Page 65 of Dare to Love a Duke
For several minutes, the only sounds in the laundry room came from the pounding of the bat in the tub.
“I still cannot figure it,” he said abruptly. “Why my father would risk the reputation of his family, his name.”
This was simpler to speak of than her past. “He used to interrogate me when I’d come to deliver his portion of the profits. ‘How many guests came to the club with a companion? Were they slow to start rogering each other or did they get to rutting at once? Did more women than men attend, or was it evenly matched?’” She shrugged. “I never questioned what compelled him. So long as he kept the doors open, I knew I had a chance to make my dream of the girls’ home a reality.”
Tom grunted. “Mayhap he liked it, being a respected figure in public, and having this salacious secret.”
“I suspect,” she said drily, “that many men of principle live such double lives. They enjoy the contradiction, the duplicity.”
He continued battering the garments with strokes that grew more and more violent. “What if they’re forced to do things against their will? What if they have to weigh the costs and benefits to every action, and can’t ever honor the wishes of their own heart? Is that deceit, or is it what responsibility demands?”
With each word, he pounded harder and harder. Her heart squeezed—she hadn’t thought of what he faced or the burdens he carried. She’d been focused on her own needs and fears. Yet she saw that he, too, struggled. That was why he was here, to briefly escape the heavy weight of a responsibility that made him do things he didn’t want to do.
For all his wealth and power, he wasn’t free.
“Tom.” But he didn’t seem to hear her, and she placed her hand on his bicep.
He paused, his chest heaving, and sweat slick over his body. “My sister’s happiness depends on me acting contrary to my beliefs. And if I do the wrong thing—if I invest in a business that hurts some, but will net me a profit I can use to help many others—how do I choose? Which is more important.” His jaw tightened. “I don’t know. I don’t fucking know.”
“You’ll find your own way,” she said gently.
Brimming with uncertainty, his gaze held hers. “I’m glad one of us believes that.”
Chapter 15
It was nearly impossible to see stars in the night sky above London. Lampposts and smoke choked the atmosphere, and even the half-moon was merely a white smear. Yet as Tom reclined on the roof, his hair still damp from his recent bath, he kept his head tilted back, watching the sky.
Great God, but he was exhausted. Even at a distance, the process of cleaning clothes had always appeared laborious. Yet nothing could have fully prepared him for the grueling work that was doing laundry.
After the garments had been thoroughly pounded with the heavy bat, he and Lucia had rinsed everything in a second tub of cool water. Then had come the wringing. Hells above, the wringing. She couldn’t afford a clothes mangler, so getting the water out of the clothing had been done by human labor. Hours later, his hands were only barely uncramping.
All that to get a bundle of garments ready to be given away.
For all her steely-eyed will to survive, Lucia had a heart that was bigger than London. Perhaps she considered it a liability—but he surely did not.
But could he afford to have a heart where his dealings with Brookhurst were concerned? The question of investing in the Midlands Canal Company continued to gnaw at him, taking bites from his spirit. He’d come to the Orchid Club for a place to hide himself away, but this could not be ignored.
God above, he still did not know what to do.
“Ah, here you are.”
He turned his head to see Lucia peering at him from the attic door.
“Supper’s on the table,” she said, “if you want it.”
His stomach rumbled—it had been many long and taxing hours since he’d last eaten—but he wasn’t yet ready to abandon his contemplation of the sky.
“I’ll be down in a quarter of an hour,” he said. “Begin without me.”
There was a pause. And then, “Care for some company?”
He patted the shingles beside him. “Room for one more.”
After shutting the door behind her, she eased down beside him. Together, they contemplated the city.
“That’s St. George’s tower.” She pointed to the southwest, and the sharp peak and its statue of King George I. “When it’s very still, I can hear the bells toll the hour, and on Sundays, if I’m not at St. Patrick’s in Soho.”
“A Catholic church, yes?”
