Page 51 of Love with a Notorious Rake

Before attending the dinner, he stopped to speak to Rokesmith, as he’d not had a chance since their theatrical performance in the courtyard. He might as well see the lad since he was on the property. Aidan handed him the bag filled with biscuits and rolls.

“Look at you,” Rokesmith snorted. “A toff, to be sure, in your fancy coat.”

“I am to attend a dinner. Up there.” He pointed toward the upper floor residence of McRae’s. “But three days past, I had information come my way concerning missing sick children and pregnant young women. You’re holding back. You know more than you have revealed,” Aidan accused.

Rokesmith gave him a dismissive shrug. “We need to build the trust, remember? And if I’m keeping quiet, it’s to protect them.” He pointed to the children.

“You will be telling me. For I have a distinct feeling this will come to a head sooner than I had first believed.”

Rokesmith frowned. “I tossed the meat pies. What are you doing about that?” Changing the subject, shrewd of the boy. Obviously, Aidan would not be given any information tonight.

“What do you suggest? Confronting the pieman? Though I am tempted to pound him into a bloody pulp, he would run to McRae quicker than I can blink. For now, continue to test them; if they are inedible, toss them. I will try to bring different food, as well as the biscuits and rolls.” Aidan met the lad’s intense gaze. “Sooner or later, we will have to trust each other.”

“Maybe.”

Lottie skipped up and stopped in front of him. “Hello, sir.” She gave him a shy smile.

Seeing this lovely child immersed in this horrific situation made his heart ache. Without thinking, he crouched down to her level. “Hello, sweet girl.” He grabbed the bag from Rokesmith, reached in, and brought out two biscuits. “For you, a special treat. It will be our secret.”

Her eyes lit up, and all at once, he wished he could gift her with more than biscuits. A better future. A decent life. The girl threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly.

“Here, Lottie. You’ll get Mr. Black’s coat all dirty,” Rokesmith scolded.

A lump formed in Aidan’s throat. The child was aching for affection, and it tore him in two. He hugged her back. “It’s all right,” he murmured.

Lottie kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear. “Thank you, sir.”

Thanks for what? The biscuits? The hug? He should be thanking her, for allowing him to see what the world was truly like beyond the borders of Wollstonecraft Hall—and beyond the borders of his own selfishness. When it came down to it, all people wanted was a little love in their lives. Some humanity. A warm bed and a full stomach. It shouldn’t be too much to ask for.

Lottie released him, bit into the biscuit, and skipped away. Aidan stood, handed the bag back to Rokesmith, and with a nod headed toward the residence. Time to prepare for his performance. He could not be distracted by adorable orphans—not tonight, at any rate.

In his three weeks here, he had not laid eyes on McRae’s wife or son. Were they prisoners in the tower? The entrance to the residence was located in the rear, and, he’d heard, usually locked. But as Aidan rounded the corner, a middle-aged man in fancy livery stood in the doorway. As a guard, no doubt. “Mr. Black?”

“Yes.”

The man checked the list. “Welcome, sir. Directly up the stairs.”

Gaslight wall sconces illuminated his way. McRae had modern lighting in his home, but not in the mill. Typical. As Aidan stepped into the upper hallway, he had a look about. Wood walls with fancy trimming. Directly ahead were open, frosted-glass French doors. When he stepped across the doorsill, it was as if he had entered one of the fancier rooms at Wollstonecraft Hall, complete with chandeliers and gold silk wallpapers—though not as large, of course.

Already a group of men were deep in conversation, clasping glasses of some sort of punch. Off in the corner were three women sitting on chairs, whispering furiously. He did a quick head count. Eight people so far, excluding the host and hostess, the men outnumbering the ladies.

Standing near the door was McRae. Next to him was a rather beautiful woman with a vacant stare. Must be the wife. After handing his long coat to one of the footmen, Aidan stood before the couple.

“My dear, this is Aidan Black, of whom you have heard me speak. My wife, Portia McRae, the daughter of Sir Michael Linton, baronet.”

Aidan lifted the gloved hand of Mrs. McRae and bent over it, giving it an air kiss. “My distinct pleasure.” Leave it to McRae to brag of his wife’s connections.

She murmured something indistinguishable. Aidan stood straight and gave her an assessing gaze. Good God, was she drugged? For he was well aware of the dazed and fogged expression of those under the influence. It could be laudanum, the drug of choice for middle and upper class women.

“I wish to speak to you, Aidan, as soon as I am done greeting my guests.”

McRae had never called him by his first name before. “Of course.”

“Help yourself to punch and mingle.”

He moved to the sideboard and stared at the pink beverage in the silver bowl. Filling his glass half full, with no intention of drinking it, he stood to the side, his back against the wall, assessing the room.

Aidan supposed these other men owned businesses in the village—some were probably those greedy devils who ran the stocking industry. As his gaze slid across the room, Dr. Middlemiss strode in with Cristyn on his arm.