9. The Painful Mourning #3
Mr. Moore knelt beside her chair without hesitation, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and gently drew her hands away from her face. Kate looked at him through her tears, finding his green eyes steady and full of compassion and understanding.
“I can’t do this,” she whispered. “Three days of this. Facing them all, pretending to be strong when I—”
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said softly.
He dampened the handkerchief with water from a pitcher on the nearby side table and carefully pressed it to her forehead, his touch as gentle as a breeze.
Kate closed her eyes at the coolness of it, at the unexpected tenderness of the gesture. When she opened them again, he was still there, still watching her with those comforting, patient eyes.
“Why are you being so kind to me?” she asked softly.
“Perhaps because you deserve kindness,” he replied, his hand still holding the cloth to her temple. “And perhaps because I know what it’s like to feel completely alone in a room full of people.”
Their eyes held, and for a moment the chaos beyond the alcove faded completely. Kate noticed the way the light caught in his hair, the unusual softness of his features, the way he looked at her as if she were something precious rather than a business asset to be managed or claimed.
She was so confused about him. Were his intentions truly pure, or was he just another man who wanted what she had built and had found a more elegant way to take it?
And yet—what were her other options? If she had to choose, and she did have to choose, wouldn’t he be the better one? At least with him she could breathe. At least with him she could still be herself. At least with him—
Then she saw him smile at her, that kind of smile that always made her chest grow warm. Could someone who smiles like that be capable of deceiving her at such a vulnerable moment?
“Everything will be alright,” he said.
And she felt the tightness in her chest lessen, as if his mere gaze and his reassuring words were capable of relieving some of the burden she was already enduring.
A loud throat cleared deliberately from the doorway.
Mr. Moore stood immediately, stepping back to a more respectable distance as Kate hastily wiped at her eyes.
Jane stood there with a glass of water, her expression neutral though her eyes flicked between Kate and Mr. Moore with obvious interest.
“Miss,” Jane said, fully entering and offering the glass. “I thought you might need this.”
Kate took it gratefully, sipping while trying to quiet her restless mind. Jane waited, clearly having more to say.
“What is it?” Kate asked softly.
“Lord Ramsay has just arrived, miss. He’s insisting on seeing you personally. Says it’s a matter of great importance.”
Kate’s entire body tensed again, her jaw tightening. “Tell him I’m indisposed.”
“I did, miss. He says he’ll wait as long as necessary.”
Kate’s hands clenched around the glass. The last thing she needed right now was Ramsay’s oily sympathy and transparent opportunism.
“I’ll speak with him,” Mr. Moore said quietly.
Kate looked up sharply. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.” His expression was calm but determined. “But you shouldn’t have to face him if you don’t wish so. Let me handle it.”
Kate only stared at him without saying no or yes, she just stared.
Jane looked at them with interest, and when nothing came from her mistress, she nodded and simply left.
Mr. Moore followed her, leaving Kate alone in the alcove with her thoughts and the lingering warmth of his sweetness.
Mr. Moore found Ramsay in the entrance hall, examining a painting with the entitlement of someone who felt comfortable anywhere. He turned as Mr. Moore approached, his expression shifting from boredom to disdain upon seen him.
“Mr. Moore. Still playing the devoted friend, I see.”
“Lord Ramsay.” Mr. Moore’s tone was perfectly polite, giving nothing away. “I understand you wished to speak with Miss Sullivan.”
“I did. Not with her errand boy.” Ramsay’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “This is a matter between Miss Sullivan and myself.”
“Miss Sullivan is exhausted and grieving. Whatever matter you have can surely wait until after her father is buried.”
“Can it?” Ramsay stepped closer. “Strange how you’ve positioned yourself so conveniently, Moore. A nobody from nowhere, appearing just in time to ingratiate yourself with a dying man and his vulnerable daughter.”
Mr. Moore’s expression remained neutral, though something flashed in his eyes. “My relationship with the Sullivan family is none of your concern.”
