Lady Dearing's Masquerade by Elena Greene Page A

result.”
    She gazed toward the sofa, drawing his eyes to where his cousin sat with Charlotte. Both were touching her belly and exclaiming over the lusty kicks of their unborn child. Then Tom slid a hand up to cup Charlotte’s bosom. She started, blushed a little, then whispered in his ear.
    Jeremy averted his gaze. This was going too far, even for an informal family gathering. Did they not have a bedchamber? But a minute later, they both arose and excused themselves.
    As Jeremy joined his aunt in bidding them good night, an unexpected spurt of jealousy wracked him, as strong as he’d felt the first day he’d come to visit, a sullen five-year-old, and given Tom a violent thrashing for no reason he or Tom could fathom, at least at the time. But Tom had forgiven him, and so had his aunt and uncle. The happiest days of his life had been spent in this house, and he would never forget it.
    He forced himself to return Aunt Louisa’s smile and thrust the ugly, twisted, unworthy feeling deep within himself, where it would hurt no one.
    * * *
    “So how did you fare with the Wicked Widow?”
    A heavy rain pattered on the roof of the Foundling Hospital as Jeremy looked across the table toward Sir Digby Pettleworth, disgusted as always by the fop’s insinuating tone. But everyone else was curious as well.
    “We had an interesting meeting,” he began cautiously.
    “How are the children faring?” asked the Archbishop.
    “They appear to be well.”
    “You saw no evidence of lewd goings-on?” Sir Digby asked.
    What an ass. Jeremy suppressed the angry retort. “I did not,” he said shortly. “All seems to be in order. Lady Dearing has fitted up a schoolroom with everything one could desire, and engaged a governess who appears to have the requisite character and qualifications. The children are quite fond of her ladyship.”
    He ignored a twinge of conscience for not revealing how the children had run away. But it was better to wait until he understood their reasons and could give a full report.
    “You don’t seem certain of anything,” objected the Archbishop.
    “I need more time there.”
    “We are fortunate that you are so thorough ,” Sir Digby murmured.
    “I am sure there is no one here who does not trust Sir Jeremy to conduct himself with the utmost integrity,” said Bromhurst, frowning at Sir Digby.
    Jeremy shot his friend a grateful look. “Thank you. It is my intent to go there for several days each week over the next month. That should be sufficient time for me to make a proper assessment.”
    “But is this necessary? Do you really suspect anything is amiss?” asked Bromhurst.
    Jeremy felt all eyes on him. “I cannot pass judgment until I am certain. I also hope that this course will help me gain the trust of Mary Simms. At present she is too much attached to Lady Dearing to be removed from her care.”
    “Why not just let her stay with the woman, then?” asked someone farther down the table.
    “I must be certain that it is best for Mary. It is what my wife would have wished.”
    Heads nodded in agreement.
    As before, when the meeting ended Bromhurst grasped Jeremy’s arm. “Let’s take a stroll to the Court room, shall we? Too wet to go outside today.”
    Resigning himself to another lecture, Jeremy accompanied his friend out of the Committee Room. Once in the Court Room he gazed about, remembering, as he always would, the one admission day he’d attended. Despite its ornate decorations, including Hogarth’s portrait of Thomas Coram, the Hospital’s founder, the room echoed with anguished cries: those of mothers parting from their infants no more bitter than those of the desperate women whose children were turned away in accordance with the harsh justice of a lottery.
    “What is it you wished to say to me?” he asked, after Bromhurst had stood frowning at Coram’s portrait a few minutes.
    “You know I will not undermine your efforts at the meeting, Jeremy,” Bromhurst began. “But this