That done, he set out for one of the shadier clubs in London. Lord William often let the marquess’s men follow him there. They would wait outside for hours, never knowing he rented a private room on the top floor where Lord Lefthook came and went via the window.
William had been both pleased and surprised when Darington sent word he was funding the building for displaced women. A longtime dream of William’s, a safe place for women who found themselves with a child but no man, he’d thought the building would need to wait until the marquess died. It was doubly satisfying to have the funds come from the man the marquess had paid off to explain William’s ten-year absence from society. William preferred to imagine Darington using that exact payment, in essence turning the marquess’s money into a place of safety for those he was apt to mistreat.
William didn’t know the nature of the relationship shared by Darington and the marquess. At first, he’d been suspicious of the archaeologist. The marquess had supplied the man with an unknown sum to convince the world William was in Egypt from age four to fourteen, having been sent there upon the death of his brother. It would never do for society to know William had, in fact, grown up in the poorest part of London, the only place his mother could find refuge for them.
Near the club, William ducked into an alley, ignoring the acrid smell. A glance revealed him to be unobserved. A rough stone wall and a slight excursion of strength brought him to a rooftop. Keeping to the back sides of the buildings, he angled toward the short jump that would take him through the window of the club.
William was at home on the streets and rooftops of London, and with the gravely cadence of the poor Londoner’s speech. It was a hard life. It made a man strong, but aged him quickly. There was rarely assurance, or even hope, of a better tomorrow.
Yet there was a realness to this life, a sense of being alive, that was absent in the higher echelons. A ballroom could be only so invigorating. He could muster only so much concern for whether Lady So-and-So had been seen in the park with Lord Such-and-Such, her gloves in her lap instead of encasing her fingers. Even gambling and boxing held only a hint of the veracity of life in the borough.
He came to the edge of the roof. It was less than a four-foot jump across a narrow alley to the window, which remained open. He stared into that dark rectangle, thinking of the girl inside. She never asked where he went, or why he changed into workmen’s garb. She took as payment a small amount of coin and this time to herself, when her master thought she was pleasing him. That was more than enough to buy her loyalty, her silence.
That was part of the darker side, the sharp edge to life gifted by the street. Any freedom was a myth, and life was vivid only because it balanced so nearly with death. William knew he was blessed to be able to look back at his time there, seen through the eyes of youth, with any longing. The truth was, poverty was an indominable weight that stole life and crushed all hope.
A weight that, apparently, Lady Lanora sought to alleviate. Seeing her attempts to blend into the world of the borough evoked painful memories of his mother. As a boy of four, he’d adapted, but his mother never had. She tried, desperately. She never wished to attract attention. All she wanted was the job she took as a washwoman, food for them, and a bit of time in the evenings to teach William.
He conjured up a vision of her long, yellow hair tied back. He could hear her nearly flawless Italian, her French. He spoke both with the accent she’d taught him, a lingering memory of her in each word. He remembered learning his letters, penmanship practiced in charcoal on a slate, and figures.
William had done his part. He’d quickly learned to beg with the other boys, then moved on to fetching and carrying. He’d done odd jobs for a baker, and an innkeeper. His greatest skill, though, was fighting for money.
His mother repeatedly begged him not to. As with many boy, he believed he knew better than she did, and he did it regardless. He recalled her tears the night he stumbled home with both eyes swelling shut, a fat purse of pennies clutched in his hands.
Then she fell ill. It was a cough. It seemed like little, but grew worse. Always thin, she was soon frail. When delirium overtook her and the tonics he could afford didn’t help, William sought out the marquess.
William found him at Whites, and held the man’s horse until he came out. There was never any doubt in the marquess’s eyes. He knew William on sight. If the welcome was cold, William attributed it to the marquess’s shock.
Shocking to William was his young sister, and his stepmother. They believed the same story as the rest of theton. William’s mother went mad, murdered his brother Charles, then was locked up and died. William, too distressing to look upon, was sent away. The marquess told William the tale when he brought him to the Westlock family home.
It was the first time William heard the lie. The new addition to the deception, created to explain William’s return, was that William had returned from Egypt, where he’d been these ten years. That explained his oddities. No one dared ask the marquess why he hadn’t told the world where he’d sent his son until after William reappeared.
After securing William in the Westlock townhouse, the marquess went to William’s mother. Instead of helping her, he had her jailed. William, allowed to see her after much pleading, found her nearly dead, but lucid.
“Do whatever your father asks,” she’d whispered.
She’d lain on a cot, her face turned toward the bars. The guard who’d left William to speak with her hadn’t opened the cell. William had no way to reach her.
“I don’t understand. Why are you locked in here? Where are the doctors?” William had worked hard not to cry, feeling himself too grown at fourteen to do so.
“Do you know why we left your father?” Her voice was soft.
William leaned his forehead into the bars. “You never said.”
“Do you remember Charlie? Your brother?”
He nodded, the marquess’s words about his mother murdering Charles loud in his head. He couldn’t believe it of her, didn’t wish to hear her confess it.
“Your father beat him to death. Charlie was afraid of horses. Your father swore that no son of his would have any weakness in him.”
William closed his eyes as he’d done twelve years ago, when he’d learned the truth. He’d turned his mother over to a man who beat his son to death. William hadn’t saved her.
“William,” he heard her gentle voice in his head, “I’m dying. You did not do this to me. You must live with him now. Be what he wishes you to be. Remember Charlie.” She’d let out a long sigh and turned her face away. “Remember me.”
He had cried then. He couldn’t restrain himself. Soon, the guard reappeared. William never saw his mother again.
The marquess’s second marriage remained a legal bond. Madelina’s mother never knew her husband was a bigamist, their marriage never legal. They’d had the semblance of a happy family for a year, during which William exchanged letters with Darington and learned about his imagined time in Egypt. Then William’s stepmother had her accident, and little Madalina was sent to a boarding school.
William opened his eyes and scanned for the lowering sun through the London haze. Even the marquess’s depraved men wouldn’t imagine he could amuse himself with a cheap doxy for much longer tonight. He’d wallowed in memories long enough. Doing so did him no good, only fueled anguish.
He must press the past back into its place. He had to go in and change, then return to the world of theton. He had a ball to attend. One where he would, for the first time, seek out a dance with one of the women on Lethbridge’s list, the intriguing Lady Lanora Hadler.
