get them out of there.”
“Some girls have left,” Graham continued. “Not when they turn eighteen, as the letters home claim. The girls are gone by the time they’re fourteen, once they’ve shown competence at a skill. Miss Spranklin has successfully placed several girls from the labor program into positions as housemaids, kitchen maids, dairy maids...”
“She has?” Chloe said in surprise.
“Don’t let it warm your heart too much.” Graham’s jaw tightened. “Miss Spranklin ‘holds’ the girls’ wages for them in the meantime. They never see a farthing of it.”
Chloe clenched her fists. “She deserves to lose every penny.”
Graham’s brows knitted. “I wonder which bank keeps her money.”
“I doubt any bank does,” Chloe said. “She can barely leave the girls’ sight for more than a few minutes. I’d wager she keeps her riches just as close.”
“Such as, inside a certain locked office.” Graham smiled. “If you were to stumble across money stolen from innocent girls...”
Chloe grinned at him. “Then we can give the money back to its rightful owners.”
Chapter 8
On the way home, Chloe and Graham paused to collect flowers in Hyde Park. Like many others, the Wynchester garden at home had suffered terribly with the dreadful weather. Even the greenery of normally lush Hyde Park was limp and sparse.
The sky was a rich blood red. The volcanic haze had lent sunsets an otherworldly hue for months now.
Bean did not attend ton activities, but on summer evenings, when the sun didn’t set until after nine o’clock, he often strolled along the Serpentine with Chloe and the other siblings.
She hoped filling his chamber with bright, cheerful clippings would raise his spirits and give him an outing to look forward to, as soon as the smallpox was vanquished and Bean could leave the sickroom again. Perhaps by then, the gloom would have lifted and summer would return.
Chloe held open the lid of her wicker basket so Graham could drop another clipping inside.
“Are these enough?” he asked.
“One more.” She lifted her shears. “Perhaps the yellow one, over there by—”
A thundering of hoofs shook the ground.
Everyone walking along the path turned to look as a dashing horse and rider came down Rotten Row.
“Faircliffe,” Chloe breathed. The new duke looked magnificent.
Graham cut her a sharp look. “That bounder refuses to acknowledge our queries. We’ve sent countless letters begging for the return of our painting. We even offered to return the vase stuffed with banknotes! He spurns every letter. The butler now shuts the door right in poor Norbert’s face.”
The new duke was a rude, no-good, very handsome scoundrel. And her greatest hope in the House of Lords for social improvements.
Her only hope.
“He’s grieving,” she reminded Graham and herself. “Can you imagine what that must be like?”
“He replies to other people’s letters,” Graham pointed out. “Other than switching his white cravat for a black one, there’s no external difference in his routine. If anything, Faircliffe is as efficient as ever. He’s very efficiently decided Wynchesters aren’t worth his time.”
Chloe clipped the yellow flower. “Perhaps one of us should talk to him in person.”
Graham groaned. “We’ve tried. Whilst you are busy infiltrating the school, the rest of us take turns throwing ourselves into Faircliffe’s path. He’s given me the cut direct so many times, it’s a wonder I’m not covered in scars!”
Their breaths caught at the inadvertent reminder of the damage smallpox would cause to Bean’s complexion, and they stared at each other in silence.
Graham swallowed. “I meant...”
“I know what you meant,” Chloe said quietly. “And you’re right. We need Faircliffe to return our painting now, not six months from now when he’s finished ‘not-mourning.’” She lifted up her basket. “Having Puck & Family home where it belongs will cheer Bean more than a bouquet of flowers.”
Faircliffe reappeared, this time going the opposite direction as before—and much slower.
Graham nudged Chloe forward. “You do it.”
“Me?” Her heart skipped. “I can’t. I have to retain my anonymity. I—”
Graham plucked the basket from her hands. “Go. Here he is.”
Chloe took a deep breath and hurried onto the wide path.
She was not the only one with this idea. Spectators young and old were flocking forward to gawk at the dashing duke.
When he was less than two yards away, Chloe called out, “Your Grace, a quick word if you please!”
His eyes met hers. Bright blue, as brilliant as a sapphire and as fathomless as a summer sky.
Her throat went dry.
Faircliffe lifted his patrician nose and turned his attention back to the road without slowing. By the next heartbeat, all she could see was his