A Secret Surrender - Darcy Burke Page 0,27
absolutely expects someone—me, in fact—to investigate her and her fraudulent charity.” He inclined his head across the lane. “Shall we?”
She nodded, and they crossed the street to the home. Harry lifted his hand and pounded lightly on the door. The sound of a child shrieking answered the summons, and Harry frowned. Was there a chance this was real? No, it couldn’t be.
Footsteps preceded the door opening. A woman, her dark brown hair pulled on top of her head with wisps grazing her cheeks and neck as if the entirety simply could not be contained, looked at them warily.
“Good afternoon,” Harry said formally. “I’m here to see Mr. Winter.”
“Mr. Winter!” the woman shouted, her eyes never leaving Harry and Lady Gresham.
A child darted out from behind the woman’s legs, her dark hair a wild mop above the roundest blue eyes Harry had ever seen. She stared up at him with a mixture of fear and curiosity. “Who’re you?” she asked.
The woman turned on her and snapped, “Don’t be rude.”
The girl didn’t react, but Harry said, “There’s no need to speak to her like that. I took no offense.”
Blanching, the woman looked to Harry with an apologetic stare. She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, a masculine voice filled the corridor stretching behind her.
“Who’s there, Mrs. Winter?” A tall, dark-haired man came up behind her. He smiled broadly, his dark eyes twinkling in the light filtering into the entry from the parlor to the left of the front door. The man didn’t look like the sort who would run a home for wayward children. In fact, if his hair had been cropped a bit shorter and his clothing upgraded, Harry might have expected to see him at Brooks’s.
“Someone to see you,” the woman said.
Mr. Winter slid his arm around Mrs. Winter and drew her against his side. “How can I be of service?” He looked from Harry to Lady Gresham, and it seemed his smile widened even more.
Harry felt a pang of…something. Stifling a frown, he addressed the man. “I’m Harry Sheffield from Bow Street. May I come in to speak with you?”
“Certainly.” Mr. Winter moved away from his wife and gestured for them to enter.
Lady Gresham took her hand from Harry’s arm, and he found he missed the contact immediately. She preceded him into the narrow house, and Harry followed her.
“This way,” Mr. Winter said, indicating the parlor. He crooked his finger at the little girl, and she went to stand before him. Winter crouched down. “Will you go back to the sitting room until we’re finished?”
She nodded, and Winter rose, patting her head with a “Good girl.” Her face split into a smile revealing missing front teeth, and she skipped toward the back of the house.
Harry continued into the parlor, where Lady Gresham stood with her hands clasped near a battered settee. One of the legs didn’t match the others.
“Pardon our intrusion,” Harry began as Mr. and Mrs. Winter came into the parlor. Winter’s gaze fell on Lady Gresham, and one of his brows arched. Yes, this man could definitely pass for an aristocrat.
“And who is this?” Mr. Winter asked, his mouth spreading into another smile. He certainly seemed a jovial fellow.
“My associate, Lady Gresham,” Harry said. “We came to inquire about your Home for Wayward Children. That is what you do here?”
“We live here,” Winter said. “And yes, we take in wayward children. Don’t we, my dear?” He looked down at his wife, whose gaze held a rather blank quality. Harry would have guessed she was drunk on gin, or perhaps she’d taken opium.
Mrs. Winter nodded. “Yes, wayward children. Those that need homes. It’s a bit like an orphanage.” She smiled expectantly at Lady Gresham.
“How wonderful of you,” Lady Gresham said softly. “How many children do you currently have with you?” She looked to Mr. Winter.
“Eighteen at present. That may not seem like a great number, but we can’t afford to take any more on just yet. We have to rely on the generous charity of others to support so many children. Fortunately, we have a kind benefactor, and we sometimes get donations from people in the neighborhood or the parish church.”
This was beginning to look like a legitimate charity, or at least a home with a couple who were trying to do good. “Do you keep records of these contributions to your cause? If you don’t, you should.”
“I do, in fact.” He went to a small desk set back in the corner of the room. Opening