The thought pulled him up short. He’d always regarded himself as a man of peace—despite his nocturnal wanderings. He went out as the Ghost of St. Giles to right wrongs. To help those unable to help themselves.
Didn’t he?
He shook his head at himself. Of course he did. St. Giles was a weeping wound of humanity. Those too poor to live elsewhere came here. The prostitutes, the thieves, the ones enslaved to gin. All the dregs of London. And with them came their problems: rape and thievery, starvation and want, abandonment and despair. He’d long ago learned that there weren’t enough hours in the daytime to help the destitute of St. Giles, so he’d taken to the night. Some wrongs needed more than good intentions and prayer to correct.
Some could only be helped with the point of a sword.
Winter walked around a corner and into a slightly wider street, startling a skeletally thin, small mongrel that looked like a terrier of some kind. The dog yipped once and cowered back into the pile of rags it lay on. Winter passed the animal, but something made him pause. Perhaps he sensed movement or the scent of something else besides the dog.
Or perhaps it was Providence.
In any case, he turned and took another look. A pale thing lay among the dog’s dark fur, like an exotic starfish lost from the sea: a child’s hand. Winter bent and lifted away a rag, ignoring the uncertain rumbling coming from the dog’s thin chest. A frightened face cringed away from him, the eyes wide and staring, the mouth stretched in a rictus of terror.
He crouched to make himself less intimidating. “I’ll not hurt you, child. Are you all alone?”
But the little creature seemed too petrified to speak.
“Come. I know a warm, safe place.” Winter carefully lifted the child, bundled rags and all, ignoring the creature’s feeble attempts to push him away. Lord only knew what had made the child so terrified, but he could not leave it here to freeze to death.
The dog tumbled from the rags, falling to the street with a yelp.
The child whispered something and held out a pleading hand to the mongrel.
Winter lifted his chin to the dog. “Best you come along, too, then.”
And without looking back to the mongrel, he turned to continue toward the home. The dog would follow or not, but in either case the animal was not his main concern.
The child was.
He could feel the little body shaking against his chest, whether from fear or cold, he couldn’t tell.
Half an hour later, the new Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children loomed ahead. The building was utilitarian brick, but it still stood out from its surroundings, a shining beacon of hope. Winter stumbled at the thought. What would he do if Lady Beckinhall was correct and he was driven from the home? He had no idea—the home and helping the children within it were all he’d ever wanted to do in his life. Without it—without them—he was less than nothing.
He shook away the thought and continued walking. The child needed to get inside. There was a rather grand front entrance with a set of wide stairs, but Winter chose the more accessible servant’s entrance at the back.
“Lord love you, sir!” Alice, one of the maids, exclaimed as Winter came in. The servant’s entrance opened into the kitchen, and Alice appeared to be enjoying a before-bed cup of tea at the kitchen table. “I didn’t know you were out this late, Mr. Makepeace.”
“Pour a cup of tea with lots of milk and sugar, please, Alice,” Winter ordered as he brought the child to the hearth.
“Shoo, you!”
Winter turned at Alice’s angry words and saw she was attempting to wave the mongrel back out the door.
The child whimpered in distress.
“That’s all right, Alice,” he said. “Let the dog stay.”
“ ’Tis a smelly, filthy beast,” Alice muttered, sounding scandalized.
“Yes, I can see that,” Winter said drily. The mutt had crept to the fireplace, apparently torn between staying close to the child and fleeing before strangers, and the odor of rotten fish drifted from its matted fur.
“Here you are, then.” Alice handed Winter the milky tea, then hovered as he held the cup steady for the child’s trembling hands so it could drink. “Poor, wee mite.”
“Indeed,” Winter murmured. He smoothed the child’s lank hair away from its dirty little face. The child looked to be four or five, or maybe older, for many children in St. Giles were too small for their age.
The dog sighed heavily and slumped into a corner of the hearth.
The child’s eyelids were heavy with fatigue. Winter tried not to disturb the creature as he gently drew aside the rags. A little chest was revealed, almost blue with cold, the ribs in pitiful relief.
“Bring a blanket to warm by the fire, Alice,” Winter murmured.
“He needs a bath,” the maid whispered when she returned with the blanket.
“Aye,” Winter said. “But he’s been through enough for tonight, I think. We can give him a thorough washing tomorrow morning.”
Assuming the child lived through the night, that is.
Winter drew off the last piece of clothing and then paused, brows raised. “I think you’d best finish this, Alice.”
“Sir?”
He wrapped the sleeping child in the warm blanket and turned to the maid. “She’s a girl.”
LADY MARGARET READING—better known simply as Megs to her intimates—stepped into Lady Langton’s ballroom that night and deliberately did not look eagerly around. For one thing, she knew most of those who would be attending the ball: the very cream of London society, including her brother Thomas and his wife. Distinguished members of parliament would mingle with society hostesses and, no doubt, one or two slightly risqué ladies or gentlemen. They were people she’d associated with ever since she’d come out nearly five years ago—the usual roster of invitees to an event such as this.
But that wasn’t the only reason she didn’t bother looking around. No, it was much more discreet to not gawk after him like a besotted milkmaid. She wasn’t ready yet to let everyone—her brother included—know about their connection. Right now it was a delicious secret she held close to her breast. When they announced their attachment, it would immediately become public property. She wanted him all to herself for just a little longer.
And the third reason she didn’t scan the crowd? Well that was the simplest of all: The first sight of him was just so wonderful. She felt a thrill every time. A quiver in her tummy, a rush of light-headedness, a wobbliness in the knees. Megs giggled. She was making Mr. Roger Fraser-Burnsby sound like a head cold.