The Discerning Gentleman's Guide. Virginia Heath

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      The only decently built brick edifice was the parish workhouse that dominated Norfolk Street and the sight of it sent an involuntary shiver down Amelia’s spine. Only the truly desperate ventured through those doors and her poor mother had been one of them.

      Clutching the small bunch of violets that she had just bought from a street vendor, Amelia marched past the workhouse and turned into the tiny overgrown cemetery lying next to its walls. There were very few headstones here. These were paupers’ graves and all of them were unmarked. Somewhere under the grass were her mother’s remains. She did not know where. There had been no formal burial ceremony for her to attend. Her mother had gone into the ground with all of the other wretched souls who had died in the same week. It had been a cruel and insignificant ending to a lovely young woman who had once been toasted as the most beautiful heiress in Philadelphia.

      Amelia placed her tiny posy on the ground and stood for a few moments, allowing all of the memories, both happy and sad, to wash over her. Just once a year she allowed herself to remember the pain. Any more than that and the anger it created threatened to consume her. It was far better to channel that anger constructively, doing good deeds, giving something back, to forget about all of the cruelty and malice that had sent her here in the first place.

      She had been just eighteen when her mother had died. Despite her best efforts, Amelia had been unable to save her. By then they’d been penniless and destitute. Once her father had secured an annulment, as far as he was concerned they were both dead to him. The seventeen-year marriage might never have happened and he had had no contact with either of them for years. That had destroyed her mother and plunged her into a pit of self-pity and self-recrimination that she was never inclined to claw out of. She had been raised to be a rich man’s wife and had blamed herself for the end of the marriage. ‘If only I could have given him a son, Amelia, then he would still love me.’ From the age of twelve, Amelia had heard those words at least once a day. By the time she’d turned sixteen she had completely lost patience with them.

      By then, her mother’s physical health had been deteriorating rapidly too. Amelia had done her best to earn enough to keep a roof over their heads, but as her mother needed more care even that proved to be impossible. The only place that they could turn to for help had been this workhouse, and Amelia had been determined not to go there.

      In a last-ditch attempt to get her father to do the right thing, she had trudged through the dark streets to Mayfair in biting rain and sleet to beg for his help. As usual, he’d refused to see her. He no longer had a daughter. How could he have a daughter when he had never been married? When she had kicked up a fuss and refused to leave, two burly footmen were sent to forcibly drag her down the street and threw her face down in an alleyway, warning her never to darken His Lordship’s door again.

      One dank, wet February morning a few days later, her desperately ill mother had walked into the building behind her and had never walked out. Consumption had made her poor lungs so weak that pneumonia killed her. Apparently, her last words were words of love for her former husband because, even when things were at their worst, her mother still clung to the hope that he would want her back.

      For a while Amelia had drowned in bitterness. Her American grandparents had died shortly before their daughter had married, she had no money, no home and no one to turn to. After a series of low-paid and menial jobs, she had learned how dangerous life for a woman alone truly could be. At least in the workhouse all they had required of her was her work. Out on the streets, her youth, beauty and petite size made her the target of every lecher in London. On numerous occasions she’d barely escaped with her virtue intact.

      Those had been the darkest days, until she had realised that being bitter was not going to change anything about her unfortunate situation. These were the cards that life had dealt her; she might not like them, but it was up to her to play her hand as best she could. Rather than simply lament the injustice and remain a victim of it, as her mother had, it would be much more cathartic, and far more useful, to fight against it. Besides, her father did not deserve that sort of power over her. Amelia would forge herself a good life just to spite him.

      From that point on, things had improved. Because she was well spoken and able to read, Amelia had managed to get a job in a draper’s shop and earned enough to pay for a room. Then she’d searched for better employment and eventually secured a position at the Minerva Press circulating library in Leadenhall Street. That had been the making of her. The library was not only a place where she could read and learn about all of the causes that interested her, it had proved to be a wonderful place to meet like-minded people. Soon she was attending meetings, supporting worthy causes and following a new path that would help to bring about change for all of the other victims of injustice.

      She had loved that job and would still be there to this day had it not been for the unfortunate events of the sixth of March last year. On that fateful day, she had been spotted marching towards Westminster in protest of the Corn Bill, a shocking piece of legislation that increased the price of bread for the poor. What had started as a peaceful rally had quickly deteriorated into a riot. Amelia had barely escaped the mob intact—but once word of her involvement reached her employer he dismissed her on the spot without giving her the right of reply. He did not want a Radical and an agitator sullying the reputation of his establishment and dismissed her without references. When her savings had started to dwindle, and determined not to sink back into the life she had once endured, Amelia had rashly applied for the position of a lady’s companion out of utter desperation.

      Maybe it was cowardice, but she never wanted to be that lonely girl in Seven Dials again. The girl who relied on charity and who had lived on her wits. The letter she had written had told the truth, mostly, explaining that she had once been from a good family and did not wish to end up in the gutter. She had not expected to get an interview, and it had taken the last of her money to travel to Bath. Why she had gone, Amelia could not say because she’d been certain that she would not even be allowed past the front door. But Lady Worsted had not only seen her; miraculously, she had given her the job. Now, in an enormous twist of irony, she was right back where she had started her life—in a fancy house in Mayfair. Almost full circle.

      Except this time she was not related to the aristocrat who owned the magnificent house. The Duke of Aveley had exceeded her expectations, though. He was every inch the arrogant stuffed shirt she had imagined him to be. Yes, he was unbelievably handsome, there was no denying that, and her pulse did flutter each and every time he regarded her with his intense cobalt stare. Unfortunately, any attraction she had for him had died the moment he’d opened his mouth. Yesterday he had proved himself to be both condescending and emotionless when she had tried to tend to the injury to his head. Despite that, her silly pulse had fluttered out of control the moment she had laid her hands on his perfect golden skin.

      Well, perhaps he was not completely devoid of all emotion—he did irritation very well. He had not been even slightly grateful that she had tried to help him and had been highly critical of the fact that he had almost tripped over her. And then, even after she had swallowed a great deal of her pride, at Lady Worsted’s insistence, and apologised to him for her forthrightness, he had looked at her as if she were nothing but a great inconvenience to him. Then he had stomped off without so much as a by-your-leave. She had never met a man so full of his own importance in her entire life!

      * * *

      Bennett had not had a good day. The debate had been a farce. The majority of those who had taken part had been more determined to shout louder than the next person than to listen to reason. There had been no time for his speech, which was probably a blessed relief because the House had deteriorated into more of a mob than a gathering of educated gentlemen. On days like this, it was a wonder that they ever got any laws passed at all. His head still hurt from all of the noise.

      And his feet still hurt because of his unfortunate choice of footwear СКАЧАТЬ