“It is when I see a fortune hunter at work.” Ramsay’s voice carried an edge now. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing? Edward is barely cold and you’re already—”
“Choose your next words very carefully, Lord Ramsay,” Mr. Moore interrupted, his voice quiet but carrying unmistakable steel. “This is a house of mourning. Whatever grievances you believe you have with me, this is neither the time nor the place.”
Ramsay laughed, but there was no humor in it. “How noble. How convenient. Tell me, Moore—what exactly are your intentions toward Miss Sullivan?”
“My intentions are to ensure she’s not harassed by opportunists during her grief.”
“Opportunists.” Ramsay’s face flushed with anger. “A fine thing to say indeed. At least my interest in Kate is honest. I don’t hide behind false friendship while scheming for her inheritance.”
“And I don’t corner grieving women with demands for their attention.” Mr. Moore’s voice remained even, but his eyes had gone cold.
“How curious—with your shoulder being the one demanding all her attention right now…”
“Miss Sullivan asked not to be disturbed particularly by you. I suggest you respect her wishes and leave.”
“You don’t give me orders—”
“No,” Mr. Moore agreed. “But she did. And unlike you, I actually respect what she wants.” He paused, letting that sink in. “You can leave now with your dignity intact, or I can have the butler escort you out. Your choice.”
For a moment, Ramsay looked as if he might actually swing at him. His hands clenched into fists, his face darkening with rage. But even he wasn’t foolish enough to cause a scene at a funeral.
“This isn’t over,” he said finally.
“I didn’t imagine it was.” Mr. Moore stepped aside, gesturing toward the door. “Have a good day, Lord Ramsay.”
Ramsay stalked past him, pausing only to deliver one final shot. “She’ll see through you eventually, Moore. Whatever you’re hiding—and I know you’re hiding something—she’ll figure it out.”
Mr. Moore remained silent, meeting his gaze coldly.
After Ramsay had left, he stood in the hall for a long while, his eyes fixed on the retreating figure, trying to steady his emotions.
His hands were trembling, so he ended up clenching them tightly, whether from suppressed anger or simply from the knowledge that Ramsay was fundamentally right, he wasn’t entirely sure.
Would the day ever come when Kate would finally learn his secret? That was something he feared more than anything else ever since he’d appeared before her at that first ball and Gina had been completely captivated by her beauty and her character.
* * *
The cemetery was shrouded in grey, a light drizzle falling as mourners gathered beneath a sea of black umbrellas. Kate stood near the casket, veiled, her posture proud but trembling beneath the surface. Mr. Moore remained by her side throughout the service, not touching, just present.
When the priest concluded his final words and the first handful of soil landed softly on the casket, Kate’s lips trembled. She nodded once, not trusting herself to speak. When Mr. Moore offered his arm, she took it without hesitation.
She leaned on him as her anchor, and Mr. Moore bore the weight respectfully.
In the carriage afterward, Kate sat opposite him, her gloved hands folded tightly in her lap. She stared out the rain-speckled window, eyes unfocused.
“I hate funerals,” she said quietly. “Specially the part where you’re expected to express gratitude for your grief.”
“There’s no rule that says you must,” Mr. Moore replied.
She looked at him then, grateful for the understanding.
Then, as they turned a corner through a crowded street, Mr. Moore glanced out the window and froze.
There, darting across the road with a loaf of bread clutched to his chest, was Vikram.
The boy nearly crashed into a passing cart as a merchant and a policeman chased him at full speed.
Shouts of “Stop right there!” and “Little thief!” could be clearly heard from a distance, even through the rain.
Mr. Moore stiffened, his eyes following the boy as he vanished into an alley.
“Something wrong?” Kate asked, noticing his sudden tension.
He turned back to her, his expression smoothing back easily. “No. Just… the rain is getting thick now.”
Kate didn’t seem entirely convinced, but she was too exhausted to pry.
They spent the rest of the way in absolute silence.
When the carriage reached the Sullivan estate, Mr. Moore helped her down carefully, his hand lingering at her elbow for a moment.
