Chapter Five
William slipped from the low rooftop as Mrs. Smith drew away. He’d come to the borough to assure himself Mrs. Banke was using the resources he’d provided to care for her child, and followed her to the back of the church where food was being dispensed. When she left in the company of the Widow Smith, his interest was well and truly piqued.
He knew Mrs. Smith by reputation. A widow who used her late husband’s money to buy food for the poor. She was new to London, or at least to charity work. The borough was rather taken with her. William had assumed the infatuation sprang from gratitude.
Though the hair under her bonnet was a dusty grey, as was her frumpy garb, and spectacles perched on her nose, she moved with the grace of a young woman. Not just young, but polished. Her long-fingered hands also bespoke of sophistication. When she looked up and down the street, even her dowdy ensemble couldn’t hide a slender, elegant neck.
Most intriguing of all was the unshakable sense that he was acquainted with her. That’s what kept him following her, instead of Mrs. Banke. It was the reason he was determined to catch a real look at the face under the low bonnet and spectacles. Besides, he’d managed to hear enough of their conversation to assure himself on Mrs. Banke’s and her daughter’s accounts.
Normally, dressed in common workman garb and a solid coating of dust, William would have approached the widow and struck up a conversation. Today, he meandered along behind her, keeping his distance. He desired to place her, and couldn’t risk that she might place him.
He followed her to Dr. Carter’s, amusement and curiosity growing. So, she wished to learn more about Lord Lefthook. She wouldn’t glean anything from Carter. He knew nothing. To the doctor, Lefthook was a mysterious figure who communicated only in writing. Women’s writing, to be more precise, since Cecelia penned all of Lefthook’s letters. William couldn’t risk that anyone might recognize his hand, and he and Carter had attended university together. The doctor was a nobleman’s younger son, and a good man.
William purchased a meat pie and lingered across the street from Carter’s, eating slowly as he waited for Mrs. Smith to leave. He was impressed with the length of time the lady remained within. It showed a perseverance he didn’t ascribe to most females.
When she did come stomping out, green eyes hot with frustration, William nearly dropped the remainder of his meal. He did drop his head and used the pie to hide his face, and thanked God he hadn’t taken his usual tact of believing no one who knew him could possibly frequent the poorest part of London. Of all the women in the world, not for a moment had William Greydrake guessed that Mrs. Smith was in truth Lady Lanora Hadler, daughter of the Duke of Solworth.
William turned his back on Lady Lanora as angry strides carried her up the street. He forced his feet to move, returning the way they’d come. Lingering outside Carter’s wasn’t completely safe. In his workman’s garb, William was generally invisible to the gentry, but Carter was of a sympathetic sort. He might actually look at a poor man’s face.
As, apparently, would Lady Lanora. William’s brain fumbled to catch up with the idea. Contributing to charities. Discussing them over tea. That’s what ladies did. They did not don the persona of a greying widow, enter the less savory parts of London alone, and pass out bread. Further, William knew it wasn’t a daring jaunt, a fluke born of the boredom of the leisure class. Mrs. Smith had been assisting the poor for… He nearly missed a step. Mrs. Smith had been assisting the poor since the start of the London season.
Why? He looked back, but the church was streets away. Why would one of London’s most prized jewels secretly spend her days in the back of a ramshackle church in the worst part of town, handing out food?
Did the borough know who she was? He shook his head. They couldn’t, or the boys would have told him. Then, they were less forthcoming about Mrs. Smith than most topics. William had assumed there was little to tell, and the urchins had no interest in an aging do-gooder. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
He shook his head in an effort to press the riddle of Lady Lanora from his mind. He had a second mission that day, after checking on Mrs. Banke, and he’d best see to it before the midday meal was past. His garb and general state of grubbiness marked him as a bricklayer for a purpose other than anonymity.
A few casual conversations later found William at the tavern the foreman in charge of the women’s home, Mr. Finch, was known to patronize. It was clean, as far as such places went, with rushes on the floor no more than a week old. The aroma and number of patrons argued for good fare.
Finch sat alone at a table near the middle of the floor. He was bent over a gravy-slathered pie, mug of ale close at hand. A powerfully built man who still had all his teeth, which marked him as well fed and likely good in a fight.
William strode to the table where Finch sat and snagged an empty chair. He settled into it at the foreman’s table. “By your leave?” he said, slipping into an accent learned in ten years of living in the borough.
“Seems you’re already sitting.” Finch took a swig of ale, washing down the food that obstructed his words, then shoved in more.
“I hear you’re the man to talk to for work.”
“Guess so.”
“Need a bricklayer?”
“When the work starts back up I could use you,” Finch said around a fatty bite of what William assumed was horse.
“Works not going? I heard tell it had begun again.”
Finch turned his head and spat. “So did I, but the money didn’t come. I passed on another job for this. Said that famous Darington fellow, always making talk for his exploring, put up the funds. Thought for sure it’d be a good year for me. Now, I got workers I can’t pay, piles of supplies attracting thieves, and no funds coming in.”
William took in the man’s well-fed state again. He didn’t look to be in need of coin. “Rich folk,” he grumbled. “Likely forgot he wanted it built.”
“Well, he’d best remember soon.”
“I’ll leave you to it.” William stood. He would have to ask the boys for more on this man. Finch ate well for someone with unpaid workers hounding him. Could he have pocketed Darington’s money, thinking a man in Egypt would have little recourse in London?
“Check back in a week,” Finch said. He took another swig. “Can always use a bricklayer.”
William tipped his cap, then left. Darington had not forgotten about the funds. His last letter stipulated they’d been requested. If Darington said it, William knew it to be true.
He headed into an alleyway and donned the scarf he used to cover his face. Identity better hidden, he found a group of street urchins and put out the word he would pay for the location of Finch’s lodgings.
