Page 49

“M-Marble.”

Her chest opened on a deep, expansive breath, and she sniffed. “Your marble? Oh, yes, is that it? That’s what fell?” She lowered herself to the ground, raking her bare fingers over the gravel until she felt the smooth, glassy surface long familiar to her. She rose to put it into his outstretched hand, but it had gone lax again, and his eyes closed.

“Put it in my pocket.” Mr. Balfour took a step nearer to her, forcing her attention on him. His voice was low and creditably calm. “Put it in my pocket, and I’ll see that he gets it.”

She nodded and worked the little talisman into his breast pocket. Funny, how just a little while ago, she thought she’d refuse to ever touch him again. That the awkwardness of what she’d done—or almost done—would irrevocably end what familiarity they had built. How quick life had been to remind her that there were more important things than pride.

“It would be best if you remain here, miss.”

The words, spoken by an unfamiliar voice, stopped Sophie from following Rafe and Barnard. She hadn’t even noticed the man until now, but he and Mr. Chenoweth stood by the carriage, watchful. He was tall and leanly built, with a sort of ageless air about him. The lines around his eyes and mouth suggested time-seasoned wisdom, but his thickly muscled arms, now folded across his stomach, left no doubt of his vitality.

“Are you Mr. Balfour’s friend?”

“Most days.” He smiled and bowed to her. “Mr. Alfred Malloy.”

She repeated the courtesy. “Miss St. Quinton.” Her gaze sought Rafe in the darkness. She could just make out the shape of him; his back even broader than usual to accommodate the small form he carried.

“It’s only that they won’t let you inside, I’m afraid. And you might prefer a bit of discretion, yes?”

Sophie swallowed and forced herself to meet Mr. Malloy’s look. “Right. Certainly; I understand.”

Of course he knew the terms of the arrangement that had brought her here, and, so far, she had been negligent in all things resembling propriety. She could not end up in the papers over this. Lord St. Quinton’s daughter, crawling like a babe on the floor of an alehouse. Her parents would never forgive her. And their goals for her, after all, were the most important thing in her life—what had brought her to London in the first place, what would poorly substitute the gaping hole of Edmund’s loss, once she had married well.

Yes, the most important thing was them. Her marriage; Belmaine Hall’s continuance. It just … had been easy to lose sight of that, recently. She would do well to remember it.

“Can one of you please explain to me how this has been allowed to happen?” She might not be permitted to oversee Barnard’s wellbeing directly, but she could certainly talk her way into preventing recurrences of tonight’s events. Because he would recover. Of course he would. Anything else was unthinkable.

Mr. Chenoweth turned to fuss with the mane of one of the horses. The gatekeeper watched her intently, but had slumped back against the stone column. His sunken mouth showed little inclination to do anything more than smoke. It was Mr. Malloy alone who stayed in his easy position.

“I’m afraid there’s not much to be done, miss. It’s mighty unfortunate the lad’s here at all, but the hospital isn’t designed to make allowances for children. By and large, he’s treated like one of the men.”

“But he’s not a man.” Sophie’s voice was sharp, each word carved crisply from anger. “I thought the vice admiral was to ensure he received an education while here. Tell me, gentlemen, what is this child to learn on the floor of an alehouse?” She looked from face to face. Her chest was moving rapidly beneath her cloak, and her eyes stung.

“He does take ’em lessons ’cross the street wi’ the other youngins,” the gatekeeper drawled. His voice was high, wearing an edge that managed to sound both offended and dismissive.

She pivoted on her heel toward him. “Oh, the schoolhouse for the pensioners’ children, you mean?”

The gatekeeper gave a low, satisfied nod behind a veil of smoke.

“Lovely. And pray, tell me—any of you—how he is to be fit for learning, if he finds himself on his deathbed tonight because of neglect?”

“Neglect!” The gatekeeper choked on the word. “This is His Majesty’s—”

“Yes, neglect!” She was practically hollering. She needed to stop. Think of propriety. Even notoriety. If you have no pride left, find shame. For your parents’ sake. “Did none of you glimpse his condition? The filth of him? It was the look of a child who has not scrubbed in a good long while. His circumstances, this—this—unforgivable injustice being done to him, it’s not begun tonight.”

She thought of the grey grime settled in the creases of Barnard’s elbow and neck, which had been visible without his coat and neckcloth. Of course he couldn’t he wash his arm; how was he supposed to?

The men were quiet around her. Even Mr. Malloy had hooked his shoe on the spokes of the carriage wheel and stared down at it. Mr. Chenoweth’s horse of choice was likely to have a full set of plaits before Mr. Balfour ever returned.

She ached to see him. He would agree with her; she had sunk into understanding with him when their eyes met on this very ground.

“I understand you all must think me ill-tempered,” she started calmly, but when the gatekeeper spluttered, she glowered him into quiet before continuing. “But the fact is there is a child whose life is in danger here. The threat began the second he sailed out, and he plainly served with honor. But now that he’s survived, what has he to show for it?”

“I agree with you, ma’am.” Mr. Malloy’s dark gaze wandered to her, and he dipped his chin. “The trouble is finding anything to be done for it.”

His words fed her confidence. “What about a gentleman’s aide?” she asked. “Someone assigned to him, to help him with tasks such as washing and dressing, and to make certain he stays in school.”

Mr. Malloy’s head bent away from her, and he scratched his neck. The gatekeeper grumbled something that sounded uncannily like damned aristocrats. Her heavily pulsing heart changed rhythms. Of course this enormous place, already operating above its intended capacity, wouldn’t assign one of their men an unofficial valet—even if he was a child. He was a cabin boy, for heaven’s sake. A servant himself, and one they intended to send back out to sea.