Page 34 of Charity

He hurried after her. Agatha shouldn’t have to deal with this rabble alone.

“Lord Carrington,” Mabel squealed, breaking ranks with the other children to reach his side.

Oscar scowled, imitating how his own father had behaved when forced to walk with him as a boy. “Mabel, that’s no way to behave. Return to your spot beside the other girl and walk quietly now.”

Mabel blushed pink. “That’s Kitty.”

He crossed his arms, and glanced up the line of staring children. “Then return to Kitty. She looks to be waiting for you.”

Mabel rushed back to her former place and took up Kitty’s hand again. The other children were also very quick to resume their places in the line, too. As he suspected, all they needed was a father figure to make them behave themselves. Children learned early not to listen to any suggestions made by a mere servant, and Agatha was too softhearted for her own good. She might be a good influence on them singularly, but en masse…she hadn’t a hope.

Oscar let his gaze travel farther up the line and caught her frowning expression. He tipped his hat, but made no move to join her. She’d been adamant they keep a distance. Well, for today, the distance would be seven restless children, one maid, and one groom. There should be enough propriety in that to keep her happy, at least for now.

With a quick flick of her hands to encourage the children, they resumed their fast walk. Oscar followed along, keeping a watchful eye on the children’s behavior, but his thoughts were grim, turned inward to his own troubles. Should he confide his terrors to the morally upright vicar or keep his own counsel?

The Earl of Daventry hadn’t understood. Not really. Oh, he had tried, but then the man had been too preoccupied with his own happy change of circumstances to grasp the extent of Oscar’s distress.

Would anyone understand? Would Agatha?

He would very much like to talk to her. When they were together, he felt such intense peace, such perfect symmetry with the world. These days he was beginning to forget what it was to be happy.

On Grafton Street, the children hurried up the front stairs of the orphanage and noisily entered the building. Agatha gave him an odd look as he turned to follow her inside. He had no intention of talking with her, staring at her, or thinking about her soft curves sliding through his hands. But the work he had to do to assess the orphanage would distract him from his morbid thoughts for perhaps an hour or more. He handed off his hat and cane then turned for the study. He shut the door behind him. The work, however short-lived, should distract him enough to let him get through another day.

At least that was the plan until the music started.

Oscar dropped the pen to the desk, listening with every nerve as Agatha’s music filtered through the house from the parlor opposite his door. She played a slow melody—one he wasn’t familiar with, but one that instantly calmed his racing heart. Sitting back, he imagined her playing in the little sitting room opposite his office, her back to the door, the smooth line of her neck bent to the instrument.

His imagination removed her clothes so she was naked at the pianoforte.

Such thoughts were not helping. He had to forget her, but the delicate playing, music that stirred him body and soul, would drive him insane. Oscar closed the book and gathered together some papers. This was not the place to forget the past. Not when the past seemed determined to keep him firmly in its clutches. Taking the receipts and journal with him, he quietly stepped out into the hall, not wanting to draw attention to his leaving.

Just across the way, Agatha sat, tapping out the tune for the children. The previously unruly orphans appeared spellbound, their upturned faces enraptured by Agatha’s skill. This was how she’d charmed the children so thoroughly. She’d found the perfect use for her talents.

The butler approached.

“My hat and cane, if you please,” Oscar whispered.

“Yes, my lord.”

At the instrument, Agatha’s head turned as if she’d heard him. He took a step closer and her head turned to an almost painful angle. That she would still acknowledge his presence raced along his clamoring nerves. He couldn’t stay. He wanted more of Agatha Birkenstock than he was allowed.

The butler let him out, ushering him into bright sunshine, but he felt none of the warmth. His soul was chilled to the core.

Partway down the road, a gruff voice hailed him by name.

Oscar turned and found an unfamiliar gentleman approaching.

“Lord Carrington, isn’t it?”

“Yes. May I help you?”

The other man was weathered, expensively dressed, but a complete stranger to him. “My name is Leopold Randall, a silk merchant formerly of India. I was wondering if you might spare me a few moments of your time. I’m looking for information.”

That explained the dark, weathered complexion, but what the man could want with him escaped him. Randall appeared harmless, so Oscar gestured him closer. “I’ll help if I can. However, I’m headed to Berkeley Square. Why don’t you tell me what you’re seeking while we walk?”

Randall glanced behind him toward the orphanage. His lips compressed, but then he nodded and fell into step. He did not, however, immediately launch into his tale.

Oscar grew impatient. “How may I be of service?”