“Did you find some holly?” Phoebe called out as she and Bolton entered the clearing where they stood.
Frances glanced down at the piece she held, thankful for the ready excuse Thomas had provided. She held it up in answer to the question, uncertain whether she was capable of speech.
“Wonderful,” Phoebe exclaimed. “Tibby and Captain Shaw did as well.” She paused to look up at the sky, holding out a gloved hand. “It’s snowing!” She spun around in delight as Bolton laughed.
Just then a snowflake landed on Frances’ cheek. Before she could brush it away, Thomas did so. His gentle touch was enough to send her pulse skittering once again.
“How perfect,” he whispered as he looked into her eyes.
“That it’s snowing?” Frances asked.
“No. That we shared our first kiss.”
“Oh.” Her body trembled, excitement building until she could hardly breathe.
“I hope we can soon share another,” he added.
“Another what?” Bolton asked as the couple drew near.
“Another outing as enjoyable as this one,” Thomas said, while Frances stood tongue-tied. “It has been a long while since I spent an afternoon collecting greenery.”
“I’m sure you missed many holidays while you were in the Navy,” Bolton said.
“I did. That makes me appreciate this one all the more.”
The underlying emotion in Thomas’s tone had Frances longing to make this one especially memorable for him. She intended to try.
Chapter Seven
The following morning, Thomas strode toward the door of the Whitechapel Workhouse after yet another frustrating visit, this time to speak with two other managers. One had remembered the family but insisted their son left with them, just as the records showed.
But Peter had been put on a ship directly from the workhouse. That part was very clear to the boy. He’d even been able to describe the man who’d taken him and several other boys to the ship. However, tall with brown hair and a moustache described half the men in London. The description did not match that of the manager.
The other manager didn’t know them, but suggested Thomas look for the family in St. George-in-the-East, a district where many Germans lived. It wasn’t much to go on. Bolton had yet to send a message with any information from his German footman. Whether the earl had forgotten, or the footman had no suggestions, remained to be seen.
Peter waited in the carriage, so Thomas did his best to mask his upset before the lad noted it. He pushed open the workhouse door only to halt in surprise at the sight of Frances standing nearby. “Frances.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Thomas.” She glanced behind him at the open door then back to him, puzzled by his presence. “Whatever are you doing here?”
He hesitated, letting the door close behind him as he glanced at the nearby porter who ignored them both. Did he tell her the truth or create an excuse?
Lies never solved anything in his experience. They only created a tangle that was difficult from which to emerge.
“It’s an interesting tale,” he said, “but rather a long one. Do you have a moment?”
She looked behind her to where her maid stood. “A few of the league members are meeting the new volunteers who are to lead the training.”
“The training?”
“I believe I mentioned that the funds raised by the charity ball will go toward teaching new skills to those interested so they can find employment.”
“Oh, yes. Of course.” He shook his head at his forgetfulness and cast another glance at the porter before gesturing to the opposite side of the steps. He didn’t want the man to overhear anything he said.
They moved together to where they’d have more privacy. A cold wind swirled, a reminder that winter was upon them. Grey clouds hung low in the sky, but Frances was a bright spot in the dreary day.
She looked lovely as always in a rose-colored gown with a brown cape with big-belled sleeves. Only the frown marring her brow detracted from her appearance, especially since it was his fault.
“I returned to London with someone,” he began.
