“There are so many,” Pauline murmured.

The duchess nodded. “And those are only the boys of school age. There are just as many girls in the other wing. And hundreds of younger children are spread throughout the surrounding counties. They’re accepted as infants when their mothers surrender them, but then sent to foster families until school age.”

“And then they’re removed from those families again? That must be doubly cruel, to lose not only the mothers who birthed them, but then the only mother they’ve known.”

“Still, they’re better off than many,” the duchess said. “They have their basic needs met, their education provided. When they’re old enough, they have help finding posts in trade or in service. Our own Margaret in the scullery at Halford House was raised here, as were several grooms and gardeners at the Cumberland estate.”

“It’s very good of you to think of them.”

“We have a duty, Miss Simms. For those of our rank and privilege, it is not enough to mean well. One must do some good.”

The words prodded a tender place inside her. All her life she’d dreamed of doing better—for herself, and for her sister. So far she hadn’t achieved even that. But the Duchess of Halford possessed the power, confidence, and funds to do good for whole swaths of people in need. It was a grand step up from dropping pennies in the church box.

Suddenly, the duke halted mid-step. “What is that miserable urchin wearing?”

He nodded toward a bench in the corridor. On it sat a child—a boy of perhaps eight or nine years. He was wearing the same brown uniform all the foundlings wore, but it was capped by a malformed knitted object, fashioned from yarn in an unfortunate shade of green.

To Pauline’s eye, the mess of yarn appeared to be an abandoned sleeve, but the boy had the thing pulled over his head. It seized his crown in a lopsided, putrid-green hug, covering one eyebrow and ear entirely and riding high above his temple on the other side.

She fought a smile. It could only be the duchess’s handiwork.

“What is that?” the duke repeated.

“I believe it’s a cap,” Pauline offered.

“It’s a travesty.” The duke approached the youth. “You there, lad. Let me have that cap.”

The boy shrank from him, clutching one hand to his head and shielding his face with the other. He probably assumed that defensive posture often. He was a smallish child, Pauline noted. Pale and thin, with a fading bruise on his left jaw. Bullied by the larger boys, no doubt.

“You don’t want to give it up? Fine.” Halford removed his own brimmed felt beaver and held it out. “Here.”

“Wh-What?” the boy stammered.

“I’m offering you an even trade. My fine, tall new hat for your . . . thing.”

The perplexed boy removed his knitted headgear, and the two of them made the exchange.

“Go on, then,” the duke said, once the boy had the beaver in hand. “Put it on.”

The boy obeyed, placing the duke’s hat on his head. The thing came down to his ears, but by tipping the brim back and peering in the glass of a nearby window, he was able to survey his reflection.

It was probably because he was craning on tiptoe, but . . . Pauline could have sworn the boy looked three inches taller. A dangerous pang snatched at her heart.

“What’s your name?” the duke asked.

“Hubert. Hubert Terrapin.”

“Did they give you that name here, too?”

The boy nodded glumly.

“Well, at least the hat suits you,” said the duke. He balled the tangle of green yarn in his hand. “Chin up, then. I know you’re a foundling, but surely things aren’t as bad as this.”

The duchess cleared her throat with impatience, and their group continued down the corridor.

As they walked, Pauline couldn’t help but steal glances at the duke. It was such a slippery thing, her disgust with him. At the slightest sign of decency on his part, the anger began to wriggle out of her grasp.

She tightened her hand in a fist. So he’d given a foundling his hat. What of it? He had dozens of hats, and could buy dozens more. Throwing money around didn’t make him a good man. It just made him a wealthy man.

A wealthy man with a strong, handsome profile. And no more hat to shield his dark, touchable hair from her view.

He cut her a sudden, sideways glance.

“Aren’t you going to put it on?” she asked, nodding at the green “cap” in his hands. “It was a trade.”

He scowled at it. “Probably writhing with fleas.”

“Impossible,” the duchess insisted. “This institution has strict standards of cleanliness.”

“Their standards are lacking,” he muttered. “This is unacceptable. I know they’re penniless, cast-off scamps without a possession in the world, but they must be permitted some pride.”

Pauline’s stomach twisted as she looked to the duchess, knowing the parcel the older lady carried beneath her arm was probably crammed with similar travesties of yarn—all misshapen, all rather useless. But every one of them the products of hope and motherly love.

Griff’s insults might be unintentional, but surely they had to wound her. That hurt must go deep.

Twin smudges of color appeared on the duchess’s high, aristocratic cheekbones, but that was the only reaction she showed.

She said, “We are not here to quibble with the fashion sense of foundlings. Today, we are here to tour the nursery. Come along.”

The nursery?

At that, Griff balked. “No.”

His mother turned. “What?”

“I said, no. A man must draw a line somewhere, and my line is definitely between this particular bit of flooring”—he gestured at the tile directly beneath his boots—“and the nursery door.”

