Carol Arens - The Earl's American Heiress

“May I be of help, Miss—?”

“Oh, I’m Betty, sir. And no one can help, I fear.”

“Is there a problem with your employment?”

She shook her capped head, and her breath shuddered when she inhaled. “No, not that—I shouldn’t trouble you about it.”

“As Fencroft, I’m the one you ought to trouble about it.” Maybe he could not help in any way but to listen, but perhaps he could.

“It’s to do with my cousin, sir. She’s a sweet and trusting soul but gullible to go with it. Well, the poor wee girl trusted the wrong man. She gave birth to a child and now has no way to support it. No one will hire a fallen woman. She’s gone to leave the baby at Slademore House. Not to speak ill of the sainted charity—they’ll care for the wee one fine enough—but I fear the grief of the parting will send my cousin headlong into the Thames.”

Betty did not know how wrong she was about the charity being “sainted.”

And why would she? Heath would think the same had he not stumbled upon the truth while searching for Willa’s baby.

He would have been as blind as the rest of society, believing that Slademore House was exactly what it appeared to be.

Living luxuriously was easier, he supposed, when one thought one’s donations went to ease the lives of those who did not. It was the only reason he could think of that no one ever looked beyond what their eyes saw when it came to the place—or the man.

Slademore House might appear to be a haven for the hopeless, but in truth it existed for the purpose of feeding the baron’s lust for wealth and prestige.

In Heath’s opinion, the baron put on a display of opulence to disguise the fact that his social position was a few steps below that of a duke or a viscount.

The fellow drew attention wherever he went. Even the small dog he toted about wore jewels on its collar.

Where everyone else seemed to see an angel in Slademore, Heath saw the devil. Who else would house children in poverty while keeping the gifts of the wealthy to benefit himself? What kind of man would allow a sick child to die before he would spend money on a doctor’s visit?

Or might it not be giving up a few pounds so much as having a doctor suspect the conditions in which the children really lived?

Well, he would not get away with it forever.

“I will keep your cousin in my prayers, Betty. And if there is anything I can do to help, you may call upon me.”

“Thank you, my lord. I only fear things have gone too far by now.”

After a quiet moment, Betty nodded and hurried across the garden, her image weaving in and out of the fog. He heard the door to the back stairs of the town house open.

The door hadn’t closed before he dashed for the stables.

“It’s the devil’s own night, my lord,” stated Charles Creed, the only coachman Heath trusted to accompany him on the night’s errand.

“Not so different from any other night so close to Whitechapel,” he answered, tugging the brim of a black hat low over his brow. He withdrew the dark mask he was about to tie over his face and gripped it tight in his fingers.

“It’s just that the fog is so yellow and foul. An evil presence is what it is. Who can tell what wickedness it’s hiding.”

“It’s hiding us.”

“And a lucky thing. Looks like the baron is getting worried. There’s two guards by the back door tonight.”

Heath would ask if Creed wanted to wait a few streets away but he already knew the answer would be no.

They sat side by side, pretending to be laughing at some ribald joke as they passed the door. The guards glanced up and then away.

“Wish we knew when the girl was bringing the baby,” Creed whispered when they rounded the corner of the building. “It’s not safe business circling the block.”

“Nothing about this is safe.”

“Which is why you should quit and leave it to me,” the coachman said.

No doubt Creed was correct. Heath was a man under great obligation.

“It takes two of us to get the children safely away.”

“I’ll be right relieved when we can expose the blackguard for good and all.”

Exposing a supposed saint would be a difficult thing to do, especially in this case.

The baron had several benefactors of high rank. He was highly respected by all of society. His good deeds were touted in the newspaper on a regular basis. Even his cousin was a judge of much influence in London.

No, anyone who went to inspect Slademore House would see what Heath had when he’d first gone to ask for Willa’s baby: well-cared-for children doted upon by a loving staff, and fed tarts and treats on a regular basis. They would be gratified to see their generous donations being put to good use.

But they would not have seen what Heath had when, his mind full of questions, he’d gone looking further.

Clearly no one suspected a man who sat in the first pew at church every Sunday to be a greedy soul.

“Don’t you wonder, Creed, why no one ever questions how Slademore manages to dress in such riches? Why that little dog he carries about wears real jewels in his collar?”

“Oh, aye, many times. I think folks are just blinded by him being so angelic-looking.”

Yes, and hadn’t Satan been reputed to be the same?

Leaping off the bench to the ground, Heath nodded up at Creed.

“We have help, though,” Creed said. “There’s our informer. It’s not only us to help the children.”

Without this mysterious ally, they could do nothing. Heath could only assume it was the person who had left the door unlocked for him when he’d rescued Willa’s daughter.

Without the notes Creed received, they could not do this.

While Heath climbed into the interior of the carriage, Creed changed his coat and his hat. The same pair of men in the same coach would draw the attention of the back-door guards who would be on alert since they had been here only nights ago—the very night he had met Cinderella in the garden.

Drawing back the curtain, Heath spotted the bent figure of a woman clearly weeping while she made her way to the back door of Slademore House. She appeared to be carrying a bundle close to her chest.

Creed must have noticed her, too, for the carriage slowed down.

Heath snatched up a pewter-tipped cane. The thing was a weapon as much as a prop. While the carriage creaked along, he jumped out on the side facing away from the guards.

With his shoulders hunched, he limped along the cobblestones, his head dipping toward the ground to hide his mask. He hoped he appeared to be no more threatening than a drunk having trouble maneuvering his way.

He intercepted the woman when she was but thirty feet from the guards.

One of them glanced up; the other yawned.

Heath made a tripping motion and pretended to catch his balance on the lady. He slipped an arm under the baby.

“Come with me,” he whispered.

“You’re him—the Abductor!” She opened her mouth to scream but Heath covered it with his palm.

“It’s him!” called the guard just finishing his yawn. He jerked his coat aside and withdrew a pistol.

Heath yanked the baby away from the woman, believing she would follow.

She did, screeching and yanking on the end of the blanket. He snagged her elbow with his free arm and dragged her toward the moving coach.

“Your cousin, Betty, sent me.” The familiar name silenced her scream.

A shot rang out. He heard the bullet hit a stone on the street. Because of the fog it was hard to tell how close the pursuing footsteps were. Close enough to raise the hairs on his arms, though.

“Get inside!”

Thankfully she made the leap. He handed the infant to her on the run and then dragged himself in after her.