“Will you be all right?” he asked, his voice low with genuine concern.
Kate hesitated, looking up at the darkened windows of her father’s house—her house now, she supposed, though the thought felt foreign and wrong. “I think I need quiet. Just for a little while.”
“Then you shall have it.” Mr. Moore’s eyes searched her face, as if memorizing it, as if he wanted to say something more but couldn’t find the words. “If you need anything—”
“I’ll be alright,” Kate said softly.
She stared at him for a moment and suddenly felt the urge to ask him to stay, to not leave her alone in that empty house with nothing but grief and silence. But she didn’t. Some things had to be faced alone. He had done enough already.
“I may see you tomorrow, Mr. Moore.”
“I’ll be here.”
The waiting butler escorted Kate inside then, leaving Mr. Moore standing at the entrance, too desperate to leave in the rescue of an Indian little thief.
The moment the door closed behind her, he turned sharply on his heel and walked briskly back through the crowded streets, his polished shoes splashing through puddles as his eyes scanned alleys and doorways.
After several minutes of search, the faint echo of shouting led Mr. Moore to an empty alley, where he found exactly what he’d feared.
Vikram was cornered between crates, snarling like a trapped animal as the constable closed in.
“That’ll be enough,” Mr. Moore said, stepping forward with authority.
The constable turned, surprised by the quality of the voice, and the quality of the coat. His posture shifted immediately to deference. “You know this boy, sir?”
“I know he’s under my protection.”
Vikram looked up, wild-eyed as he recognized his former master. Shame shadowed his dirty face so he looked down again.
“He stole, sir. Right in front of me,” the constable protested, gesturing to the crushed loaf of bread clutched in Vikram’s filthy hands. “Can’t let these foreign thieves run wild through the market.”
Mr. Moore’s jaw tightened at the words, but his voice remained calm. He removed his coin pouch without hesitation, the leather fine enough to make the constable’s eyes widen. “How much for the bread?”
“Well, it weren’t just the bread, sir. There’s the matter of my time, and the disturbance to the merchant—”
Mr. Moore counted out coins in his hand, more than enough to satisfy any legitimate claim and then some. He placed them in the constable’s palm one by one, each clink of metal a small assertion of power. “I trust this settles the matter entirely. The boy will not trouble you again.”
The constable weighed the coins in his hand, greed and authority warring on his face. Greed won. “Aye, sir. Generous of you. Very generous.” He pocketed the money quickly, as if afraid Mr. Moore might change his mind. “Though I’d watch that one if I were you. His kind—”
“Are under my protection,” Mr. Moore finished, his tone carrying an edge now. “As I said.”
The constable muttered something that might have been agreement or resentment, tipped his hat with exaggerated respect, and made his way off into the crowd, no doubt pleased with his unexpected windfall.
Vikram remained frozen against the crates, staring now at Mr. Moore with a mixture of suspicion, wariness, and shame.
“Why do that?” the boy asked.
“Because I don’t like seeing people hunted.”
The boy didn’t move, but his posture loosened, the instinct to run giving way to the first real sign of trust.
“Now tell me where you’ve been, and what you plan to do with that bread.”
Vikram hesitated, clutching the loaf tighter. “Eat it. Rest… I don’t know.”
Mr. Moore sighed, the sound conveyed equal parts frustration and affection. “Come along.”
He started to walk.
Vikram watched him walk away for a moment, hesitating over whether or not to follow him, but he ended up taking a step toward him, and then another.
In the tangle of London’s streets, two figures moved as one—a gentleman in fine clothes and a street boy clutching stolen bread.
An unlikely pair bound by secrets neither could speak aloud.
Mr. Moore had built an entire life on dangerous deceptions, on presenting the right face to the right people at the right time.
But as Vikram’s shadow fell in step beside his own, he wondered if perhaps the most authentic thing about himself was the instinct to protect those whom the world had deemed unworthy of protection.
Just as it had happened to Gina herself before she decided to become Jason Moore.