After a brief pause, he finally replied, “I’ll have the carriage brought around.”
She gave a brisk nod. “Thank you, my lord.”
Roarke felt as if he’d been thoroughly kicked in the nether regions. Appalled that Mara had even had to step foot inside of a workhouse before, let alone livethere was enough to make him nauseous.Dear God, had she truly had no choice other than to endure such deplorable conditions?
Without warning, a surge of anger welled up inside of him. He could have given Mara an easy life, one befitting the comforts of a viscountess with as many conveniences as she’d only dreamed, but instead, she had chosen to give up such finery for a lowering existence in one of the worst possible places imaginable.
And for what?
Knowing that it would be futile to question her, Roarke sat in sullen silence on the way to St. Martin’s as his irritation with the entire situation grew. After all she had put him through, here he was, still trying to move heaven and earth to help her. He was doing his damned best to regain her trust, and she still couldn’t find enough empathy to confide in him.
Either he truly did love her—or he was a complete and utter fool.
He was beginning to think it was both.
When the carriage finally shuddered to a halt, he stepped down to help her out, but that’s where the familiarity ended. Once she had both feet on the ground, he turned and strode away from her, his greatcoat flying out behind him while he tore up the distance with angry strides.
The manager was quick to approve Roarke’s request to go to the infirmary, for not only was it a nobleman making the inquiry, but one look at Lord Eversleigh’s dark expression and the other man was more than happy to oblige him. Choosing to lead the way himself, the manager stole a couple wary glances over his shoulder before he stopped before a door with glass windows on either side. Inside were several people, ranging in age and sex on plain, metal beds and crude mattresses. Most everything was white from the ceiling to the floor, to the linens and simple cotton coverings that the patients wore, although the evidence of human waste and sickness was apparent, the stench horrendous.
The manager was obviously anxious, for he cleared his throat uncertainly. “M’lord, while there isn’t a current quarantine in place, I would suggest leaving a missive for the man you wish to contact. I will personally see that his nurse gets—”
“That won’t be necessary,” Roarke interrupted. “I am not faint of heart.” Pausing, he turned to Mara, who had been standing quietly nearby. “I trust you have no issue, Miss Miller?”
“Not at all, Lord Eversleigh,” she replied, just as cool and formal.
Turning back to the man, Roarke said, “There you have it.” With that, he strode inside with Mara at his heels, leaving the manager to gape after them like a fish out of water.
The wave that hit him upon entering gave Roarke a slight pause before he pushed forward. He hadn’t realized how much odor the door had been holding back. Suddenly, Mara gently touched him on the arm. Her fingertips burned him, even through all the layers of fabric.
“There he is,” she gestured with a slight inclination of her head.
Roarke looked at the large man she indicated, who had a bandaged head and an equally wrapped up arm. “Are you quite sure?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said firmly, and without giving Roarke time to halt her progress, she walked over to the man and laid a gentle hand on his cheek. He groaned, and his eyes fluttered before they opened slowly. “My name is Mara. I need to ask you a few questions if you feel up to it.”
“Anjo?” The man in the bed whispered as he glanced at Mara. Then, after a sigh that bordered on disappointment, the man shook his head. “Nao Ingles.Portugues.”
Roarke ran a frustrated hand through his hair before he stopped a passing nurse, who looked at him in obvious surprise. It likely wasn’t often that a man of the peerage paid them a visit. “I don’t suppose you have anyone else here that might speak Portuguese?”
“I’m sorry, but we don’t.” She sounded genuinely distressed as she glanced at the man in question. “We could certainly use one, for we’ve had a difficult time trying to diagnose any other injuries he might have other than the ones currently visible.”
Roarke thought for a moment before he turned to Mara. “I have an idea, but I’ll have to leave. Do you mind staying here until I return?”
“I’ll be fine,” Mara assured him. “Maybe I can even offer my assistance.”
The nurse Roarke had just spoken with turned to Mara with an even more stunned expression than she’d given him. Apparently volunteers were in even shorter supply than noblemen.
Turning on his heel, Roarke took his leave.
Mara had a cold cloth in her hand and was wiping the forehead of a young girl with lung fever when Roarke returned about an hour later. She could tell by his initial expression that he was apologetic for taking longer than he’d intended—but at the same time, somewhat relieved that she was where he’d left her. He likely thought she would have bolted at the first opportunity without one of his henchmen there to trail her every move. Roarke walked over to her, and she suddenly realized that he wasn’t alone.
“Miss Miller, may I introduce Sir Reginald Raleigh? He is a scholar at Oxford and has studied many languages around the world. He was the first man I thought of for surely any descendant of Sir Walter could be counted upon to solve our current predicament.”
The other man merely chuckled. “Ah, yes, my revered ancestor. And here I thought you might have chosen me on my own merit.”
“Indeed.” Roarke grinned. “You’ve certainly backed me into a corner several times upon my return to England.” Turning to Mara, he added with a wink, “Never get into a political debate with this one.”
With another good-natured laugh, Sir Raleigh glanced at the patients surrounding him. “Well, where is the man, Eversleigh? I only have a short amount of time, if you recall. As it is, I shall be late for my next class.”
