The Perfect Waltz (19 page)

She cleared her throat. She’d done that several times, he realized. He looked at her. She looked back, frowning.

He realized they had been dancing for some time in silence and that he might very well have been frowning the entire time. He tended to do that when he was thinking. Frown. Giles had informed him once he looked extremely menacing while deep in thought. He performed another movement, then, as they came together again, he said abruptly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be impolite. I was miles away.”

“Yes, I have something on my mind, too,” she said. “You recently purchased an orphan asylum.”

He blinked. It was the last thing he expected her to say. “Yes.”

“Why?”

He stiffened and said coldly, “My reasons are private.” He should have expected this. People always wanted to know things. But he would explain to nobody, not even Miss Hope Merridew, his family connection with the Tothill Fields Institution for Indigent Girls.

“You are a mill owner, are you not?” She moved forward in a
chassez
step, spoke, then retreated.

He frowned at the faint note of accusation in her voice, and when they came together again, he said, “Yes. It is not a secret.”

“You have never mentioned it before, however.”

Her tone flicked him on the raw. “No. I did not think you would be interested. I am not ashamed of my mills.”

“Apparently not!”

This annoyed him. A great many people in the ton owned such things as mills and mines and other manufactories but would not admit it openly. “In fact, I own several mills.”

“Indeed?” She twirled around him, nose in the air.

“Woolen mills as well as cotton mills.”

“Fascinating.”

It took several movements of the dance before he was able to say to her, “And I am not the least bit ashamed of it.”

“No, well why should you be? And I suppose you have children working in frightful conditions for long hours, as well, and are not ashamed of that, either.” She met his gaze squarely, awaiting his response.

Sebastian was so angry he refused to answer.

The silence stretched. She stopped in midstep. “You
do.
You exploit little children under frightful conditions for your own profits.”

He forced himself to say in a clipped voice, “I use child labor. There isn’t a manufactory in England that could survive without it. But the conditions are not frightful—”

“I completely and utterly disapprove of the employment of children in manufactories.”

“You know nothing about it.” If mills did not employ children he, his brother, his mother, and baby sisters would have starved. Mind you, having experienced the conditions firsthand, he had made a number of changes since he became the owner.

“I have listened to several speakers on the subject, and their descriptions have moved me greatly. Children, little more than babies, imprisoned in fiendish mills, slaving twelve to fourteen hours a day for a crust of bread!”

“My workers are not babies—”

“How could you—how could any man who calls himself a gentleman—justify it! Getting fat off the misery of children!”

Fat! Nettled by her accusation, he snapped, “I am not getting fat off—!”

But Miss Merridew wasn’t there to hear him hammer in the final nail. She had stalked off the dance floor, leaving him standing alone.

Sebastian watched her go, furious with himself and with her. He knew what she was asking—what people were whispering about what he wanted with a pack of female orphans. Girls of
that
sort. She might not know—few people did—that the Tothill Fields Institution for Indigent Girls made a specialty of rescuing girls from child brothels! Even so, he was furious that the suspicion had so much as crossed her mind that he would exploit any young girls! Or any children!

The children who worked for him were not exploited, dammit!

He wanted to storm after her and shake her till her teeth rattled! He wanted to kiss her senseless until they were both too weak to stand! He would then tell her the truth.

Instead, he decided to drown his sorrows. He stalked off the dance floor, indifferent to the stares he was receiving. So what if she had deserted him in the middle of a dance? What did he care for the opinions of a parcel of overfed aristocrats?

The thought reminded him of her final accusation. Why that should rankle worst of all was a mystery to him—but it did.

He found Giles sprawled loose-limbed on a bench beside Lady Elinore, a look of lazy amusement on his face. Lady Elinore sat bolt upright, her reticule clutched tightly in her hands. Her lips were pursed, her nose was in the air, and her small, pointed chin jutted pugnaciously. Their dance had apparently ended early, too.

Morosely he joined them. There was a long silence after he’d greeted them. Lady Elinore took the opportunity to stiffly excuse herself. She scuttled away.

