Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)

The Foundling Hospital was a grand, stately edifice in Bloomsbury, surrounded by green courtyards and fronted by a formidable gate. Inside the building, the halls and corridors were lavishly decorated with paintings and sculpted trim.

As they walked down the center of the main hall, Pauline felt a cramp forming in her neck from staring upward at the artwork. But any pain in the neck was preferable to feeling the sting of Griff’s indifference.

She couldn’t even look at him. Not after that humiliation in the dining room.

It wasn’t as though she took great personal pride in pinging tunes on crystal, but there’d been such malice in those slow, smug claps. She expected him to be displeased after last night, but she hadn’t been braced for cruelty.

Men. Such capricious creatures.

She ought to have learned this lesson from Errol Bright. Whenever they’d stolen an hour or two alone together, he’d been all eager hands and fervent promises. But if they crossed paths in the village, he treated her as just the same old Pauline. At first she’d told herself it was romantic that way—they had a secret passion, and no one could guess. Eventually she’d realized the painful truth. All Errol’s tender words in the moment were just that—in the moment. He’d never truly wanted more.

Now she’d made the same error with Griff.

Last night he’d made her feel beautiful and desired. This morning he’d made her feel small and stupid. No doubt she’d do well to take the duchess’s advice: find some phlegm, and refuse to feel anything.

But that just wasn’t her. And if she lost herself this week, she’d have nothing left.

As they moved through the Foundling Hospital, the duchess kept up a steady monologue. “This establishment was founded last century by Sir Thomas Coram and several of London’s leading men—noblemen, tradesmen, the artists whose work you see displayed. The fifth Duke of Halford was among the original governors, and each of his successors has continued the tradition.”

Pauline didn’t think the current Duke of Halford cared a whit. He was so eager to be done with this place, both she and the duchess were trotting to keep pace with his long strides. If he didn’t wish to be here, she couldn’t understand why he’d come.

Once they passed out of the public rooms and into the actual home, the building’s decor became markedly more austere. Evidently the palatial splendor was for show, not for the foundlings’ benefit.

They passed a wide green courtyard filled with hundreds of children. All boys, clad in identical brown uniforms and arranged in orderly files.

“There are so many,” Pauline murmured.

The duchess nodded. “And those are only the boys of school age. There are just as many girls in the other wing. And hundreds of younger children are spread throughout the surrounding counties. They’re accepted as infants when their mothers surrender them, but then sent to foster families until school age.”

“And then they’re removed from those families again? That must be doubly cruel, to lose not only the mothers who birthed them, but then the only mother they’ve known.”

“Still, they’re better off than many,” the duchess said. “They have their basic needs met, their education provided. When they’re old enough, they have help finding posts in trade or in service. Our own Margaret in the scullery at Halford House was raised here, as were several grooms and gardeners at the Cumberland estate.”

“It’s very good of you to think of them.”

“We have a duty, Miss Simms. For those of our rank and privilege, it is not enough to mean well. One must do some good.”

The words prodded a tender place inside her. All her life she’d dreamed of doing better—for herself, and for her sister. So far she hadn’t achieved even that. But the Duchess of Halford possessed the power, confidence, and funds to do good for whole swaths of people in need. It was a grand step up from dropping pennies in the church box.

Suddenly, the duke halted mid-step. “What is that miserable urchin wearing?”

He nodded toward a bench in the corridor. On it sat a child—a boy of perhaps eight or nine years. He was wearing the same brown uniform all the foundlings wore, but it was capped by a malformed knitted object, fashioned from yarn in an unfortunate shade of green.

To Pauline’s eye, the mess of yarn appeared to be an abandoned sleeve, but the boy had the thing pulled over his head. It seized his crown in a lopsided, putrid-green hug, covering one eyebrow and ear entirely and riding high above his temple on the other side.

She fought a smile. It could only be the duchess’s handiwork.

“What is that?” the duke repeated.

“I believe it’s a cap,” Pauline offered.

“It’s a travesty.” The duke approached the youth. “You there, lad. Let me have that cap.”