Page 37 of Charity

“So what you’re saying is the orphanage cannot pay its way,” Lord Carter summarized, quite incorrectly, to Oscar’s annoyance.

Oscar scowled across his bookroom, where a few of the Grafton Street Orphanage trustees had crammed into the tiny space. His opinion of Lord Carter decreased every time he spoke. “No. I am not saying that at all. I need more time. It appears the industrious Mr. Dickson has cause to explain his overuse of orphanage funds. There are a vast number of discrepancies between his accounting and the facts as I find them. God knows where all his purchases have gone, but they are not at the orphanage, and I can see no evidence that they ever arrived there.”

“Gentlemen, this is an alarming development,” Mr. Manning conceded. “But it is not the worst it can be. As Carrington has promised us, the orphanage’s expenses are well within the boundaries of the combined annual contributions made to the fund. If only Mr. Dickson hadn’t squandered so much, we might be much better off. And so would the children.”

The other trustees muttered between themselves. They’d taken the news surprisingly well. But the thefts by Mr. Dickson, gone unnoticed for the last year, had ruled out the expense of attempting any repairs to the premises, at least for this year. There was so much to be done and no ready funds to accomplish the task. There was barely enough to feed, clothe, and warm the children and the few servants for the coming winter unless further investment was encouraged.

As the opposing arguments between the trustees rose to a loud roar, Oscar met Mr. Manning’s gaze. There was something quite familiar about the man’s face. Oscar felt he should know him better and be happy to spend more time with him. But they moved in completely different circles, their only connection being the Grafton Street Orphanage and his occasional church attendance.

Manning smiled and closed the gap between them to whisper. “They will be like this for hours, I assure you. I envy you your earlier reluctance to involve yourself in the orphanage’s affairs. I might have saved myself considerable vexation should I have followed your example.”

“The charity is my mother’s pet project. I only continued my contributions to please her.”

“I’m sure she appreciates it. She is quite passionate about the welfare of children,” Manning murmured with approval. “When does she return from visiting with her friend?”

“Not till Wednesday.”

“Ah, good. Do you notice that Birkenstock is absent too?” Manning glanced around the room with a sour expression. “That explains why this impromptu meeting was called. They want to avoid involving him and your mother in this round of debate.”

Was Manning aware that his mother was with Birkenstock? That could prove uncomfortable, should he discover the truth of her trip.

Yet curiosity ate at Oscar. “Was there something particular you wished to speak to my mother about?”

“No, not really.” Manning chewed his lip. “However, I am curious to know if your mother appeared in good spirits before she left London?” He sighed. “I only ask because the Duke of Staines can be a trifle meddling, and I understand they exchanged some few words recently. Enough that there appears to be some salacious gossip circulating about the pair.”

Oscar remembered the night he had spotted his mother speaking with the duke quite well. It had not appeared a friendly conversation by the end. “Mother did appear upset that night. But she did not choose to confide in me. She said she felt dizzy and given her melancholy on the journey home, I put little faith in the rumors of any kind of affair between them since. If anything, they seemed to have had a falling out.”

Manning’s gaze fell to the floor and he rocked a little from one foot to the other. “My brother likes to flirt and stir up society. There is nothing between them now, nor has there ever been in the past I assure you.”

Oscar had forgotten the connection between the Duke of Staines and Mr. Manning. He knew Staines by reputation only, but surely a brother would know the truth of any affair. “Then I am happy to hear it, but what do you think they disagreed on?”

Manning rocked again on the balls of his feet.

“I say, Manning. What do you think of this notion?” Lord Carter called and drew Mr. Manning away. But Oscar was now rather intrigued as to what Manning’s answer might have been. What business could his mother and the duke have in common?

Oscar rejoined the conversation while the debate about pursuing Mr. Dickson was discussed at length.

“I refuse to allow myself to be cheated in this,” Lord Carter fumed.

“We were all cheated,” several grumbled.

“The orphanage was the one swindled,” Manning reminded them gently.

“Yes, well, that is really beside the point. One does not swindle the nobility. It shall not be endured,” Lord Carter asserted with force.

Manning offered a tight smile in return.

The conversation moved in circles.

When Oscar caught his eye, Manning rolled his but just as quickly hid the gesture. The sight of Manning’s fleeting expression reminded Oscar that he had always liked the man. He had found him quite intelligent—with a duke for a brother, he certainly should have been—and in his own way, quite amusing. In a vicar, his attitudes were unique.

It seemed a shame that his mother should so disregard the man’s attentions. Mother enjoyed a good laugh, and always scolded Oscar when he rolled his eyes as Manning had just done. It seemed that they shared a sense of humor. Society wouldn’t turn a hair if his mother chose to take up with Manning. His relationship to a duke would smooth any ruffled feathers if Manning persuaded Oscar’s stubborn mother to marry again.

With shock, Oscar settled against his heavy desk and considered his line of thinking. He could easily accept the change, if Manning could convince his mother to marry. But he couldn’t say that if she chose to marry Birkenstock one day. What was it about Manning that soothed him?

He looked Manning over critically. Tall, as tall, if not an inch higher, than Oscar. Pale, his neat hair was peppered through with gray. He was lean, too. Just like Oscar, Manning had not an ounce of spare flesh about him. Blue eyes, a shade paler than Oscar’s mother’s. In his youth, he must have been much admired. So why hadn’t he succeeded in winning over Oscar’s mother now?

Perhaps Manning reminded her too much of her own son. There were some similarities between them—like height and build and complexion. Then there was Manning’s damaged hand. Oscar couldn’t believe his mother would be so squeamish as to discount a man because of an impairment. Honestly, he’d be more inclined to state nothing much could be wrong with Manning at all. He was a duke’s brother, one that appeared quietly devoted to living a good life. He was by no means poor himself, if the gossip was anything to go by. And he did seem a nice, gentlemanly like fellow.