Giles watched her go, grinning. “You’ve frightened her off, Bas, with that fearsome black scowl of yours. Whatever has put you in a temper?

“You didn’t see?”

“No.”

“You didn’t miss much. Miss Merridew and I had a difference of opinion, that’s all.”

“I see. What about?”

Sebastian had no intention of going into details. But there was that one thing he could ask an old and trusted friend about. “She said I was getting fat,” he said indignantly. “Am I fat, Giles?”

Giles’s response was a loud crack of laughter. “Tell me all, Bas. Tell me all.”

 
Hope spent the next hour alternatively fuming and feeling guilty. Great Uncle Oswald and Mrs. Jenner had hauled her over the coals for leaving a man standing in the middle of the dance floor in such an uncivil manner. And when she’d tried to explain, each of them had reprimanded her in no uncertain terms.

“Good God, missie, tellin’ a man who he should and shouldn’t employ! It’s none of your business. A lady shouldn’t even think of such matters!” Great Uncle Oswald snorted. “Besides, there’s probably not a man in the room who don’t benefit from child labor—as do the children, missie, so don’t look at me like that!” He’d wagged a stern finger at her. “Would you rather they starve, eh? Besides, country’s economy depends on it.” He gestured. “D’ye think that elegant Persian rug over there was made by genteel ladies sippin’ tea, or brawny men with rolled-up sleeves?” He shook his head. “Persian children. Their fingers are the only ones small enough for such fine work. Same goes for dozens of things. Children are cheap and have nimble fingers. And England must compete, keep the prices down, otherwise the country will go to the dogs. Besides, it keeps them usefully employed and out of mischief. Otherwise we’d have swarms of beggars and pickpockets on the streets! Bad enough as it is!”

Mrs. Jenner, too, was very severe. It was unforgivably rag-mannered of Hope. Yes, he was a cit, and Mrs. Jenner didn’t intend to encourage the match, but it wasn’t Mr. Reyne she cared about, it was Hope’s own reputation. “Mark my word, my girl, no gentleman will ask a lady to dance if he fears that a chance word might prompt her to humiliate him in public!”

Hope glanced at her dance card to see who she was engaged to dance with next. Her heart sank. Mr. Bemerton. The very last man she wanted to dance with. Hopefully, good manners would prevent him from raising the subject, but even so, it would be a trial to dance with him, knowing he would probably wish to scold her as well. She wondered if she could plead the headache. She glanced at Mrs. Jenner and received an implacable fishy stare in response. No, she would not get away with leaving another man partnerless.

Mr. Bemerton walked toward her, his face serious for a change. He’d obviously heard what she’d done to his friend. Hope girded her loins, pasted a brittle smile on her face, and allowed him to lead her onto the floor. And when he questioned her—showing no manners at all—she was completely frank with him.

“You accused Sebastian Reyne of exploiting helpless little children?” Mr. Bemerton threw back his head and laughed. He laughed so much Hope grew quite cross. He was drawing unwanted attention to them.

“Hush!” She hissed. “I do not see what is so funny. He admitted it himself.”

“He told me you said he was fat.”

It took her a moment to recall the conversation. When she did, she was inclined to feel indignant. “I said nothing of the kind. I accused him of getting fat off the misery of the children who labor in his mills!”

“Do you think he’s fat? Can’t see it myself.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous! You know perfectly well Mr. Reyne is as lean as a lone and hungry wolf!”

His eyebrows rose at this, and Hope realized her choice of words might be misinterpreted. “You know what I mean,” she muttered, trying not to flush and fearing from the heat in her cheeks she was not succeeding. “He’s not fat.”

“Yes, I know.” Mr. Bemerton smiled quite kindly. “You may not know it, but he himself was once one of those miserable little child laborers in the very mill he now owns.”

Hope’s mouth dropped open. “I had heard. I forgot.”

He nodded and continued. “The details are his to share or not, as he wills it, but no one in this room is more aware than he of what children endure, or of the dangerous conditions in which they labor.” He glanced at her. “You will have noticed his damaged fingers?”

She nodded.

“Again, the details are private—he will tell you one day, I am sure—but they were injured in a mill accident when he was a child.”

