Marrying Winterborne (The Ravenels #2) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,106

approach, as the situation is . . . complicated.” Helen paused. “I would prefer this to be kept confidential.”

“You have my word.”

“I want to find out about a child’s welfare. My chaperone, Lady Berwick, has a nephew who sired a child out of wedlock and abandoned his responsibility for her. The little girl is four years old. It seems that five months ago, she was sent to the Stepney orphan asylum in the parish of St. George-in-the East.”

Dr. Gibson frowned. “I know of that area. It’s a perfect bear pit. Certain parts are unsafe even during the day.”

Helen wove her gloved fingers together into a little snarl. “Nevertheless, I have to find out if Charity is there.”

“That’s her name?”

“Charity Wednesday.”

Dr. Gibson’s mouth quirked. “There’s an institutional name if I’ve ever heard one.” Her gaze turned questioning. “Shall I go there on your behalf? I won’t mention your name, of course. If Charity is there, I’ll find out her condition and report it back to you. I’m sure I could make time to go tomorrow or the next day.”

“Thank you, that is very generous of you, but . . . I must go today.” Helen paused. “Even if you cannot.”

“Lady Helen,” Dr. Gibson said quietly, “it’s no place for a gently bred woman. It exists at a level of human misery that would prove very distressing to someone who has led a sheltered life.”

Helen understood that the words were kindly meant, but they stung just the same. She was not delicate or weak-minded—she had already decided that she would muster whatever strength was necessary to do what had to be done. “I’ll manage,” she said. “If a four-year-old child has survived in such a place, I daresay I can endure one visit.”

“Could you not approach Mr. Winterborne? A man with his resources—”

“No, I don’t want him to know about this.”

Struck by Helen’s vehemence, Dr. Gibson regarded her with a speculative gaze. “Why must you be the one to handle this situation? Why would you take such a risk for a child who has only a slight connection to you?”

Helen was silent, afraid to reveal too much.

The other woman waited patiently. “If I am to help you, Lady Helen,” she said after a moment, “you must trust me.”

“My connection to the child is . . . more than slight.”

“I see.” The doctor paused before asking gently, “Is the child in fact yours? I wouldn’t judge you in the least for it, many women make mistakes.”

Helen flushed deeply. She forced herself to look directly at Dr. Gibson. “Charity is my half sister. Her father, Mr. Vance, had an affair with my mother long ago. Seducing and abandoning women is something of a sport to him.”

“Ah,” Dr. Gibson said softly. “So it is with many men. I see the vicious consequences of such sport, if we’re to call it that, whenever I visit the women and children who are suffering in workhouses. To my mind, castration would be the ideal solution.” She gave Helen a measuring glance. Appearing to make a decision, she stood abruptly. “Let’s be off, then.”

Helen blinked. “You’ll go with me? Now?”

“I certainly can’t let you do it alone. It would behoove us to leave at once. Daylight will start to wane at a quarter past six. We’ll have to send your driver and footman home and hire a hansom. It would be foolhardy to take a fine carriage to the place we’re going, and I doubt your footman would allow you to set one foot outside it, once he has a glimpse of the area.”

Helen followed her from the room to the hallway.

“Eliza,” Dr. Gibson called out. The plump housemaid reappeared. “I’m going out for the rest of the afternoon.” The maid helped her into her coat. “Look after my father,” Dr. Gibson continued, “and don’t let him have sweets.” Glancing at Helen, she said in a quick aside, “They play havoc with his digestion.”

“I never do, Dr. Gibson,” the housemaid protested. “We keep hiding ’em, but he sneaks past us and finds ’em anyway.”

Dr. Gibson frowned, putting on her hat and tugging on a pair of gloves. “I expect you to pay closer attention. For goodness’ sake, he’s as subtle as a war elephant when he comes down the stairs.”

“He’s light-footed when he’s after sweets,” the maid said defensively.

Turning to the hall tree, Dr. Gibson pulled out her walking stick by its curved handle, and caught it smartly in midair. “We may have need of this,” she said with