She looked to the bed, noting the gown her maid had laid out for the Rathbone ball that evening, reminding her that she needed a change of clothing at present as well. After ringing for her maid, she was alone with her thoughts once more. With a lack of charity, she half suspected her brother would cancel their plans tonight since the duke planned to attend.
Her chest tightened as she considered her brother’s earlier words.
Would the duke, in fact, count her among the ranks of his mother if he knew her true talents? Would he not believe her? Think her insane or of warped mind? Her heart fractured at the thought, a slight pinch, but nonetheless real. She couldn’t imagine how it would pain her if it were real. If she were to walk that path only to find the most terrible of heartbreak at the end of it.
By his hand, no less.
Maybe her brother was right.
Maybe she should listen to him.
Maybe her heart should listen to the reason of her mind. Yet, wasn’t that exactly the problem?
Distraction. She needed a distraction from all the heavy thoughts that plagued her mind. She noticed the window, spilling in the sunshine as it spread to her writing desk. Remembering the missive she was to send to Thomas Coram’s Foundling Hospital and the new friend she’d made from interest in that facility, she squared her shoulders and strode to the desk. Withdrawing her quill and ink, she set about sending a message to both.
She sealed the letters with wax and rang for a maid. In short work, the missives were dispatched and she was once again at a loss for what to do to distract herself.
Because the moment her mind wasn’t otherwise occupied, it drifted back to a certain duke.
Joan quit her rooms and took the stairs down to the first floor, seeking her brother. He was easily found behind his broad desk in the study and readily answered her insistent knock.
“Come in.”
Joan took in the scattered missives, then frowned. “Is there something you need help with?”
Morgan answered, “No, no, only busy work, I’m afraid. The kind that is necessary but never truly feels important.”
“I see,” Joan replied, approaching the desk. She lifted a small brass ball with a flat bottom from a wooden stand. The heaviness of the ball was a testament to its quality. She weighed it in her hand and then said to her brother, “I have need of the carriage.”
He flicked a perfect cross to atand looked up. “Oh? To go where?”
She set the brass ball back into place. “I want to visit the Thomas Coram’s Foundling Hospital.”
Morgan dropped the quill, ink splotching across the missive. “Drat,” he muttered and blotted the stain. “Pardon, what did you say?” He met her look, and she read uncertainty and…fear.
Odd.
And unexpected.
Her mind quickly tried to understand the source of his tension at the mention of the hospital. It was in Bloomsbury and was a popular place for the fashionable set, oddly enough. To her mind, it wasn’t kind for the more fortunate to observe and tour the orphanage of those so much less fortunate. But since those visitors provided generous donations for the place, she supposed the benefit outweighed the negative.
“It’s perfectly safe, I assure you,” she added.
Morgan tapped his finger and looked down, as if on purpose so as not to reveal the expression in his eyes.
“I… That is, there’s been an increase in crime recently, Sister, and I don’t wish you to be one of the statistics.”
“I doubt that is likely, considering the Governor’s Hall is next to the hospital. Lady Farthingham had her tea party there not a month ago. If the area were crime-infested, I doubt the fashionable set would deign to darken the door or the roads to it.”
“While that may be the case, you haven’t the time today anyway.”
“Whyever not?” Joan asked, irritated that he refused to meet her eyes. He sighed, then glanced up, finally.
“You have the Rathbone ball to dress for, and I’m sure you haven’t had tea. Certainly you wish to be home for callers this afternoon as well.” He pinched his lips as if knowing he’d won the argument with that last point.
Joan tilted her head. “Very well.”
Her brother nodded, his lips twitching in what she was certain was an effort not to crow in victory.