“Did you doubt it?”
Her lips curved in the faintest, saddest smile. “No. Only…promise me you will be cautious. You know what can happen. You’ve seen what evil men can do.”
“I promise to be relentless,” I said, which was not the same thing.
A flicker of resolve crossed her face—quiet, but unmistakable. “Very well. I will gather the information and send it to Rosehaven House.”
“Thank you,” I said. As the convent’s heavy door closed behind me, the city’s din rushed back.
I settled into the hackney and pulled the curtain half-shut. Finch had his part to play. And Steele—once he learned the truth—would insist on joining the investigation. But this much I knew: I would not sit idle while London swallowed its daughters whole.
The driver clucked to the horse, and the wheels jolted into motion. My reflection trembled in the window—pale beneath the veil, eyes alight with a fire I could not extinguish.
Whatever lay ahead, I had stepped into its current. And this case—like the Thames—would not relinquish the truth until every secret surfaced.
Chapter
Seven
A Brother’s Concern
The day after the legislative session, I visited the Caledonian Club in hopes of finding several members of the committee. I found two of them in the dining room—Weatherby and Denholm—settled before generous plates of beefsteak and glasses of claret.
“Mind if I join you?” I asked.
Weatherby glanced up, his expression tightening as though I’d asked to share his plate. “If you must,” he said, before returning to the business of carving his meat.
I took the empty chair. “I wanted to continue our discussion on the proposed bill?—”
“Good God, Steele,” Denholm groaned, setting down his fork. “We come here to get away from all that. The club is for peace, not politics.”
Weatherby snorted into his wine. “Indeed. I’ve no wish to have my luncheon spoiled with talk of broken limbs and factory smoke. Leave all that to the radicals.”
Their dismissal was as swift as it was complete. I would never make men like Denholm and Weatherby understand that fewer injuries meant fewer widows and orphans for the parish to support, fewer lost days of labor, and a stronger and more reliable workforce. I was a fool to think otherwise. To them, a broken arm or a crushed foot was merely the price of doing business, and no amount of reason could persuade them otherwise.
We needed a majority to advance the proposal to a full vote of the House. At present, I could rely on only four supporters. Three more votes were required—difficult, yes, but not beyond reach.
Offering a tight smile, neither man bothered to return, I rose and left them to their comfort.
I returned to Steele House in the midst of a raging storm. As a cold, driving rain beat hard against the city, water streamed from rooftops and coursed through gutters, leaving the air thick with the stench of soot and wet stone. The foul weather suited my sour mood.
Milford relieved me of my dripping coat and sodden hat with his customary silence. As he handed the garments to a footman, his eyes lingered on me. He had no trouble reading my temper with the same surety he read the day’s weather.
“Would Your Grace like a tray in the library?” he asked, voice low and steady.
“If you would,” I said, the edge still in my voice. “Roast beef, and some bread to go with it. Cheese as well, if Cook will part with a wedge. And a glass of ale.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” Milford inclined his head and withdrew to see it done.
In my study, the fire had burned low, but the desk was just as I had left it—piled with drafts, notes, and letters from buyers who cursed my name in one breath and begged concessions inthe next. I sat heavily and tugged a sheaf toward me—the factory safety legislation I had submitted to the committee. I read the clause on machinery guards for the hundredth time, seeing the faces behind every word—men with missing fingers, children with lungs spoiled by dust, women whose hair had caught in cogs never meant to tangle with human life. It all seemed so hopeless now. Still, I had to try.
My father would have called me a fool for wasting my breath on the working class. He believed a man’s worth was measured by the size of his estate ledger, not the weight of his conscience. I’d never thought much of his opinion. But perhaps it was that very scorn that kept me at this work long after others would have grown weary.
Once Milford served my meal, I set about satisfying my appetite, all while perusing the bundle of papers. I had to find something in there that would help me convince the Lords to vote my way.
I had just made a notation in the margin when Milford tapped discreetly and opened the door. “Lord Nicholas, Your Grace.”
I set aside the documents. My brother would provide a welcome distraction.
