woman could not disappear into thin air. Especially not with half a dozen siblings in tow.
It hadn’t taken him long to decide that he wouldn’t bother to cultivate a closer friendship with most of the people present. Self-satisfied and smug, they feasted on course after course of turtle soup, quail, venison, and every other delicacy money could buy. As they stuffed their mouths full of rich food, they decried the evil life of the poor of London, who lacked the means to buy themselves a simple loaf of black bread for their dinner and were forced to steal to keep themselves from starving.
He’d made a couple of discreet inquiries of his neighbors during dinner as to the whereabouts of Caroline Clemens but they had heard nothing of her since her father’s death and clearly cared nothing about her fate. There was nothing left to do but wait until he could rejoin the ladies in the drawing room and extend his inquiries to the rest of the company. It stood to reason that one day, one of her old acquaintances would know something of her.
Dominic took another sip of his port, idly listening to the chatter around the table, but not joining in, when a couple of words caught his attention.
“…old Isaac Clemens’s brats.”
His ears pricked up. Was that Caroline they were talking about so disrespectfully at the other end of the table?
“Really?” asked a languid man with a pale face and long muttonchop whiskers with a yawn.
The first speaker, his host for the evening, a fat, florid man by the name of Bartles, whose waistcoat buttons strained to stay closed over his paunch, gave a great belly laugh. “As sure as I sit here. The oldest Clemens girl, what was her name? The one who was going to marry Bellamy until he called it off. Sensible man, that, to refuse to take a pauper to wife. I would’ve done the same.”
“Caroline,” supplied one of his neighbors helpfully.
“Yes, that’s it. Caroline Clemens and all the rest of them. They sued for admittance to the Bloomsbury workhouse a week ago. You could’ve knocked me down with a feather when their names came up in the meeting this morning.”
“And did you let them in?”
“Let them in? Certainly not. Old Isaac Clemens died leaving more honest men than me out of pocket. I’m not paying yet again to keep all his brats in the workhouse. They can go and find an honest job and get a decent wage for an honest day’s work and not rely on charity.”
His Caroline in the workhouse? His stomach roiled with the rich food and wine he had consumed at the thought that she had gone to bed hungry. Could it be that she had no money at all? No relatives to take her in? No one in the whole of London to lend her a helping hand?
The uncharitable Englishmen around the table had thrown her and her sisters out to starve with as little concern as if they were a litter of unwanted kittens.
The languid man gave another bored yawn. “Did old Clemens really leave them with nothing?”
There was a chorus of tut-tuts from around the table.
“Careless.”
“Improvident.”
“Bad businessman in more ways that one.”
“Besides, from what I heard,” the fat man continued, “Bellamy offered to pension the girl off so he didn’t have to marry her. Let him pay for her and all the rest of Clemens’s brood to salve his conscience. I pay more than enough of my hard-earned cash to feed paupers as it is.”
Dominic finally found his tongue. “Caroline Clemens is living at the workhouse in Bloomsbury?”
“She was until this morning. They will have thrown her out by now.” His voice was fat with satisfaction. “With a father like hers, it’s no more than she deserves.”
Dominic pushed back his chair and stood up. He had the information he wanted now. Besides which, he could not stand another moment of his host’s smug cruelty. To rejoice that Clemens’s innocent family had fallen so low that they had sought out the workhouse as their only
It hadn’t taken him long to decide that he wouldn’t bother to cultivate a closer friendship with most of the people present. Self-satisfied and smug, they feasted on course after course of turtle soup, quail, venison, and every other delicacy money could buy. As they stuffed their mouths full of rich food, they decried the evil life of the poor of London, who lacked the means to buy themselves a simple loaf of black bread for their dinner and were forced to steal to keep themselves from starving.
He’d made a couple of discreet inquiries of his neighbors during dinner as to the whereabouts of Caroline Clemens but they had heard nothing of her since her father’s death and clearly cared nothing about her fate. There was nothing left to do but wait until he could rejoin the ladies in the drawing room and extend his inquiries to the rest of the company. It stood to reason that one day, one of her old acquaintances would know something of her.
Dominic took another sip of his port, idly listening to the chatter around the table, but not joining in, when a couple of words caught his attention.
“…old Isaac Clemens’s brats.”
His ears pricked up. Was that Caroline they were talking about so disrespectfully at the other end of the table?
“Really?” asked a languid man with a pale face and long muttonchop whiskers with a yawn.
The first speaker, his host for the evening, a fat, florid man by the name of Bartles, whose waistcoat buttons strained to stay closed over his paunch, gave a great belly laugh. “As sure as I sit here. The oldest Clemens girl, what was her name? The one who was going to marry Bellamy until he called it off. Sensible man, that, to refuse to take a pauper to wife. I would’ve done the same.”
“Caroline,” supplied one of his neighbors helpfully.
“Yes, that’s it. Caroline Clemens and all the rest of them. They sued for admittance to the Bloomsbury workhouse a week ago. You could’ve knocked me down with a feather when their names came up in the meeting this morning.”
“And did you let them in?”
“Let them in? Certainly not. Old Isaac Clemens died leaving more honest men than me out of pocket. I’m not paying yet again to keep all his brats in the workhouse. They can go and find an honest job and get a decent wage for an honest day’s work and not rely on charity.”
His Caroline in the workhouse? His stomach roiled with the rich food and wine he had consumed at the thought that she had gone to bed hungry. Could it be that she had no money at all? No relatives to take her in? No one in the whole of London to lend her a helping hand?
The uncharitable Englishmen around the table had thrown her and her sisters out to starve with as little concern as if they were a litter of unwanted kittens.
The languid man gave another bored yawn. “Did old Clemens really leave them with nothing?”
There was a chorus of tut-tuts from around the table.
“Careless.”
“Improvident.”
“Bad businessman in more ways that one.”
“Besides, from what I heard,” the fat man continued, “Bellamy offered to pension the girl off so he didn’t have to marry her. Let him pay for her and all the rest of Clemens’s brood to salve his conscience. I pay more than enough of my hard-earned cash to feed paupers as it is.”
Dominic finally found his tongue. “Caroline Clemens is living at the workhouse in Bloomsbury?”
“She was until this morning. They will have thrown her out by now.” His voice was fat with satisfaction. “With a father like hers, it’s no more than she deserves.”
Dominic pushed back his chair and stood up. He had the information he wanted now. Besides which, he could not stand another moment of his host’s smug cruelty. To rejoice that Clemens’s innocent family had fallen so low that they had sought out the workhouse as their only
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