Skepticism formed a wall around her. She didn’t hold an ounce of faith that this endeavor would yield a positive outcome.
He squared his shoulders, drawing himself up to his fullest height and summoning every last one of his aristocratic forebears, both patrilineal and matrilineal, and arched an exaggerated eyebrow. “Have you any doubt?”
Snobbish and supercilious, he was every inch a lord not to be nay-sayed. An amused light flashed in her eyes, and she bobbed her head before murmuring a meek, “No, milord.”
Hortense’s transformation into submissive servant took Jamie slightly aback. He understood she wouldn’t be breaking from her role until they returned to the carriage.
Together they faced St. Mary Magdalen. Rising above the black gates was a plain brick structure that held little appeal. A small side door cracked open, and out shuffled a man possessed of a distinctly officious air, presumably the porter. “What can I do for ye, milord?”
“How can I know that? I haven’t yet asked you a question,” Jamie retorted without so much as glancing at the man. “Your superior,” he stated, embodying the worst sort of aristocrat. The sort who didn’t ask questions but made demands.
“Erm, will ye be wantin’ the gent’s or women’s wing?”
“Women’s.”
“Ye’ll be wantin’ the matron, Mrs. Ditch.”
“She’s still here?” asked Hortense, her face gone a few shades paler than usual.
“Between you, me, and the birds,” said the porter, “I reckon she’ll be ’ere forever, seein’ as ’ow she’s too mean fer the devil to take.” He began moving. “This way.”
As they followed the porter’s slow, shambling gait, Jamie took the opportunity to gauge his surroundings. Upon closer inspection, the building didn’t improve as they navigated its narrow warren of dimly lit corridors lacking all pretense toward cleanliness. Quite frankly, it was the filthiest place he’d ever encountered, and he’d spent the better part of a decade exploring the lowest gaming hells London had to offer. It was saying a lot.
The filth extended beyond its atmosphere and toward its inhabitants, he saw, peering into open doors whenever the opportunity presented. And the stench… The noxious fumes were potent enough to bring tears to a grown man’s eyes.
All the while, he kept half an eye on Hortense. The change he’d noted earlier had come over her again. Now, however, her skin held a distinctive pallor. This woman who he’d thought composed of unshakeable self-possession had a jittery air to her. Whenever he tried to catch her eyes, they skittered away. A rawness of feeling radiated off her, a feeling she didn’t want to share with him, and it was because of this place.
I vowed never to return.
He now understood that vow more clearly. His jaw clenched with a sudden and unaccountable anger. She hadn’t simply been here. She’d lived in this horror.
The porter stopped before a closed door at the corridor’s end. “This’ll be Mrs. Ditch’s room,” he explained before giving the door two tentative raps. One could only guess at the harridan on the other side.
“Oh, what is it?” came a woman’s rough voice.
The porter pressed his mouth to the door. “Ye ’ave visitors, ma’am.”
Suddenly, the door swung open, and the porter stumbled, nearly falling over. Battle-ready, the woman strode forward, arms akimbo, a set-down ready on her lips, when she noticed Jamie. Her face tumbled through myriad expressions—wrath, confusion, befuddlement, before settling on obsequiousness—as she took in the finery of the aristocrat standing before her.
“How may I be of service to you, milord?” she asked, her gaze sweeping rakishly over his person. She descended into a deep curtsy that wobbled only slightly to the left.
“You are Mrs. Ditch, I presume.”
“That’s the name the dearly departed Mr. Ditch—bless his soul—bestowed on me thirty years ago,” said the woman, bringing a soiled handkerchief to decidedly dry eyes.
Jamie strode through the open doorway, leaving Mrs. Ditch no choice but to stand aside and allow him entry. It felt ungentlemanly, but it was how many a lord would conduct himself. He sat in a rickety wooden chair that threatened to give way beneath his weight and waited for the matron to take her place at her desk, which was strewn with the remainder of her afternoon tea and a rather large cup of spirits he smelled from five paces. Every cell in his body clamored for another sip of that air. He turned his head to the side, denying himself what he so craved, and found Hortense hovering at his side. “Sit,” he commanded.
She lowered to a perch on the only other chair in the room, her eyes cast down.
He ignored the contents of Mrs. Ditch’s cup and gave the woman the full brunt of his attention. “I am here to inquire about a woman who may have been in your care fourteen years ago.”
“Well, I’ve been matron for the women and children these last twenty years.” It had been a hard twenty years for the woman, if the lines crisscrossing her face were any indicator. The spirits she’d hastily shoved out of view likely had something to do with that. A suggestive smile played about her thin, dry lips. “Anything I can do to help.Anything.”
He would ignore that last bit. “She was my old nanny’s favorite niece’s cousin from her father’s side of the family.” He decided to further complicate the lie Hortense had concocted.
The matron’s eyes went wide. “We shall do our utmost to assist you, my lord.” Her gaze did a sly sweep over Hortense. “And this is the cousin?”
“The niece.”
