Read Online Duchess 02 - Surprising Lord Jack by Sally Mackenzie - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sally Mackenzie
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Blood due to all the prizefights it hosted.
The bundle in his arms whimpered.
“Oh God, where did you find this one?”
“In the alley next door. Does he belong to one of your girls?”
“Of course not. My girls all take precautions—and the ones who do make a mistake, I send off to your place in Bromley. You know that.”
He did know that. Nan might be a madam, but she sincerely cared for the dashers who worked for her and tried her best to run a safe, clean business. “Yes, I know, but I’d hoped to be wrong. This baby desperately needs to suckle. Get me a clean shawl, will you?”
“Only if you promise to buy me a replacement.”
“I always do, don’t I? Bring me one of the older ones. It’ll be softer.”
“You should just let him die,” Nan said as she went into another room to do his bidding.
Nan said that all the time. He understood her callousness, but he refused to share it. He couldn’t, not since Ned’s baby had died at birth. He hadn’t been able to save his nephew’s life or lessen Ned’s pain, and he hated how powerless that still made him feel. But collecting even a few of London’s discarded children helped. At least he was doing something and not standing helplessly by, anger and frustration and gut-wrenching sorrow knotting in his chest.
Thank God he had a gift for making shrewd investments, so he had plenty of funds at his disposal. He’d far rather spend his money on his charity houses than another horse or carriage he didn’t need.
“You know I can’t do that, Nan.”
Nan came back with a bright red shawl—she had rather garish taste. “But you should. The world doesn’t need another bastard, and the poor bastard doesn’t need to suffer poverty and hunger and cruelty.”
Jack knelt to spread the shawl on the floor. “My children aren’t hungry, and no one treats them cruelly. They learn a trade when they’re old enough, so they can make their way in the world.” He removed the filthy rags the baby was wrapped in. The poor infant was very thin.
“You’re a dreamer, Jack. You’ve been doing this . . . what? Three or four years? Soon you’ll marry and have children of your own, and you’ll forget about this little hobby.”
“No, I won’t.” Any woman he married would have to accept the importance of his Bromley houses. Not that he had plans to tie the knot anytime soon. For one, he’d yet to meet a woman who wouldn’t shriek and pull back her skirts or call for her vinaigrette if she were to meet any of his brats. And for another—well, Mama and Father might have made a success of an early marriage, but his brothers had not. He’d wait until he was at least thirty before even considering matrimony.
Nan watched him wrap the infant in her shawl, her arms crossed, a look of resigned pity on her face. “He’ll likely die, you know.”
“He might make it.” Jack wouldn’t give him good odds, though. The baby should be kicking and screaming in hunger, but instead he was limp and lethargic. Jack finished tucking the ends of the blanket securely around him and stood. “Tell me about Martha.”
Nan shuddered. “She died exactly like the others, her throat slashed ear to ear.”
Martha’s death put the number of women killed at seven: five prostitutes who lived and worked in the Covent Garden area and two women of the ton —Miss Fielding, a daring debutante who’d been rumored to entertain young blades in secluded corners at society’s balls, and Mrs. Hubble, a notorious and now equally dead widow.
“Why do you think Ruland’s the Slasher?”
“Who else could it be?” Nan grimaced. “The man’s as evil as they come.”
Nan was letting desperation cloud her thinking. “I grant you he’s not pleasant, but I’ve encountered worse.” Ruland had always struck him as a bully—mean, but at heart a coward.
“But think, Jack. He goes to all the social events, and he frequents the brothels.”
“That’s true of almost every male member of
The bundle in his arms whimpered.
“Oh God, where did you find this one?”
“In the alley next door. Does he belong to one of your girls?”
“Of course not. My girls all take precautions—and the ones who do make a mistake, I send off to your place in Bromley. You know that.”
He did know that. Nan might be a madam, but she sincerely cared for the dashers who worked for her and tried her best to run a safe, clean business. “Yes, I know, but I’d hoped to be wrong. This baby desperately needs to suckle. Get me a clean shawl, will you?”
“Only if you promise to buy me a replacement.”
“I always do, don’t I? Bring me one of the older ones. It’ll be softer.”
“You should just let him die,” Nan said as she went into another room to do his bidding.
Nan said that all the time. He understood her callousness, but he refused to share it. He couldn’t, not since Ned’s baby had died at birth. He hadn’t been able to save his nephew’s life or lessen Ned’s pain, and he hated how powerless that still made him feel. But collecting even a few of London’s discarded children helped. At least he was doing something and not standing helplessly by, anger and frustration and gut-wrenching sorrow knotting in his chest.
Thank God he had a gift for making shrewd investments, so he had plenty of funds at his disposal. He’d far rather spend his money on his charity houses than another horse or carriage he didn’t need.
“You know I can’t do that, Nan.”
Nan came back with a bright red shawl—she had rather garish taste. “But you should. The world doesn’t need another bastard, and the poor bastard doesn’t need to suffer poverty and hunger and cruelty.”
Jack knelt to spread the shawl on the floor. “My children aren’t hungry, and no one treats them cruelly. They learn a trade when they’re old enough, so they can make their way in the world.” He removed the filthy rags the baby was wrapped in. The poor infant was very thin.
“You’re a dreamer, Jack. You’ve been doing this . . . what? Three or four years? Soon you’ll marry and have children of your own, and you’ll forget about this little hobby.”
“No, I won’t.” Any woman he married would have to accept the importance of his Bromley houses. Not that he had plans to tie the knot anytime soon. For one, he’d yet to meet a woman who wouldn’t shriek and pull back her skirts or call for her vinaigrette if she were to meet any of his brats. And for another—well, Mama and Father might have made a success of an early marriage, but his brothers had not. He’d wait until he was at least thirty before even considering matrimony.
Nan watched him wrap the infant in her shawl, her arms crossed, a look of resigned pity on her face. “He’ll likely die, you know.”
“He might make it.” Jack wouldn’t give him good odds, though. The baby should be kicking and screaming in hunger, but instead he was limp and lethargic. Jack finished tucking the ends of the blanket securely around him and stood. “Tell me about Martha.”
Nan shuddered. “She died exactly like the others, her throat slashed ear to ear.”
Martha’s death put the number of women killed at seven: five prostitutes who lived and worked in the Covent Garden area and two women of the ton —Miss Fielding, a daring debutante who’d been rumored to entertain young blades in secluded corners at society’s balls, and Mrs. Hubble, a notorious and now equally dead widow.
“Why do you think Ruland’s the Slasher?”
“Who else could it be?” Nan grimaced. “The man’s as evil as they come.”
Nan was letting desperation cloud her thinking. “I grant you he’s not pleasant, but I’ve encountered worse.” Ruland had always struck him as a bully—mean, but at heart a coward.
“But think, Jack. He goes to all the social events, and he frequents the brothels.”
“That’s true of almost every male member of
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