Inside was a small but cheerful room with a bright blue and white tiled fireplace and two tall windows to give light. Four cots were distributed along the wall, only one of which was occupied. A tiny child lay under the snowy sheets and counterpane, her dark brown hair spread upon the pillow. Curled beside her was a funny little dog with wiry white fur spotted in brown.
Winter Makepeace looked up from where he sat in a chair beside the bed. Fatigue lined his severe face, but his eyes widened in sudden alertness at the sight of her.
“Lady Beckinhall,” he said, his voice grating with weariness as he stood, “to what do I owe this second visit?”
“Pure stubbornness?” Isabel murmured whimsically. “Oh, do sit back down.” Obviously the man had spent the night caring for a sick child. She approached the bed and peered at the little face as the dog gave a tentative growl. “What’s wrong with her?”
Mr. Makepeace looked at the child, his face calm, but she could see a flicker of worry in the tightening of his lips. For the first time she noticed that his upper lip was wider than his bottom lip. A memory tickled at the back of her mind, faint and elusive. Where had she seen—
“I don’t know,” he answered her, scattering her train of thought. “I found her last night in an alley, the dog beside her. We’ve had the doctor in to see her, but he can give no more information than that she suffers from malnutrition and exhaustion.”
Isabel’s brows knit. “What’s her name?”
Mr. Makepeace shook his head. “She won’t speak.”
“She told me her dog’s name is Dodo,” Joseph offered. He’d taken the seat on the opposite side of the bed and his hand had crept to pat the little girl’s thin arm.
Mr. Makepeace inclined his head. “I beg your pardon. I should’ve said that the child will not speak to me—or any other adult. Joseph Tinbox says, however, that she has communicated with him briefly when they were alone.”
Joseph Tinbox nodded emphatically. “And her name is Peach.”
The adults all looked at him. Pinkney giggled. Isabel shot her a glance and the lady’s maid half choked as she stifled her laughter.
There was a pause, and then Isabel cleared her throat delicately. “Peach seems a rather… odd name.”
Joseph Tinbox looked stubborn. “It’s what she’s called an’ we shouldn’t go changin’ it.”
“Naturally we shall call her whatever she wishes,” Mr. Makepeace said mildly. “But I think we’ll wait to see what that is when she wakes.”
Joseph Tinbox opened his mouth—no doubt to argue—but the little girl woke at that moment. She glanced around, her eyes widening in panic, and then she squeezed her eyelids shut again. She’d moved to grip Joseph Tinbox’s hand and was holding it desperately.
Mr. Makepeace frowned as he watched the child. “I think I shall take Lady Beckinhall down to the sitting room, Joseph Tinbox. Perhaps you can see if… Peach… would like to try some of the broth that was sent up earlier.”
He patted the boy’s shoulder, then stood and ushered Isabel and Pinkney to the door, closing it behind them.
“I apologize for our disorder, Lady Beckinhall,” he said as he went to the stairs. “I’m afraid that finding the child has disrupted our normal proceedings here at the home.”
“I do understand,” Isabel murmured as she followed him down the stairs. “Why do you think she won’t speak to anyone but Joseph Tinbox?”
“Undoubtedly she trusts him,” he said as they made the ground floor. He looked at her over his shoulder, his expression wry. “And undoubtedly she does not trust me.”
“Oh, but…” Isabel instinctively began to protest. Whatever his faults, it was patently obvious that Mr. Makepeace cared for all the children in his home. She couldn’t imagine him hurting any of them.
Mr. Makepeace shook his head as he opened the door to the sitting room. “I do not take her suspicion personally, my lady. For a child to have learned distrust at such a young age, she must’ve been badly mistreated by the adults she has known. It would be natural, therefore, for her to place her trust in Joseph Tinbox instead.”
“Oh.” Isabel absently sank onto a settee. She hated the thought of the frail little girl upstairs enduring physical punishments, perhaps whippings. She shuddered. She remembered then his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “He’s a favorite of yours, isn’t he, Joseph Tinbox?”
Mr. Makepeace stiffened. “I don’t have favorites.”
She raised an eyebrow. She’d seen the fond look he’d given the boy. “Oh, but—”
Mr. Makepeace dropped into an armchair, propping his head in his fist.
Isabel’s eyes narrowed, and she addressed her lady’s maid who had followed them downstairs. “Pinkney, please go to the kitchens and ask for some luncheon. Some meat, cheese, and bread. Any fruit there might be. And a strong pot of tea.”
“There’s no need,” Mr. Makepeace began.
“When did you last eat?”
His brows drew together in irritation. “Last night.”
Isabel pursed her lips. “Then there is every need.”
Once again his look was wry. “I bow to your expertise in the matter.”
“Humph.” His teasing words warmed her, even as she felt alarm looking at the stubble on his chin. Had he slept at all last night? He must be truly weary to relax enough to banter with her. Another thought struck. “We really must find a cook for the home, now that the children are settled in the new building. Nell Jones and the other maidservants have enough to do without preparing the meals as well.”
He stifled a yawn behind a fist. “The girls are taught to cook.”
“Yes, but they can’t see to every meal. Besides, I’ve eaten the girls’ efforts, and while their biscuits are, er… very interesting, it might be a good idea to have someone who can cook things that are rather more standard, don’t you think?”
She looked at Mr. Makepeace expectantly, but his only reply was a soft snore. The wretched man had fallen asleep, his head still propped in his hand. For a moment Isabel simply watched his sleeping face. The lines around his mouth had softened in relaxation, his eyelashes were black and rather thick, and he might’ve looked boyish were it not for the beard shadowing his jaw. His stubble gave him a rakish air.
Isabel’s lips curved at the last thought. Any man less rake-like than Mr. Makepeace she’d yet to meet. Why, he spent so much of his time caring for his home and the inhabitants that he’d fallen asleep in front of her in the middle of the day. It made her wonder what, if anything, he did when he had a moment to himself. Did he read? Perhaps he kept a diary or enjoyed touring churches? She considered, but couldn’t come up with any more activities for the man. He was rather an enigma, wasn’t he? His life was given to self-sacrifice, but he still kept a large part of himself secret. If only—