A Scoundrel of Consequence. Helen Dickson

supper time. My mother is keen to carry on what my father began and devotes many hours to the institute. We also have volunteers who come to help for what they can do, not for what they can get. The institute really couldn’t manage without them—or the benefactors, who help fund it. We feed the children, provide them with articles of clothing, which are donated to us, and if they are sick or injured we patch them up as best we can.’

      ‘Even though some of them are criminals, uncivilised and riddled with vermin and diseases they might pass on to you?’ William asked, raising himself up so she could pass the bandage over his shoulder.

      ‘Yes, and since that is exactly the kind of children who come here, we have all the more reason to try and make their young lives more bearable. The place might not look much, but times are hard just now. However, we do have plans and raise funds in many ways to enable us to find larger premises and hopefully found an orphanage.’

      ‘And are you successful in your fund raising?’

      ‘Sometimes. You see, I make it my business to know the names of wealthy people I can approach for monetary contributions.’ She smiled when she saw his eyes register surprise. ‘You must think me terribly mercenary to go around trying to extract money from people like I do, but it’s because I care for the children.’

      ‘You are so hungry for their money?’

      ‘Oh, yes—and I am not ashamed to say so.’

      ‘Just remember that greed is a terrible thing, Miss Greenwood.’

      Cassandra started at his statement, her gaze darting to his enigmatic dark blue eyes. ‘Please don’t look at me like that, Captain Lampard. I’m not greedy—at least not for myself. Only for the children. Money means nothing to me, but you have to agree that it is a useful commodity, and a few pennies can be the means of life or death to a starving child.’

      ‘Maybe so, but for a young lady to tout for money by herself is highly irregular I would have thought. It is also a dangerous game you play.’

      ‘Nothing is only a game, Captain Lampard.’ The sparkle was gone, leaving only a frosted blue in Cassandra Greenwood’s eyes. ‘To many people, the notion of becoming allied with a woman in such a way is so extraordinary as to be laughable—and distasteful when they realise I am indeed serious.’

      ‘Do you not think you should take what God sends you and be thankful?’

      His words were so glib and offhand that Cassandra gave him a rueful stare. ‘Try telling that to the children. You look surprised by what I do, Captain.’

      ‘Surprised, yes—and appalled to a certain extent. You are an attractive young woman, and why your family has allowed you to become involved in this unusual and somewhat dangerous enterprise, I cannot imagine.’

      ‘My work at the institute is often hard and intense and keeps me away from home for long periods, but I take pride in what my father began and in my work and what I achieve—that the children who come here go away with full bellies and, if they’re lucky, a pair of boots, even though I know that in all probability they will sell them for a few pennies when they are back on the streets. A great many of them are orphans, others are unwanted, having been turned out by parents who have too many mouths to feed already, and others have been sold to chimneysweeps and the like for a few shillings. The children who come to us have nothing—and very little hope. Someone has to watch over them.’

      ‘And you think you can make a difference to their lives?’

      ‘A few of them, yes.’

      ‘There are always the workhouses—and the charity schools—and the hospital for those who are injured.’

      ‘The workhouses are appalling places, but better than living on the streets, I do agree, but they don’t house all the children and the hospitals exclude children under the age of seven—except for those who require amputations.’ Her lips curved in a wry smile. ‘How sad is that? Are you aware that out of all the people in London who die, almost half of them are children?’

      ‘No, I was not aware of that,’ William replied stiffly, never having thought of it since this was the first time he’d had contact with anything to do with destitute children. He scowled. Cassandra Greenwood had an irritating tendency to prick his conscience and to make him feel inadequate in some way, which he was beginning to find most unpleasant.

      Having finished her task, Cassandra looked him straight in the eye. ‘I’m not proud, sir, just determined to carry out what my father started, and if you can find fault with that then I am sorry for you.’

      ‘No, Miss Greenwood, I can find no fault with that. You speak brave words. Such sentiments are highly commendable and admirable to say the least.’ Swinging his long legs on to the floor and standing up, he was relieved that the last vestiges of haziness had left his mind.

      Cassandra’s breath caught in her throat, for the lean frame unfolded until the man stood a full head and shoulders taller than herself. Assisting him into his ruined jacket, collecting the soiled dressing and instruments Dr Brookes had used, she moved away from him.

      As she busied herself with the task at hand, William watched her, his eyes roving approvingly over her lithe figure, stopping at the swelling breasts beneath the restricting fabric, then straying back to the shock of honey-gold hair. His fingers ached to release it from its strictures, to run them through the luxuriant softness and kiss the shaded hollow in her throat where a small brooch was pinned to the neck of her dress. He studied her stance and the language of her slender form. Despite his experience with the opposite sex, he wasn’t familiar with women of her class. He’d made a point not to be, but this one made him curious.

      All of a sudden warning bells sounded in his mind with such unexpected force that he knew he had to get out of that place, to dispel the unwelcome, unpleasant thoughts as he tried to understand what it was that made an attractive woman like Cassandra Greenwood want to waste her life in this sorry establishment for underprivileged children.

      He was a shrewd and rational man, a man of breeding and style who understood his motivations and knew his goals. He prided himself on his good sense not to be swayed by emotion or flights of fancy, so it came as a shock that he wanted to know more about Miss Greenwood—and that was the moment he realised what was happening. He—the ruthless and heartless Lord William Lampard, Earl of Carlow in Hertfordshire, with a distinguished army career, who kept London alive with gossip and scandal when he was in town—was afraid of the effect that this place and Cassandra Greenwood was having on him.

      ‘Tell me, is there no board of trustees you are answerable to?’

      Cassandra stopped what she was doing and turned her blue-green eyes on his with a candid air. ‘Trustees? Oh, yes. There are four on the board—Dr Brooks and a colleague of his at St Bartholomew’s, my mother and me.’

      ‘I see. I was beginning to think you were your own woman, Miss Greenwood.’

      ‘I am, in every other way, answerable to no one. Very much so.’

      ‘And there is no prospective husband in the offing?’

      ‘No. I like my freedom and independence—which is something a husband isn’t likely to give me.’

      ‘That depends on the husband. No doubt, given time, things will change.’

      When Cassandra met his gaze she experienced a shock of something between recognition and a kind of thrilling fear. Those eyes, deep blue and narrowed by a knowing, intrusive smile, seemed to look right past her face and into her self. For that split second she felt completely exposed and vulnerable—traits unfamiliar to her, traits she did not like.

      ‘Not if I have my way, Captain Lampard. And I always do.’

      ‘I can see that. However, I am not here because I want to be convinced of the merits of children’s charities. I am here because I was shot and in no condition to object—although I do thank you for all you and Dr Brookes have done.’

      ‘Don’t