Page 38 of The Duke
“Not exactly.” She’d never had the opportunity to study Greek or any other language. She’d had no governess, and only a rather rudimentary education before attending nursing school. But she’d chanced to see the painting of Venus by Henri Pierre Picou at a gallery, and had been so moved, she’d simply had to devour everything she could about the Roman goddess of love and, of course, her Grecian counterpart, Aphrodite. Though she’d let the haughty viscountess think what she liked.
Imogen tried some of the main course as the conversation proceeded around her. She was able to wash it down with a bit of wine and let out a sigh of relief as some of the strain began to unstitch from her muscles.
How grand and extraordinary these people were. She appreciated their acumen and intelligence, but also their progressive principles. Not only did the men converse with conviction and compassion, but they also listenedwith interestwhen their wives spoke. They respected their views and opinions, and discussed them with as much candor as they would any man’s.
It was all rather unsettling, while at the same time very inspiring.
They not only approved of her cause, they championed it. In fact, the Blackwells and the Mackenzies had already begun to draft documents for Parliament regarding hospital and prison reform. Two years prior, Dorian Blackwell had been instrumental in the Prison Act of 1877, which centralized the prison systems and brought awareness to some of the inhumane acts and egregious conditions, including those of younger offenders and children born into incarceration.
When Imogen had approached them, with Millie’s help, they’d not only been receptive to her ideas, they’d been delighted. To speak of available medical care and facilities for the poor didn’t at all worry her. It wasn’t a subject most were unsympathetic to. But when she’d spoken of shelters for desperate women and children, for those who’d been mistreated by their spouses, or those who’d been coerced into prostitution, the response had been unexpected and overwhelming. Even the stoic and unaffected Mr. Argent had been what some might call enthusiastic… if they knew him well enough to tell the difference.
Her first step was to convert her home to the Lady Sarah Millburn Women’s Refuge, in homage to her late husband’s first wife. Once she’d established that, her next step would be to acquire property in all the boroughs of London, from Westminster to Whitechappel, and open similar facilities, staffed with medical professionals to care for the ill and ill-treated, bodyguards to protect the property from pimps and dangerous husbands, and then educators who could help the women find work or means to support themselves. Months ago, it had seemed impossible, and now, because of the success of this night, and the promise of many nights like it, the goal seemed not only possible, but attainable.
As the dessert course arrived, treacle tarts and coffee, Imogen seized upon the moment to address all those present. Standing, she tapped her silver spoon against her crystal goblet and summoned the address she’d spent an entire week memorizing.
“While you’re all here, I wanted to take this opportunity to express my gratitude for your support and sustenance of this foundation. We are a blessed few, and we have a divine opportunity to care for those less fortunate. Thank you all and please enjoy the rest of your evening.”
The enthusiastic applause both startled and thrilled her, and Imogen glowed when she took her seat. She suddenly found that she couldn’twaitto tally the donations and get to work.
“A divine opportunity?” Edith wrinkled her nose and rolled her eyes. “Isn’t that a diplomatic way of saying that it is our heavenly mandated duty to give to the poor?”
Offering the woman a brittle smile, Imogen refused to be cowed by her ignorance. “Isn’t it, though? Be you Anglican, Catholic, Hebrew, or any number of religions, caring for the poor seems to be a rather universal edict.”
“Some of us are rather more used to giving edicts than obeying them.” Trenwyth followed his caustic remark with a sip of his coffee.
“Not all of us were born a duke,” she gently reminded him.
“I certainly wasn’t,” he volleyed back.
“Perhaps not,” Ravencroft said evenly. “But ye are one now, and ye have to admit to a certain amount of privilege that accompanies our nobility, whether we are the firstborn or not.”
Trenwyth shook his head. “Yes, but with that privilege also comes a great amount of responsibility. Do we not care for our tenants and subordinates by providing employment? They work lands that we own and maintain at great cost. Generally the relationship is mutually beneficial, and the financial accountability always falls to us. Do we not care for the empire’s economy by purchasing wares and sundries, by sponsoring various hopeless causes?”
“Hopeless causes?” Imogen echoed.
Ignoring her, he continued. “Wasn’t it Machiavelli that stated there had to be those who must need to work to make a living or society would collapse? If we privileged few supported the less fortunate instead of allowing them to work, who is served by that?”
“I’m in complete agreement with you, Your Grace,” Lady Edith stated smugly. “If the upper classes didn’t demand and pay for luxury, then how would the merchant classes live? And if they didn’t make a living, how would they employ anyone? We provide the entire empire an extraordinary service.”
Argent’s cold, blue eyes narrowed. “By all means, let them eat cake.”
“We’re hardly discussing economics.” Blackwell interjected, his gloved hands gripping his utensils just a little too tightly. “There are those, even in this room, who were born with less than nothing and still had our dignity,our humanitytaken from us. Perhaps if someone felt it their responsibility to help, we wouldn’t have struggled thusly.”
Trenwyth gestured to Blackwell “But you make my point entirely, you and Argent are self-made men. There are those who would say that you’ve done rather well, despite your circumstances, and without charity.”
Blackwell and Argent shared a look. “No one should have had to do what we did to get where we are.”
Trenwyth made a derisive noise. “We’vealldone things we shouldn’t have had to do. Some of us in ourowninterest.” He gave Blackwell and Argent a pointed look. “And others in the interest of the empire. In the service of every British soul.” He gestured to Ravencroft, punctuating his argument with his prosthetic.
It struck Imogen at that moment, how much Blackwell and Ravencroft resembled each other. Each with glittering, marble-black eyes and ebony hair. Same stubborn jaw and patrician nose. A similar cruelty of expression and sardonic brow.
The Scottish laird glanced between Trenwyth and Blackwell as though torn. Imogen knew that, like Trenwyth, he was both a peer by birth and a soldier by trade. But a tender sort of guilt touched his gaze when it alighted upon Blackwell, stirring a particular suspicion within her. Could his noble blood tie him not only to the crown, but another royal line? That of the reigning king of the London underworld?
Ravencroft, the unquestionable elder of the congregation, held his chin as he considered the growing rift at the table. A line, it seemed, was being drawn between those with inherited titles, and those without. “I see the wisdom in both of yer perspectives. Aid and service can be given in many forms. Not only by charity, but also with protection and leadership and justice. There are those of us who are expected to lead, to govern, is that not its own service?”
“Absolutely.” Mena put her hand on her husband’s arm, ever the peacemaker. “Also those who toil to heal and care and, of course, research ways to better our health and comfort. We can’t forget those who enforce the law and even those who clean our homes and dispose of our rubbish. There are innumerable ways to contribute, and it seems to me that Lady Anstruther is only providing one more way to serve and save others for those of us who are inclined to give of their bounty.”
Trenwyth set his prosthetic on the table with a heavy sound. “Some give life and limb, is that not enough?”
