Argh!Appalling! Were these words actually emerging from Lady Hackworth’s mouth? Did everyone in the ton talk like this? To young women?
Was... this the collective opinion of him?
Catherine didn’t dare ask.
And yet... upon consideration, perhaps this did actually go a long way toward explaining how one felt in his presence.
She could hardly vociferously defend his honor without betraying some special knowledge or acquaintance. And she knew much better than to reveal they were staying in the same boardinghouse.
“Hashe looked at you, then, Lady Hackworth?” Catherine said, instead. Feigning innocence again.
“How could he resist?” Lady Hackworth said airily, lightly, and waved her fan beneath her chin. She smiled to imply she was jesting.
Catherine couldn’t object to her insouciant confidence. But her stomach was unsettled now.
“It’s indeed a struggle to imagine how he could,” she said politely, just a little dryly, which endeared her to Lady Hackworth and made Lucy shoot her a mischievous glance.
Ratafia was the sort of liquid nonsense he normally avoided, but Kirke had been later than usual to arrive at the Tillbury crush—he’d had a long day of constituents and builders—and he’d arrived thirsty.
He regretted his impulse to taste it at once. Some fool had laced it with whiskey. The whole bowl needed dumping, or the Tillbury ball was going to be remembered for brawls, possibly between young ladies. The footman charged with serving the stuff had probably gone off to relieve himself, leaving it unattended.
He took a few steps into the adjacent game room to see if any other servants were in evidence and observed about two dozen people clustered at tables,happily popping faro boxes or inspecting the hands dealt them in five-card loo or whist.
He saw Lord Farquar’s wife, a small, solemn woman to whom he was apparently genuinely devoted, next to Lady Wisterberg, who was wearing an expression so rapt it was clear that nothing else in the world existed for her in that moment but her hand of cards.
Kirke absently felt in his coat pocket for the shilling he’d made certain to tuck there earlier today. Just in case.
“Kirke. You must be bored indeed if you’re contemplating gambling.” Pangborne was suddenly at his elbow. “How is your mouth, by the way?”
“Still capable of forming words, I’m sure Farquar will be happy to hear,” Kirke said, ironically. “Thank you for asking.”
Pangborne laughed. “Just thought I’d tell you that I’ve spoken to representatives of the Printer’s Guild regarding apprenticeships for at least twenty boys from Bethnal Green,” Pangborne finally said.
Kirke took this in wordlessly, with some surprise.
Pangborne was a Tory. And he hadn’t been persuaded to do this as a result of witnessing one ridiculous drunken episode at a ball. Likely he’d been thinking about it for some time because, in his way, Kirke just would not relent.
It’s how they did it until they could actually pass a law: they eroded the edges of the problem. Came at it from different angles. Attempted to cut off the sad, endless supply of orphans available for exploitation by placing them in apprenticeships that would pay them a fair wage and feed them properly instead of the indentured near enslavement of the textile mills. Instilling awareness and shame and a sense ofresponsibility into the voting and business-owning populace, until by the time the law was passed the notion of exploiting children for gain would be distasteful at best, very out of fashion at the least, and God only knew the ton loved its fashion.
“Very good to hear it,” he said simply. “It’s an excellent start.”
Kirke liked to think the previous ball was the straw that tipped the balance. Which was why Pangborne was telling him now.
And no doubt there was something else in it for Pangborne, too. An exchange of favors, a promise of votes. It didn’t matter. It was simply how their world worked.
Kirke suddenly recalled Pangborne had a son.
He hesitated, then ventured, “How old is your son now? Theodore, isn’t it? How is he?”
“Seventeen.” Pangborne sounded surprised. And a little touched that Kirke remembered.
“Do you recall what you liked to read at that age?”
Pangborne’s eyebrows flicked, and then he gave a short laugh. “I tried to avoid reading. It was a bit of a struggle for me, frankly. I liked riding and shooting. I was a thoroughly unexceptional young man. Typical in most ways. But my son is a reader. He likes to read novels, God help me.Robinson Crusoe. Rob Roy.He’s a fine but not excellent shot. Won an archery competition, however.”
“You must be proud. A gentleman can never go wrong by perfecting one’s aim. Something Farkie ought to have spent more time doing.”
Pangborne laughed. And then he was quiet a moment.