“Don’t you like infants, your grace?” Miss Simms asked.

“Not especially. Noisy and noisome things, in my limited experience. I believe I’ve had enough touring the facility for one day.”

“We’ve nearly walked the perimeter of this wing,” the duchess said. “If your goal is to leave, it’s faster if we go through the nursery.”

He leveled a hard stare at his mother. “I know exactly what you’re doing. You plan to take me in that room and pop a squalling, sticky creature in my arms. Because you think that experience will leave me vibrating with desire to make a squalling, sticky creature of my own. Perhaps there are men that ploy would work on. But I tell you, it won’t work on me.” He began a backward stroll. “I’ll be in the carriage.”

“Wait.” With a quick curtsy in the duchess’s direction, Pauline joined him. “I’ll go, too. I’ve had a sneeze or two this morning, and I don’t want any babies catching cold.”

“Simms, you should stay with my mother.”

“So should you.” She paced him down the corridor, taking three steps for his every two. “You truly don’t like being here, do you?”

“No. I truly don’t.”

“You could be a little more agreeable.” She shook her head. “I’m starting to understand the duchess’s frustration with you. And sympathize.”

“My family has supported this establishment since its inception. I have no intent to discontinue that tradition.”

“But you could be giving more.”

“Very well. I’ll donate an extra sum toward proper autumn apparel.” He shook the green cap in his hand. “We can’t have this sort of thing occurring.”

“You needn’t be so snide, you know.” She took the cap from him. “It’s ugly, yes. But clearly it was made with love.”

“Made with love? That? That was made with incompetence, if not outright malice.”

She sighed. “You don’t understand. You’re missing my point, and your mother’s. When I say you could be donating more, I mean more than money. You could give your time and attention.”

He shook his head. “The doctors and matrons who run this establishment want nothing from me but a timely bank draft.”

“They seem happy to have your mother’s involvement. She makes regular visits and brings . . . things.”

As they moved back toward the main hall, they passed an empty room. Pauline noticed a familiar-looking face cowering in the corner.

“Hubert,” the duke said. “That’s you again?”

The boy approached them, mournful and hatless.

“What happened to your fine new hat?” Pauline asked. But the fresh split in the boy’s lip told the story well enough. “An older boy took it from you, did he?”

The lad nodded.

She pulled Griff aside and whispered to him. “Griff, this is exactly what I mean. You can do something for him.”

He showed his empty hands. “I don’t have another hat.”

“No, no. You made an impression on that boy earlier, and it had nothing to do with the hat. You spoke with him, treated him like a person worth something. Talk with him now. Give him some manly advice, or teach him to fight. It might be beneficial for you, too. It’s good to feel useful now and then.”

He cast a wistful glance toward the exit. “Simms, you seem to have forgotten that you are my employee. I hired you to distract my mother, not to give me advice.”

“Well, then. Consider it a bonus.”

Good God. Did her impertinence know no bounds?

“You’re a powerful man,” she went on. “And it’s not only to do with your money or your title. You have the ability to make people feel valued, when you’re not making them feel like rubbish.”

She didn’t understand. He wanted to help the lad. He truly did. But he wasn’t in any condition to offer benign encouragement right now. This place had his viscera in turmoil. All the little footsteps pattering right over his heart . . .

“Sorry,” he said curtly. “I just don’t have the time.”

Oof.

The punch seemed to come out of nowhere, though rationally he knew it must have originated at the end of her right arm. There was no doubt about where it landed—square in his gut.

He fell back a step, reeling.

“Hubert,” she said, her eyes never leaving Griff’s, “since his grace can’t spare the time, you’re getting your fighting lessons from me.”

“Simms, you can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m serious.” She tugged off her gloves with her teeth and cast them aside. She circled him with raised fists, taunting. “What? You’re not going to fight back?”

“You know very well I can’t hurt a woman.”

“Oh, please. You are entirely capable of hurting a woman. Expert at it, I’d guess.” She feinted a jab to his ribs, then darted away.

Clearly she was angry with him, for reasons that had little to do with hats and foundlings. Griff would gladly let her take swings at him later, but he couldn’t have this discussion right now.

He held up his hands. “I’m done here.”

“Oh no, you’re not.” She dodged in front of him, blocking his only route of escape. “If you’re not brave enough to throw a punch, I’m sure you can find other ways. Call me names, perhaps. Insult my origins. Or I know. Perhaps you could bring out that slow, obnoxious applause.”

“Is that what this is about?” He narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re vexed with me for not cheering your little water-goblet concert?”

“No,” she shot back, defensive. Then she revised, “In part. You were purposely hurtful this morning.”

“We made an arrangement, Simms. You agreed to be a failure. I’m paying you handsomely for the trouble. I thought that’s what you wanted.”