A quarter of an hour later, Anne’s dance with Augustus Mapplethorpe ended. She’d paid scant attention to Mr. Mapplethorpe, truth be told, so concerned was she about her looming dance with Lord Gladstone.
She reminded herself for the twelfth time that although the matching carriage crest was suspicious, it was only one piece of evidence. She mustn’t assume Lord Gladstone’s guilt without further investigation.
Still, Anne’s stomach roiled as she watched the baron approach. Lord Gladstone was a brown-haired, barrel-chested man, perhaps an inch shorter than her. There was a countrified quality to him that made you expect a hunting dog or two to be trotting at his heels even in a ballroom.
He looked so ordinary, so unassuming, yet this was the man who might be selling tiny children to their almost-certain death. Anne’s smile felt brittle, but she made sure it was firmly in place, determined to give nothing away.
As he kissed the air above her knuckles, her eyes fixed upon his hand. Of course he was wearing gloves, of the standard York tan kidskin. But Anne could just make out a bulge over his fourth finger that looked suspiciously like a signet ring.
She drew in a steady breath. At least now she had a concrete goal—to somehow get Lord Gladstone to remove his glove so she could determine if his signet ring matched Lieutenant Avery’s description.
She tried to mask the shudder that swept between her shoulder blades as she laid her hand upon his arm. “So,” Anne said as he led her toward the top of the set, “how are things at the Royal Military Asylum?”
The stare the baron gave her was a bit… blank. “Well, it’s, uh. It’s not open yet.”
“Of course, but I’m sure the planning must keep you very busy.”
“Indeed. We meet once a month. Deuced long meetings.” Gladstone shook his head. “If they’re not arguing over what to serve for breakfast, it’s what the uniforms will be, or whether the bedstands should be wood or metal.” He shrugged. “I’m the secretary, so I just write it all down.”
“I… I see.” Anne found herself at a loss, but she was saved from having to make a more substantial response by the start of the dance.
It was a country dance and lively enough that Anne found little opportunity to question Lord Gladstone further as they worked their way down the set. Once they reached the bottom and got a short reprieve, Anne leaned in. “Do you think you will be quite overrun with applications? Once the R.M.A. opens, that is.”
This was the most innocent segue Anne had been able to come up with into whether the R.M.A. was already overrun with applications. Lord Gladstone tipped his head to the side and blinked at her once… twice… three times. “Well, uh… we’re planning for two hundred children to start.”
“A handsome number,” Anne said. “Do you think that will be sufficient to meet demand?”
The baron looked baffled. “I… I couldn’t say.”
Anne bit her lip as the dance swept them up again. She hadn’t learned anything of value, but perhaps that wasn’t surprising. She’d hardly been expecting a full confession.
As they circled each other, Lord Gladstone cleared his throat. He did it again, then a third time, and then he coughed into his fist. He fell silent a moment, then burst into a fit of coughing when they were halfway through the figure.
An idea occurred to Anne. She caught Lord Gladstone’s arm and drew him out of the set. “Shall we get you something to drink?”
“If you”—he turned his head to cough again—“wouldn’t mind.”
The refreshment table was on the far side of the room, and they had to circle around the outskirts to avoid the dancers. The worst of Lord Gladstone’s coughing had subsided, so Anne cast around for a topic. “What sort of education will the R.M.A. be providing to its charges?”
“It’s going to be practical, I can tell you that.” The baron cleared his throat. “It’s not as if these are officer’s children. They’re destined for the subordinate situations of life, and they will be made to understand that. They’ll learn to read, and a little arithmetic, but it wouldn’t do, educating such children in a way that would give them airs of being above their natural place in the world.” He shook his head. “They’re going to have to earn their bread by the sweat of their brow for the rest of their lives. They need to get used to that from an early age.”
Anne couldn’t disagree more, but she wasn’t about to argue with him when she was finally getting somewhere. “I see. What sorts of jobs will you be preparing them for?”
It seemed Lord Gladstone had finally warmed to a topic.
“The idea is that most of the boys will enlist in the army themselves when they turn twelve, and the girls will go into service. There will be daily drill for the boys—we’ll have a drummer on staff—and the girls will work in the kitchen and laundry, in addition to the usual sewing and whatnot.”
“It sounds like you have it all planned out.” Anne paused, considering how to phrase her next question. “Are you considering any other trades for the boys? If they, say, did not want to go into military service?”
“Har-hem!” Lord Gladstone was still struggling with his lingering cough. “You’ve hit upon one of the challenges. However much we might wish otherwise, we cannot force the boys to enlist. Of course, we will provide every inducement for them to do so. But should some refuse, we’ll have to find some sort of apprenticeship for them.”
