Last Dance in London (Rakes on the Run #1) - Sydney Jane Baily Page 0,16

spoke, Mr. Bridge, asked her in a rather bored tone if the goods she wanted to sell had come into her possession from a thief to the best of her knowledge. Since no thief had given them to her, she answered truthfully.

“No, sir.”

After Mr. Bridge inspected the jewelry, particularly the large sapphire in the earl’s pin, he gave her a long stare. She held his gaze without blinking, until, finally, he broke away first and pronounced a grand sum.

When they’d concluded their business, Julia headed off to St. James’s Workhouse, a large brick building on Poland Street. This time bringing the maid, she entered to find plain walls but also enormous windows letting in the light. While colonnades of posts held up the high ceiling, sadly, much of that ceiling’s plaster had already come down.

As usual, more women and children, along with many elderly people, made up the residents despite the workhouse being designed to house the able-bodied poor. Some had crutches or were seated in invalid chairs on the wooden floor, which while appearing swept clean appeared prone to damaged planks and rather large gaps.

In the main room, women were gathered in groups, some seated on benches, some standing by tables. Those who could see well enough were sewing various items, all hunched in a position that seemed permanent.

Julia straightened, feeling her back twinge in sympathy, and glanced at Sarah’s maid, whose eyes were round, taking it all in. Undoubtedly, she was thinking how but for the grace of God — and a good servant’s job in Mayfair — this could easily have been her fate, too. Although wearing a haunted look whenever she accompanied Julia, the maid was sworn to secrecy by way of a few coins for her and a couple more for the driver.

Julia ventured farther inside. A tall porter, the only hale man in the large room, intercepted her at once.

“What’s your business, miss?” he demanded.

“I wish to speak with the master or matron,” she told him, “to make a donation.”

At that last word, the man’s eyes lit up a little, and he nodded.

“Actually, you’ll be wanting the clerk, miss. Go through that doorway, past the women’s ward and the infirmary, and you’ll see a door with a brass knob. That’s the clerk. He handles all the money.”

“Thank you.” Julia made her way out of the room and along the passage. More signs of dilapidated, half-hearted repairs were everywhere. Wishing it were more pleasant for its inhabitants, she knocked on the clerk’s office door.

“Enter.”

A craggy man with spectacles arose from his chair upon her entrance.

“Good day. I was told you handle the donations,” she said directly.

“Yes, miss.” He frowned, probably not receiving many single females with such a stated purpose. “Or is it ‘my lady’?”

Julia ignored his question. Glancing once at the silent maid beside her, she asked, “Why does the facility appear in such disrepair? Aren’t you supported by this parish?”

“Too many poor,” he said. “Too little funding.” Then the man sighed. “You mentioned a donation? You may want to save your pennies. It would take quite a bit to make any difference.”

“Is there one thing in particular that St. James’s needs?” Julia asked.

“The poor get three meals a day, and plum pudding on Saturday,” he told her, as if she suspected him of starving the residents.

“That’s fifteen pounds of suet, eighteen quarts of milk, and fifteen quarts of raisins for one day alone,” he continued, and stared past her shoulder as if imagining all those raisins.

“That’s all very well, but what about the building’s structure? There seems to be some need for repairs. The floor in the common room, for instance.”

He focused on her again. “Do you wish to pay for a floor, miss?” His tone suggested she had no idea what she was saying.

“Yes, I believe I do. It looked downright dangerous. Are the floors in the wards in the same state? What about the children’s room?”

His eyes narrowed and his mouth twisted. Clearly, he was starting to feel as if she were criticizing the workhouse, and maybe its staff. To allay any of his defenses, she withdrew the bag she carried tucked under her arm and attached to her wrist by strong silken cords. Bigger and sturdier than her normal coin purse or reticule, it gave her a feeling of security when she had to carry a donation.

Without fanfare, she dumped the contents onto the man’s orderly desk.

Silently, he stared at the pile of silver and gold coins. There were even