Hope bit her lip. She felt dreadful. After some time she asked him, “How do you know all this?”

Giles smiled. “I can tell you that, for the story is mine as well as his. I first met Sebastian Reyne at school, when we were boys of seven.”

“School? But you said he was a factory—”

He nodded. “Bear with me, Miss Merridew. His family—and this is for your ears only—he’d kill me if he knew I’d told you—is as good as yours or mine, though why he doesn’t want it known is beyond me. We became friends at school, and I’ll tell you now, he was the best friend I ever had. I was a scrawny little fellow in those days.” He grinned. “Not the fine figure of a man you see before you now.”

Hope returned his smile. Slender, elegant, and of medium height, Mr. Bemerton would never be called a large man. She could easily imagine him as a small boy.

“Add to my lack of inches the crime of possessing long, golden locks, and you will perceive how I was most horribly bullied as a child.” The light, merry tone dropped. He said quietly, “In fact, my life was a total misery.”

He paused as the dance separated them, and Hope reflected that all children had their crosses to bear. To look at Mr. Bemerton, one would think his life had been all ease and pleasure and indulgence.

“Well, as I said, I was utterly miserable. Tried to run away from school, but always got dragged back.” He grimaced. “To make a man of me, you know. Schools are the modern version of fostering that medieval sons of knights experienced, so I suppose I should be grateful that nobody was trying to chop bits off me with a sword as well.”

He shook his head as if to clear it of memories. “Anyway, all the bullying stopped when Bastian Reyne arrived. He was a bit of an outsider, too, but he was big even then, and he knew how to use his fists. He used them on my behalf, and he showed me how to use mine. That sort of thing forges enduring friendships.”

“Then how did he end up on a factory floor?”

Giles Bemerton pulled a rueful face. “To cut a long story short, his father committed a number of acts that made both society and his family disown him, and Sebastian disappeared from school one day under a cloud not of his making. I ran into him quite by chance years later when we were sixteen. I was driving though Manchester. He was a ragged factory laborer as tall and skinny as a lath, except for those shoulders of his. I wouldn’t have recognized him, except that I saw his eyes as he looked away from me. He didn’t want to know me, thought I’d disown him, too. But . . . as I said, our friendship was forged in a hot fire.” He grinned at her. “And I’ve already told you more about Sebastian Reyne than anyone in the ton knows.”

“I see.” After a moment she asked, “Why would you choose to confide in me?”

He shrugged. “What are friends for? I knew you’d misjudged him. And I know that Sebastian would rather gnaw off his paw than to court anyone’s pity, so he won’t tell you. But to call him a vile exploiter of children’s misery!” He chuckled. “If you ever wish to see a northern mill owner spit with fury, ask him about Sebastian Reyne’s child laborers.”

“Spit with fury? Why?”

Giles winked. “Reyne’s letting the side down. Oh, he pays the same sort of wages, but he won’t take the very young ones. And he feeds ’em, morning, noon, and night. Not fancy meals, but none of his little workers have the gnawing belly he had as a child. And one afternoon a week they attend school to learn reading, writing, and arithmetic. The clever ones do more. He says he’d never have risen above the factory floor if he hadn’t had those first few years of schooling. Brilliant with numbers, he is. Anyway, all of this makes him grossly unpopular with other mill owners. They see him as a dangerous radical, one who needs to be stopped.”

Hope suddenly recalled Mrs. Jenner’s words.
“Lord Etheridge said Sebastian Reyne was an extremely dangerous man . . . he has interests in the cotton industry and would know!”
But what Lord Etheridge meant by dangerous was not what Mrs. Jenner imagined.

“Oh, I have so misjudged him,” she said remorsefully. “And I didn’t even give him a chance to explain.”

“He wouldn’t have anyway,” interpolated Giles. “Too proud. Loathes being pitied.”

“I am so mortified. He must despise me.”

Giles regarded her thoughtfully. “You must discover his true feelings for yourself. All I ask is that you not reveal my confidences to others. He is a private man and would hate his story to become fodder for the gossips.”