As a chimney sweep’s apprentice, perhaps? Anne tried to make her voice casual. “And what trades have you identified as most fitting for these sons of common foot soldiers?”
Lord Gladstone was back to blinking at her in the slightly bovine way he had. “Well, uh, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
They had reached the refreshment table. Lord Gladstone stepped forward to obtain two glasses of punch. Anne was turning over what he had said. He was certainly a vocal proponent of child labor. Had his silence when she asked what apprenticeships they would seek for the boys been a guilty one?
“Here you are, my lady,” he said, holding out a glass of punch.
Anne swallowed. This was it. If she wanted to see his signet ring, it was now or never.
“Thank you.” As soon as the cup was in her hand, she made a show of fumbling it, and managed to spill half its contents onto his left glove.
“Oh, my gracious, I’m so terribly sorry!” She began digging in her reticule for a handkerchief, but kept her eyes fixed on his hand.
Lord Gladstone grunted, and, just as Anne had hoped, peeled off his sodden glove.
She held her breath as his wrist came into view, then the back of his hand, then his knuckles, then—
A gold signet ring, set with a red stone that looked to be carnelian. From this close, she could just make out the etching: the head of a wild boar, just like the crest on his carriage.
The truth swept over her. However mundane he appeared, this man—this monster—had been selling four-year-old children into working conditions that would kill nine out of ten of them before their twelfth birthday.
Lord Gladstone grunted again as he took the handkerchief Anne hadn’t realized she was proffering. The movement jerked her back to the present. Oh, God, she needed to stay calm, to pretend nothing was wrong. But how could she smile and make small talk with the man who was… the man who…
“Lady Wynters, is everything all right?”
“Oh!” Anne jumped as she looked up and found Samuel peering at her in concern. “Mr. Branton—just the person with whom I need a word.” She hastily drank what little punch she hadn’t spilled, set the glass down, and snatched up Samuel’s arm. “Thank you so much, Lord Gladstone, for the dance, and the punch, and the—er—conversation. A fascinating conversation, I learned so much about the R.M.A., so much indeed.” She knew she was babbling but couldn’t seem to stop. “I apologize again, about your glove and the… the punch.”
“Lady Wynters, wait,” Lord Gladstone said. “Your handkerchief—”
She had already dropped a curtsey and was leading Samuel across the ballroom.
Samuel leaned down to murmur in her ear. “I take that as a no, everything is not all right.”
“No indeed. There have been developments in our investigation. Several of them.” Anne swallowed and glanced about the room. The ball was an absolute crush, but the balcony didn’t look to be crowded. She led him toward the French doors. “Let’s go out here, where we won’t be overheard.”
“Very well,” Samuel said, and they stepped out into the night.
Across the ballroom, Michael was on the verge of losing his mind.
It was bad enough that he’d had to watch Augustus Mapplethorpe kiss Anne’s hand seven times during their set (Michael knew it was seven. He had counted). Then it was Gladstone giving her what he no doubt thought were seductive glances (which really made him look like a constipated tortoise).
Now he had to watch her repair to the balcony with another man.
Michael made an incoherent sound of anguish to Fauconbridge, Harrington, and Ceci, who had given up on dancing in favor of trying to help him get through the evening without murdering one of Anne’s partners.
“Relax, Morsley,” Fauconbridge said. “That’s Samuel Branton. He works with Anne on a number of charitable initiatives. They’re only friends.”
“Friends,” Michael huffed. He had difficulty believing any man could look at Anne and want to be just friends with her.
“No, really,” Fauconbridge said. “Harrington and I ran into him yesterday morning. He seemed genuinely pleased when he learned that you were back. He wants what’s best for Anne, and that includes her marrying a man who worships the ground she walks on.”
“Oh. Well, then.” Michael paused, then cut his eyes to Fauconbridge. “And how exactly does this man I’ve never met know that I worship the ground she walks on?”
Fauconbridge ducked his chin, rubbing the back of his head. “Oh, uh—”
“We told him, naturally,” Harrington said. He laughed at Michael’s expression. “As Anne’s friend, Mr. Branton is naturally concerned that she find a husband who will treat her with the respect she deserves. You should be grateful we told him you were her best prospect.”
“I hope you’re not expecting a letter of thanks,” Michael grumbled.
He watched Lord Scudamore approach the balcony doors, pause, then slip outside. “Huh, why is Scudamore going out there alone?” Harrington asked.
“He has the next set with her,” Michael said. “I expect he’s going to claim his dance.”
“Speaking of dancing,” Fauconbridge said, “why don’t you go and look for a partner? You don’t look so well. I can watch Anne, and the time will pass more quickly if you have some occupation other than standing around brooding.”
Michael’s glower was sufficient to convey what he thought of that idea. He crossed his arms and settled in to watch the French doors for Anne’s return.