He lifted a corner of his mouth. “Don’t tell the guild of rakes, will you?”
She laughed softly, and then opened a cloth on her lap. “I bought you a meat pie while you were sleeping.”
“You are an angel,” Griffin said gratefully. He took the pie—still warm—and bit into it, savoring the gravy on his tongue.
“Making money isn’t the only thing you’re good at,” she said quietly.
He arched his eyebrows, still chewing.
A faint flush crept up her elegant neck. “You make people laugh.”
He swallowed. “So do fools.”
She shook her head, gently admonishing. “You jest, but the ability to laugh is a wonderful thing. Phoebe had a lovely time the other night, largely because of you.”
“I didn’t do anything extraordinary.” He shook his head and took another bite.
“But you did.” She looked at him intently. “Phoebe is… is special and very dear to my heart. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you made her laugh that night. Thank you.”
His eyes narrowed as he remembered how Phoebe had lost sight of the little monkey on stage. “What did—” The carriage shuddered to a halt, distracting him before he could finish the thought. “Have you decided to inspect the construction again?”
“No.” She looked down at her hands. “We’ve stopped at the temporary foundling home. I wanted to show you something.”
“Indeed?” She wasn’t meeting his eyes, so he probably wasn’t going to like whatever she had in store for him. Still, he ate the last of the pastry and brushed off his hands. “After you.”
Perhaps his smile had a bit too much teeth. She glanced at him rather nervously before descending the carriage. Outside, the day was gray and a chill wind blew.
Griffin offered his arm. “Shall we?”
She laid her hand on his sleeve, and he was aware of her touch, light though it was. It was pleasant to be able to guide her down the lane leading to the temporary home. To act the proper gentleman to her lady.
They stopped at the door to the home, and he stepped forward and knocked.
There was no sound from within.
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Do they expect you today?”
She cleared her throat, a fine pale pink blush climbing her throat. “I didn’t tell them I was coming.”
He didn’t have time to reply to this news before the door was pulled open. A young girl stood before them, an enormous apron pinned to her bodice.
“Good morning, Mary Whitsun,” Lady Hero said. “Is Mrs. Hollingbrook about?”
The girl curtsied. “Yes, my lady. Please come in.”
Griffin stepped over the sill and noticed immediately the bare boards of the hallway—they were warped. The girl led them into a small sitting room.
“I’ll fetch Mrs. Hollingbrook from the kitchen,” Mary Whitsun said, and hurried away.
Lady Hero didn’t sit and neither did Griffin. He circled the tiny room before halting in front of the fireplace. He tapped his fingers against the mantel and watched as crumbs of plaster fell to the hearth.
Footsteps sounded in the hall, and then the door was pushed open. The young woman who stood there was very pretty, but flustered. Pale brown hair with streaks of light red and blond was bundled untidily under a cap, tendrils stuck to her flushed cheeks. A smudge of flour dotted her chin.
“Lady Hero, we weren’t expecting you,” she said in a breathless rush as she curtsied.
“No matter, Mrs. Hollingbrook.” Hero smiled calmly, which seemed to set the other woman’s nerves slightly at ease. “I’ve brought a friend, Lord Griffin Reading. He’s heard me speak of the home and became quite interested. I was wondering if you could show him some of the children?”
Mrs. Hollingbrook’s face brightened. “How do you do, my lord?” She bobbed a wobbly curtsy, rising eagerly. “I’ll be very happy to introduce you to some of our charges.”
Griffin smiled and bowed. “Thank you.”
He waited until the lady had turned her back to lead them from the room before shooting Lady Hero a skeptical look.
“What are you up to, Lady Perfect?” he murmured in her ear as he placed a hand against the small of her back.
She glanced at him nervously as he ushered her from the room. They followed Mrs. Hollingbrook back through the house.
The kitchen they entered was cavelike. Griffin had to duck his head so as not to knock himself out on the lintel. Six little girls were crowded around a long wooden table, in the process of rolling out pastry of some kind. As one, they looked up and saw him, then froze like young fawns surprised in a woodland glade.
“Children,” Mrs. Hollingbrook said, “we have a special visitor. This is Lord Griffin Reading, a friend of Lady Hero. Please show his lordship your best manners.”
“Best manners” must’ve been a code word. The girls each curtsied with varying degrees of grace.
Griffin nodded gravely and murmured, “How d’you do?”
A small, ginger-headed child smothered a giggle.
Mrs. Hollingbrook chose to disregard this breach of decorum. She laid her hand on the eldest girl. “This is Mary Whitsun, who I believe you already met at the door.”
Mary Whitsun bobbed a curtsy.
Lady Hero cleared her throat. “How long has Mary Whitsun lived at the home, Mrs. Hollingbrook?”
“Nearly ten years, my lady,” Mary Whitsun answered for herself.
“And how did you come to the home?”
Mary looked quickly at Mrs. Hollingbrook. There was a slight line between that lady’s eyes. “Mary was brought to us by a”—she darted a look at the girls—“er, person of ill repute. She was just three at the time.”
“And her mother?” Lady Hero asked softly.
“We don’t know anything about her parents,” Mrs. Hollingbrook said slowly, “but judging by the person who brought her here, it was thought that her mother was a poor unfortunate who walked the streets.”
Her mother had been a prostitute. Griffin looked at the girl, wondering how she felt to have such intimate matters of her history discussed in front of her.
The girl met his gaze, her expression stony.
Griffin nodded at her and said gently, “Thank you, Mary Whitsun.”
Mrs. Hollingbrook moved to the next small girl in line. “This is Mary Little. She has been with us since she was an infant left on our doorstep.”
Mary Little bobbed a curtsy. “Are you the one that’s to marry Lady Hero?”