Page 32 of Never a Duke
“I have called upon several parties likely to hear of a scheme such as you allude to,” Ned said, though Mrs. Hepplewhite had yet to receive him. “They all profess ignorance.”
Rosalind settled on the sofa. Ned set down the plates and took the place beside her. Constance could make of that presumption whatever she pleased.
“Do you believe their protestations of ignorance?” Lady Rosalind stripped off her gloves and draped them across her lap. Though the action was brisk, Ned had not braced himself for the impact of her bare hands and arms exposed so casually.
He was in thriving good health and on excellent terms with his manly humors, and the sight of Lady Rosalind’s wrists, of her building a sandwich from soft white bread, strips of cheese, and thin slices of ham…
Steady there, bucko.“I believe the women I spoke with lack particular knowledge, but they’ve heard something, they’ve seen something. A scheme is afoot, and they want no part of it.”
“Then whoever crafted this scheme has power.” Her ladyship passed Ned the sandwich. “Gloves off, Mr. Wentworth.”
Gloves off, shirt off. Ned’s imagination chose now of all times to torment him. He peeled off his gloves and accepted the food.
“Power in those circles comes in many forms,” he said. “There’s the kind of power polite society respects—wealth, standing, influence in the Lords. Your father is powerful, in that way. Then there’s the simple power to take a life, to inflict suffering. In between those extremes is the power I see wielded at the bank, the power to ruin or rescue. For women trading on their charms, any of those sorts of power can affect them.”
Her ladyship made a second sandwich and took a bite.Do not stare at her mouth.
“All of those forms of power are typically wielded by men,” Lady Rosalind said. “The flesh trade is one we commonly think of as being more in the hands of women.”
“True.” A fact nobody much noticed unless to complain about it. “But to physically overpower young women in good health takes brute force. I’ve asked my badgers to make discreet—”
“Might we refer to them by another name?”
Rosalind was protective of badgers, bears, and vicious dogs—of any creature subjected to needless suffering for the sake of profit and amusement.
“My intelligence officers,” Ned said. “Ignoring the children populating London’s streets has become a virtue, my lady. If the Society for the Suppression of Mendicity has its way, nobody will feed, clothe, or house these children, and—so the Society insists—the beggars will magically cease their greedy, lazy ways, despite having no skills, no letters, no proper food to eat, and in many cases, poor health. The bank takes a different approach, employing and educating those boys who accept our terms.”And keeping the little imps safe, warm, and fed.
A man’s laughter drifted up, polite, genteel, cordial.
“Whose idea was this?”
Never explain, never apologize.Walden himself had laid down that edict to Ned many times when it came to the bank’s loan decisions and its choice of employees or clients.
“Her Grace of Walden is a preacher’s daughter,” Ned said, “and genuinely charitable. She has causes, and she has His Grace’s devotion. The badgers are the result of both.”
Ned had offered a few suggestions when asked, but not until then. Management of the boys had fallen to him by default—or at the duchess’s insistence, Ned had never been quite sure which.
“I want to know more about your bank boys and intelligence officers, but I need to tell you of a third disappearance.” She summarized a situation much like that of her lady’s maids. A decent girl in service apparently snatched from the streets on her half day.
“And she was pretty,” Lady Rosalind concluded. “Well spoken. A companion is a step above a lady’s maid. A considerable step. She had wages due and didn’t collect those.”
This was bad news. Very bad news. Questions piled up in Ned’s mind: Was this woman melancholic? How proximate was the Abercrombie household to Rosalind’s dwelling? Did the woman have any followers?
Was there any halfway innocent explanation for yet another disappearance? Before he could pose the first query, Constance appeared at the top of the steps and crossed the mezzanine with a stride more determined than the situation warranted.
“Neddy, you forgot our lemonade. Rectify your oversight, please.”
Rosalind was on her feet in the next instant. “I can fetch my own lemonade, Your Grace, and I will be happy to bring you some as well. Mr. Wentworth’s hands were occupied carrying both plates, and even he lacks the power to make glasses of lemonade levitate at will.”
Constance did not enjoy an outgoing personality. Like Walden himself, she tended to seriousness and introspection. Her spouse, His Grace of Rothhaven, was a similarly reserved fellow and legendarily reclusive. Only Rothhaven, though, had the knack of confronting Constance and coming away unscathed.
Only Rothhaven, and apparently, Lady Rosalind, who stood, chin up, glowering at the duchess.
“My apologies, Lady Rosalind,” Constance said, her smile startling for its warmth. “Hunger makes me irritable. I should have brought up drinks for all, but I wanted a chance to interrogate you. Neddy, be a love and find us some punch, won’t you?”
“Come along, Your Grace,” Rosalind said, offering her arm. “Neddycan be a love and guard the food while we fetch our own drinks, for I want a chance to interrogate you too.”
The ladies departed and Ned sank back to the sofa, his knees curiously weak. The food sat forgotten while he wrestled with a daunting realization.
