Free A Lady's Secret Weapon by Tracey Devlyn Page A

the nurse’s and gave it a small jerk as she sailed onward once again. Being in such close proximity to the woman made her muscles bunch and her nose quiver over the abundance of starch the woman used. “Come, Mrs. Drummond. Tell me what the boys are doing when they are not at their studies.”
    She didn’t think it was possible for the older woman’s back to get any straighter or her lips to get any firmer. But Mrs. Drummond managed it with great aplomb. “Each child has a task he must complete before the sun sets.”
    “Intriguing,” Sydney said. “Do these tasks ever take them outside of Abbingale?”
    The woman’s gaze shifted to the floor above. “I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Mrs. Kingston your question. She develops the task schedule each week.”
    They made their way down the long corridor, and Mrs. Drummond continued highlighting the different aspects of Abbingale Home. This floor held three large, rectangular sleeping chambers, each one holding ten narrow beds and little else. The beds lined each side of the room, with a corridor of empty space down the middle. Trunks rested at the foot of each bed, holding the boys’ meager belongings. Everything was uniformly in its proper place, much like what she would expect from a rigid military installation. Outside of the single portrait on the far wall, the room held not a speck of color.
    “Who’s the stern-looking gentleman with the odd-looking creature sitting on his lap?”
    “Sir Francis Abbingale and Zeus.”
    Sydney’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a feline?”
    “Matron calls the abomination a scant-haired cat.”
    “I’ve never heard of anyone making a mouser into a pet.” Sydney wondered if the cat’s lack of hair was one of those unusual birth defects that occur not only in the animal world but with humans as well.
    “And you’ll likely not hear of it again. Sir Francis has a penchant for finding the unusual.”
    “Obviously, Sir Francis is one of the founders. Who else sits on the Board of Trustees?”
    “There are five trustees, including Sir Francis, Lady Kipland, and Mr. Livingston.”
    Sydney ticked off the names on her fingers. “Francis, Kipland, and Livingston. What about the last two?”
    “They prefer to keep their involvement anonymous.”
    “Anonymous?” Sydney repeated, confused. “Is that even possible?”
    The nurse snorted. “Anything is possible when one waves money around.”
    “Yes, well, look at these beds,” Sydney said brightly, redirecting their attention. She made a mental note to have Amelia ferret out the names of the final two trustees. “So crisp.”
    The nurse glanced around. “As always.”
    “Do the boys make their own beds?”
    “Of course. We do not tolerate any of the seven deadly sins, especially sloth. If left alone, the little beasts would do nothing all day except play dice and cause mischief.”
    “Your diligence is so refreshing.” Sydney wondered if laughter ever echoed off these walls.
    Mrs. Drummond insisted Sydney view the other two sleeping chambers, and Sydney found them both depressingly similar to the first, right down to the portrait of Sir Francis Abbingale. In the other two paintings, the gentleman held an incredibly small monkey in one and a masked rodent with black bands on its back in the other.
    “What happens to the boys if they don’t complete their task by sunset?”
    “They are persuaded not to have it happen again.”
    “Oh?” Sydney paused to swipe her gloved finger along the bed frame. Spotless. “In what way? Do you force them to darn all the stockings in the laundry?”
    “I couldn’t say.”
    “Because you don’t know?”
    The older woman’s lips clamped together.
    “Would the other nurse? Or, perhaps, Mrs. Kingston?”
    “What is the point of these questions? As you can see, the boys are well-attended.”
    “On the contrary, Mrs. Drummond. I see only empty beds. How is it that I am in a home for orphan boys and it has no orphans?”
    “You will