His mouth quirked wryly. “That’s what the barman in the village told Ollie the orphanage was called. I presume that isn’t its name?”

“Some people call it that. But no. It’s Miss Corvus’s Benevolent Academy for the Betterment of Young Ladies.” She paused before adding, “It isn’t your typical charitable institution.”

“I should say not.” Not if they were raising up their inmates to masquerade as elegant ladies rather than women who kept to the humble station to which they’d been born.

Effie stared down at her folded hands in her lap. A deep line of anguish etched her brow. “I wasn’t supposed to return to the Rookery. Miss Corvus forbade it. But I have always imagined that, one day, I might find my mother. It’s been the secret dream of my life.” Her voice cracked and her eyes filled with tears. “I might have known it would prove to be a nightmare.”

Gabriel was up from his seat in an instant. He took the empty seat beside her and, without preamble, hauled her onto his lap. He held her there until her arms circled his neck and her body relaxed with a trembling breath. He removed her bonnet and tossed it aside. His hand cradled her head against his shoulder.

He was fully aware of the impropriety of his actions. Not even husbands and wives engaged in this degree of intimacy in public. It was vulgar. Unseemly. But Gabriel cared nothing for social rules at the best of times. And now…Well.

He cared only for her.

“Parents,” he said. “They’re always a disappointment.”

She struggled to contain her tears. “What does her behavior say about me?”

“Not a blasted thing. You’re no different now than when we walked into that cottage. All that’s changed is that you’ve discovered your mother was a heartless tart. There’s no point crying over it.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m not. I’m done with weeping.”

“Good,” he said. “She doesn’t deserve it.”

“How could she—?”

“Because people are mad. Most can’t be trusted with a dog, let alone a child. Yet still they produce them, year after year. Legions of starving, miserable wretches left to roam the streets with no guidance.” His hand moved over her silk-encased back in a reassuring caress. Her bodice was fashionably tight, the hard seams of her corset rigid beneath his palm. “I speak from experience, sweetheart.”

Her breath gradually grew quiet and regular under his ministrations. “You remember your childhood.”

“Regrettably.”

“What do you recall?”

“Hunger,” he said without hesitation.

“Yes,” she agreed. “And not only for food.”

He turned his face against her silken, sweet-smelling hair. Honey and black currants. The fragrance filled his lungs, stirring untold longings within his jaded soul.

“You have no other recollections?” he asked.