“Do what you will,” a woman choked out from beyond. “Call the authorities. I earned it.”
Magdalene pressed a hand against the closed door. The woman sounded as if she’d been crying.
Magdalene hesitated then offered, “What is your name?”
“I hardly think it matters.”
“It matters to me.”
There was a shifting of weight behind the door. “And who are you?”
“Dowager Lady Kent. This here is my home.” She paused and added, “Whatever is left of it, that is.”
There was a groan and a penetrating moment of silence followed by a surprisingly gracious, “I’m so sorry about the parlor. My name is Miss Emma Vance. Daughter of Mr. Vance, the chemist. Though mind you, he’s been dead for a year.”
“Miss Vance, forgive me for not understanding the situation, and why you felt the need to trespass and rifle through my belongings, but—”
“All you need understand,” the woman interrupted, “is that your son, Lady Kent, is a scoundrel of the worst sort, and I not only want him out of my life, but I want those sketches he did of me back.”
Sketches? Magdalene drew in an astonished breath. “What are you referring to? What did he do?”
There was a momentary pause. “Do you know a man by the name of Mr. Royce?”
Magdalene paused. Shaking her head slowly from side to side, she supplied, “No. That I do not.”
A loud thud reverberated from within the garret. “Of course you don’t. ’Tis an alias of his. Calls himself Mr. Royce about town and is known to be quite the artist. Is very celebrated for his honest and realistic depiction of people. I met him in passing whilst he was sitting over at the docks, sketching. He wanted to draw me and even paid me for it. Only…I haven’t been able to get rid of him since.”
A diffident boy seeking anonymity while depicting the world for what it was. How utterly Charles. Despite him being a misfit who always ran about town instead of tending to estate matters, he was an honest, respectable boy. While his fellow peers debauched women in the name of England and a good time, he couldn’t even bring himself to talk to them. For a while, she’d actually wondered if he preferred men. Though clearly, he didn’t.
“Might I…open the door, Miss Vance? Can I trust you to—”
“I won’t slit your throat, if that is what concerns you.”
“Good. I am pleased to know that you and I have an understanding.” Magdalene pushed the key into the lock, turning it. She pulled the door open, bracing herself for what lay beyond.
The lanterns within the corridor filtered into the darkness, displaying uneven wooden planks, overturned buckets, brooms and the figure of a woman who remained hidden in the shadows. The figure drifted into the wavering light of the corridor.
Magdalene’s lips parted.
A pale but strikingly beautiful and youthful face appeared. She couldn’t have been older than nineteen. Thick tendrils of curling blond hair cascaded out from a lopsided chignon as the saddest, bluest eyes she’d ever seen met hers. Though her azure cotton gown was simple in its fabric and stitching, whispering of a merchant class, there was an unspoken sophisticated elegance to this girl. It was the way she held her chin despite having emerged from a dark space. Those hands flattened her loose gown against her sides. “Though I have yet to show, I am with child. Given that you are his mothe
r, I thought you should know.”
Magdalene staggered and placed a shaky hand to her lips, to keep herself from gasping. She could feel the pulsing within her own hand and lips and throat as she continued to stand there, unable to believe that Charles would do this. “Are you certain we are referring to the same man, Miss Vance?”
The woman lowered her chin and pursed her lips. “Tall? Astonishingly tall, actually. Dark hair? Brown eyes? Has a dimple on his left cheek when he smiles? Has a fancy for Latin words? Carries a leather-bound sketchbook that he makes use of at the oddest of times? Is that not him?”
Oh, but it was. “It is indeed him.” She swallowed in disbelief. “Have you informed him of your…condition, Miss Vance?”
“Yes. When he visited me last. Four days ago. He hastily gave me all the money from his pockets and left.”
Charles was going to be a father.
And the mother was the daughter of a chemist.
Heaven help her and the world itself, the boy had unknowingly followed the path of his father by impregnating a lower class woman. “Miss Vance. I apologize for not being more responsive. I am a bit overwhelmed at the moment.”
A gargled laugh escaped her lips. “You are overwhelmed?” Her voice now wavered, despite that chin still jutting out. “This tale has yet to end. Whilst I was going about my business, not even two days after I announced all of this to him, I was astounded to see Mr. Royce himself stepping out of a crest-emblazoned carriage on Regent Street. And he wasn’t wearing his usual wool and cap. He was wearing clothes meant to blow the whistle off a woman. So I paid a hackney to follow him about town. Imagine my surprise when I find he’s an aristo living all fancy here on Park Lane!”