvoir said, and he heard the tremble in her voice. “And this is how they are treated, worse than animals.”

“Miss de Beauvoir!” boomed Mr Higgs, the day manager, who had condescended to give them a tour of the building only after Max had put his foot down and demanded it. Mr Higgs had been furious and unhappy, but there were benefits to being an earl. It was difficult for such a man to deny him. “These people are treated with decency and charity. They have a safe place to sleep, clean clothes, and regular meals.”

“They have shapeless rags, thin pallets on the floor, and gruel if they are lucky. When was the last time they ate fresh meat or vegetables? When was the last time they were able to wash their clothes?” she demanded with fury.

Mr Higgs turned purple but did not reply, which was answer enough.