Wicked Again (The Wickeds #7) - Kathleen Ayers Page 0,19

household cat should spot them.

They paused every few feet, their progress stopped by someone who wished for an introduction or desired to ask Enderly for his support. He greeted each request graciously, all the while puffing out his chest, filled with his own importance.

“Thank you for allowing me to escort you this evening, my lady. I realize much of tonight’s conversation may not be of interest,” he cautioned with an annoying paternal look. “The intricacies and politics involved in Parliament can be a bit complicated to follow. Ask me anything, and I will try to answer.”

“I’m sure I’ll be able to follow along,” Marissa replied. When had Enderly become so patronizing? Perhaps he’d always been so, and she’d failed to notice.

Enderly’s mouth tightened just a bit. “Even so, my dear, I am happy to share my knowledge should you have questions.”

Pompous. Enderly was pompous. “I find my interests lean in the direction of the reforms affecting workers in textile mills, factories and mines.”

“An unusual interest for a lady of your stature.”

“My niece, Lady Malden, supports a variety of charities whose aims are to improve the lives of the widows and children of those working in the mines and textile mills. Often, if a worker is injured, the family has no recourse and is left penniless with no means of support.”

“There’s workhouses for such folk,” Enderly said with the superiority of a gentleman who’d never set foot in such an establishment.

Sanctimonious. A better word for Enderly. “Have you been to a workhouse, Mr. Enderly? I assure you, it is not as charitable a foundation as you would think. Workhouses are only a way to punish an individual for being poor.”

Marissa feared Enderly’s indulgence toward her was rapidly turning to irritation. He generally behaved as if he adored Marissa’s intelligence, until he found her opinions to be more than a woman should possess or worse, that they conflicted with his own.

“I think you’ve been misinformed, my dear. At any rate, you should enjoy the speech of my friend and your former neighbor, Viscount Pendleton. He is arguing that children under the age of eight shouldn’t be subjected to working in mills or factories. Or mines. He wishes the age to be raised to at least ten.”

How lovely of Simon. As if any ten-year-old child, no matter how poor, should spend his life below ground digging for copper or tin. Or in Simon’s case, Blue John. She’d already informed her solicitors that one of the tenets to her ownership of the mine would be no children. If a child was thrust into the role of providing a living for his family, a position would have to be found above ground.

“How progressive of Lord Pendleton.”

Enderly’s nostrils flared slightly at the sarcasm tinging her words. He didn’t care to have her disparaging a gentleman he supported and idolized. “He’s wise in not offending his peers with his views,” Enderly gave her a pointed look, “though you don’t seem to find them progressive enough. By walking a fine line, he has managed to gain support in both houses.” He took Marissa’s arm, more reluctantly now, she thought. “Some are saying he could even be Prime Minister one day.”

Not if I can help it.

How was it that Simon could fool everyone into thinking he was so bloody decent? She knew differently though. Even Haddon, whom she considered more perceptive than most, was friends with Simon. He’d even said he admired him. How could he not see through Simon’s veneer of respectability?

And why had she not even had so much as a note from Haddon?

After leaving Marissa in a confused, slightly aroused puddle while securing her agreement to help with Jordana, Haddon seemed to have disappeared. One would think he’d want her to start guiding his daughter immediately given Jordana’s awkwardness.

Perhaps he’d changed his mind about asking her assistance. Maybe he regretted doing so in the first place.

Enderly was looking at her in expectation, awaiting a reply. He must have asked her something and she’d failed to respond.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Enderly. Woolgathering, I’m afraid. What did you say?”

Enderly proceeded to pontificate on some obscure banking issue Marissa didn’t find the least bit interesting. Her niece would have, had she been there. Marissa nodded, pretending rapt interest. When Enderly began to gush over Simon, Marissa had to forcibly swallow down the bitterness filling her mouth. How he adored the great Lord Pendleton in all of his pretentious glory.

Enderly’s hand fell down Marissa’s spine, fingers caressing the lower