He didn’t miss a beat. “Dead.”
“I’m so very sorry for your loss.” Because really, what else could she say?
His response to her sympathy was to cock a single brow before biting into a piece of his bread.
Wickedly again. Almost as though he was doing it for her benefit.
“Who raised you, then?” Her questions were personal, intrusive, but she couldn’t help but ask. “Who took care of you?”
“I did.” His expression was one of indifference, not showing any indication of self-pity.
Amelia furrowed her brow. That couldn’t be right. There were places to address the needs of orphans, funded by charities which her mother and other ladies took great pains to promote. Amelia knew this because she had attended more fundraisers than she could remember—lavish affairs with champagne and cakes.
But Mr. Beckworth simply shook his head.
“Where did you sleep? How did you eat? Whydidn’tyou go to a foundling hospital?” Amelia pictured a miniature version ofthe man sitting across from her—a thin little boy with soulful black eyes, black hair, and tawny skin. Innocent and vulnerable.
The eyes staring back at her weren’t innocent, but almost haunted. Had she gone too far with her questions?
“Those raised in foundling hospitals end up dying in the workhouse,” he said. “I took my chances on the docks.”
SO NAÏVE
Leopold placed his fork down on the table. Normally he would eat a good deal more, but her questions had effectively killed his appetite.
He didn’t intentionally hide his past; it had made him who he was. But he never discussed it. It was over and done with, meant to be left behind like an old pair of shoes.
Although he would rather not have this discussion, his gut told him this might be a good chance to earn her trust. If he shared something of himself, she might return the favor.
Otherwise, he’d have spared her these answers.
Spare himself the memories.
She tilted her head, looking confused. “But the workhouses—they help people. Why would you say that?” She might not be as transparent as he’d initially believed she would be but, dear God in heaven, this woman was naïve.
She’d obviously been shielded from the ugliness of poverty, among other things. Perhaps it was time she learn a few hard truths.
“Only ones that benefit are the owners and the monarchy,” he supplied gruffly. “Government pays to run the godforsaken places, and they get credit for supposedly addressing theproblem. Meanwhile, the companies pocket the subsidies, stacking people on top of one another and squeezing as much out of them as they can. Poor sods go in out of desperation and end up living like slaves.”
He’d lost friends in those hellholes. If they didn’t die of rampant disease, they died of starvation.
Lady Amelia seemed to ponder that for a moment, looking troubled. “So what did you do?” she asked eventually. “On the docks?”
Leopold studied her eyes before answering.
He turned to stare out the window; the lanterns in the garden flickered, casting dancing shadows where a few of the workers lounged against the stable. But he didn’t see them. Instead, he cast his gaze into the distant past. England had been at war with the French, and he’d lived on the streets for two years, barely surviving the winters. At the age of twelve, he’d been too young for the army to take him. But, with nothing to lose, had made his way across the channel as a stowaway.
He’d been as desperate as his friends when they entered the workhouse. But he’d been smarter.
And unscrupulous.
“I made do,” he answered, his mouth turning dry as visions from the aftermath of Waterloo crowded into his mind’s eye.
“You don’t want to talk about it,” she said.
Leopold could not help the bitter sneer that pulled at the corners of his mouth. He didn’t want her pity—or anyone else’s, for that matter. His experiences growing up would be unimaginable to someone with her upbringing.
“No.” In the end, he’d triumphed. He’d pulled himself up, and brought a few others with him. Fitz being one of them.
