ten
ROYSTON GLANCED BEHIND him as he walked along the Serpentine, heading to the other side of Hyde Park. Angeline and her mother were still in the middle of the path, talking.
Damn. He hadn’t expected to meet Angeline so soon. On second thought, it was better that way. He’d already made afaux pasby telling Angeline he wouldn’t forget her. The remark had come out of his mouth unbidden. He didn’t regret his honesty. Lady Redvers and Mrs. Haywood didn’t need to know he wished to see Angeline again.
The encounter would have been the perfect excuse to say he would call on them. The more he thought about what had happened last night with North, the more worried he became.
He wanted to ask Angeline what her business with that man was, but he also simply wanted to spend more time with her. She had a fierce spirit he deeply admired. He liked her strength and unconventional attitude. He liked her sense of humour. He liked holding her, too. Her wild rose scent was delicious. And he couldn’t care less about her scarred arm. Besides, he had scars on his soul uglier than any burn scars.
When Angeline and her mother disappeared behind a turn, he focused on his next meeting. He crossed the park and exited it, patting the thick envelope in his jacket. Carrying three hundred pounds while walking across London wasn’t wise, but he didn’t trust anyone.
A thief robbing him today would make a fortune, granted he managed to subdue Royston. He took a series of shortcuts and stopped in a quiet alleyway at Mrs. Walsh’s door.
He knocked and waited, gazing around. The alleyway was dark but clean of rubbish or sewage. The houses close by weren’t fancy but decent, with recently painted doors and pretty curtains at the windows. The shops were just around the corner. Mrs. Walsh couldn’t have found a better location for her women’s shelter.
The door swung inwards, and Mrs. Walsh came into view. “Good morning, my lord.”
“Madam, good morning.” He removed his hat.
Mrs. Walsh smiled, and a few wrinkles appeared around her eyes. “Lord Wharton, thank you for coming here. I didn’t think you would come in person.”
“I wanted to ask you personally how you were faring. I see you found great accommodation.” He moved to enter, but she held up a hand.
“Apologies, my lord, but you must understand I can’t let you inside.” She stepped out of the house and left the door ajar. “Please don’t be angry, but the women I provide lodging for in the house don’t wish to see a man in a place where they feel safe.”
“I understand. We can arrange for a different type of delivery in the future, but today, I wanted to talk to you.” He searched the alley and pulled out the envelope. “I hope this helps. I’ll send more as soon.”
Mrs. Walsh took the money and curtsied. “Your generosity won’t be forgotten, my lord.”
“What else do you need?”
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes this time. “Nothing. Your Lordship takes good care of us. I am able to rent this house thanks to you, my lord.”
“Mrs. Walsh, I was born in a brothel. My mother would be alive if a place like yours had existed. Please be honest.”
She hesitated. “Money helps, my lord, but things need to change from the head. We ask for laws that protect us and give us the opportunity to start afresh.”
Ah, yes. Parliament. He didn’t tell Mrs. Walsh that the head had no intention of changing.
He put his hat on, caught by a moment of sadness. No, more than sadness, it was a painful sense of impotence. The same sense of impotence he’d experienced when his mother had died. Or rather, when she’d been murdered. He hadn’t done anything but watch and cry.
He rubbed an aching spot in his chest, wondering if he would ever overcome that sense of lack of power. He was a baron now, but he didn’t feel powerful.
“If you need anything, send for me,” he said, controlling the quivering in his voice.
“Thank you, my lord. Really. You do so much for us.” She bobbed another curtsy before entering the house.
He wasn’t doing enough. Aside from providing money, he couldn’t do anything else. His title was useless from this point of view. Or maybe he didn’t possess the skills to navigate politics.
A seat in Parliament was his goal when he’d realised that the combination of money and political power would give him the chance to help women like the ones in Mrs. Walsh’s house, to do more than hand them money.
If he were in Parliament, he’d fight for those who raised a child on their own after a terrible past of abuse, poverty, or both. Charity could only do so much. And if he failed in the House of Lords, he would fight to raise awareness of the suffering of the fallen women until people would listen.
He walked back to the park, in the company of too many dark thoughts.
His mood didn’t allow him to enjoy the sunshine glittering off the Serpentine. His steel factory was his pride, not only because of its impressive success. Many honest men and women from the rookery had found employment at Wharton Steel.
The factory had changed lives for the better, and he was finally doing something useful with his life, instead of stealing or throwing punches in an illegal ring. But Mrs. Walsh was right. Fallen women needed new laws and the government’s intervention to change their circumstances. Something more than even a hero baron could offer.
