Lady Dearing's Masquerade Read Online Free

us to take in four new children. Does anyone here need reminding of the usual fate of unwanted infants in London?”
    He subjected the group to another fierce look. No one replied. “Moreover, Lady Dearing appears to have quite the way with troublesome cases, even those deemed incorrigible, like Ben Taylor.”
    Jeremy lifted an eyebrow. “I’ve not heard that name.”
    “Ah, that was several years ago, before you joined the General Committee. Ben started a fire at the Hospital.”
    A firebrand . . . Jeremy sat back and stared vacantly into Hogarth’s painting. A notorious widow, entrusted with a possibly dangerous child. And Bromhurst had sanctioned it?
    “But Mary Simms . . .” mused the Archbishop. “She is the little girl who sang so sweetly in the choir, is she not? You cannot tell me she was incorrigible.”
    Bromhurst shook his head. “Of course not. However, several months ago, she insisted she could no longer sing, though the apothecary could find nothing wrong. At the same time, Mrs. Hill reported a sad change in the girl’s manner. It is my hope that Lady Dearing’s care will have a beneficial effect.”
    The Archbishop’s kind eyes looked troubled. “You should have discussed this with the Committee. How can we be certain it is right to palm our difficult cases off onto this widow? I do believe Sir Jeremy should investigate.”
    Heads nodded around the table.
    “Perhaps I could perform this delicate task,” suggested Sir Digby. “After all, Sir Jeremy is so busy with the branch hospital project, I should not wish to divert his energies.”
    “A bit too eager, aren’t you, Sir Digby?” one of them drawled.
    Others stifled disgusted expressions. Sir Digby reddened and shifted downward in his seat, his corset creaking, the gaudy diamond in his cravat winking. Jeremy grimaced, recalling how the fop had boasted of recently founding—what did they call themselves? The Select Company of Exquisites, or some such nonsense; a club of idle dandies with nothing better to do than gossip and invent ever more expensive modes of personal adornment.
    From Bromhurst’s deepening scowl, Jeremy deduced the Hospital’s President did not trust Sir Digby to conduct the inspection. But he was not prepared for his next pronouncement.
    “I believe everyone here can trust Sir Jeremy to discharge the task with the proper discretion,” said Bromhurst when the room had quieted. “If anyone questions it, he is at Rosemead on Hospital business, nothing more.”
    Jeremy shot a grateful look toward his friend.
    “I expect you will find everything in order at Rosemead,” continued Bromhurst, “and that Mary Simms is best off where she is.”
    “Then the matter is settled,” said Jeremy, deciding not to contradict his friend’s final statement. “I shall speak again to Mrs. Hill and arrange to go to Rosemead tomorrow.”
    The meeting adjourned, but as the men filed out of the room, Bromhurst laid a hand on Jeremy’s arm.
    “Let’s take a walk around the grounds, shall we?”
    Jeremy nodded, unsurprised.
    Bromhurst remained silent until they left the building. As the other Governors returned to their carriages, Jeremy and his friend strolled on the fields surrounding the Hospital.
    “Does one’s heart good to see, doesn’t it?” said Bromhurst, waving an arm toward a group of boys playing nearby.
    Jeremy drank in the sight. Bright eyes, rosy cheeks, sturdy legs: all spoke of health. Of a future.
    “Indeed it does.”
    “Reminds us of why we do what we do.”
    He nodded, knowing Bromhurst was building up to something.
    “One hates to think that for each child we take in, five must be turned away.”
    Jeremy clenched his jaw. He knew the numbers; he did not need reminding. One in five infants turned away. Nine out of ten infants left at parish workhouses, dead of starvation or neglect. Small corpses left overnight in London’s parks, cleared away before genteel folk could be offended by the sight. Small