The butler appeared promptly. “Your Grace?”
“Have the carriage readied, Davens.”
The butler glanced at the clock. “In the morning, Your Grace?”
“Now.” Edward’s tone left no room for negotiation. “ To leave at first light. For London.”
The butler inclined his head. “Very good.”
Edward hesitated for only a second before adding, “Tell Hargreaves to pack a light trunk. No need for ceremony.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
The door closed, leaving him standing alone, the fire crackling merrily in the grate.
In his room, instead of sleeping, he sat awake, staring at the fire, knowing one thing with unsettling certainty: Sebastian was right; reputation no longer mattered.
CHAPTER 30
The carriage did not stop directly before the orphanage gate. Beatrice leaned forward, her gloved hand resting against the window frame, and took in her surroundings.
The street was too narrow, the paving uneven, so she disembarked two houses away, lifting her skirts to avoid the wet edge of the gutter. Her maid hopped down to retrieve the baskets from the back—two lined with folded blankets, one filled with bread, apples, and a small jar of honey she had insisted on.
“I can carry one,” Beatrice offered, reaching out her hands.
Alice hesitated. “Your Grace?—”
“I insist,” Beatrice said, taking the lighter basket before her maid could protest.
They walked the rest of the distance on foot.
The walk was short but revealing. The houses grew smaller, brick giving way to patched stone, narrow windows, and worn curtains. A boy darted past them, barefoot despite the chill, laughing as another chased after him. Beatrice slowed down instinctively, watching until they disappeared around the corner.
The orphanage stood at the end of the row. It looked clean, narrow, and barely kept. No ornament beyond a modest wooden sign. The paint had faded, but the letters were still visible.
She knocked.
A moment passed. Then she heard footsteps.
The door opened to reveal a woman in her late forties, her sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, her hair pinned back with firm practicality. “Yes?”
“Good morning,” Beatrice greeted. “I’m Beatrice Pembroke. I wrote to you earlier in the week.”
Recognition flickered in the woman’s eyes, and her shoulders relaxed. “Ah. Yes. Your Grace. I’m Mrs. Allen.” She opened the door wider. “Please, come in.”
Warmth met them immediately, along with the smell of coal smoke, boiled oats, and clean linen. Alice lingered a step behind her, setting her basket down, already scanning the room for where she might be useful. The noise followed a heartbeat later.
Beatrice smiled at the light and overlapping voices. She set her basket down, removed her gloves, tucking them carefully into her reticule, then knelt to untie the covers.
“These are for the children,” she explained. “I brought books as well. They are second editions, but well-kept. A few psalms and some nice, warm blankets. The weather has turned.”
Mrs. Allen glanced into the baskets, then up again, visibly moved. “That’s very kind. We can always use them. Always.”
“I hoped so,” Beatrice said. “I also brought bread,” she added, lifting the lid of the basket. “And apples. Nothing elaborate.”
Mrs. Allen smiled faintly. “Elaborate is rarely what they need.”
They moved further inside. The main room was long and narrow, scrubbed clean. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows. A group of children sat at a table, working with slates and chalk. Several looked up at once.
