The lights within the Anderson's city manor burned brightly into the late evening when a woman dressed in a deceptively demure gown of emerald green velvet approached. Wringing her gloved hands, she cautiously climbed the steps and stood before the oak door. A brass door knocker dangled from a bolt in the wood, but the woman chose to rap her knuckles against the door instead.

She pulled her shawl close about her to block the chill, her own fear niggling at her brain, almost making her change her mind and run. She might have turned, might have stepped quickly back down the staircase and ran back the way she came if she didn't feel so weak...and if the door hadn't already started to open.

Brown eyes appraised her suspiciously, and she didn't blame them.

“Yes, madam?”

“I hav' come t' speak t' Lord Anderson,” the woman replied, pulling her shawl down slightly over her face, further concealing her eyes. “Does he still reside ‘ere?”

“Yes,” the maid answering the door replied skeptically, “but he is rather engaged at the moment. Can I tell him who has come to call?”

The woman darted her eyes nervously from side to side. She leaned slightly toward the maid who made no move toward or away.

“Could you please just call ‘im to the door?” the woman asked. “It's a matter of some impor'ance.”

“I am afraid I cannot do that, miss,” the maid replied, her irritation mounting at the presence of another uninvited guest seeking audience with his lordship. “You will have to leave a message, or come back at another time?”

“Who is it, Marley?” Kurt's voice rose above the music and the general din of the guests. “Who is there at the door?”         

“A woman, milord,” Marley said with a dismissive tone, “to see his lordship. She will not give me her name.”

Kurt moved closer, opening the door wider so that he may see the woman on the doorstep. Kurt's smile never faltered as he admitted the mysterious woman into the entryway. The shawl around the woman's head slipped, and she fumbled to put it back into place, but Kurt got a good look at her before she did. She had blonde hair that spilled from a tight spiral knot at the back of her head. Her face was done up with heavy makeup - a thick dollop in particular smudged beneath her right eye failed to conceal a painful looking black-and-blue, the bruise shining like a beacon from her too pale skin. Her lips were painted heavily with rouge. There was no doubt in Kurt's mind as to what this woman was, but he wanted to know if he was right.

“May I ask how you know my husband?” Kurt asked.

“We've been…intimately acquainted, m'lord,” the woman admitted shamefaced, shaking in Kurt's presence straight down to her knees. Marley gasped audibly, and Kurt shot his maid a severe look. “But that's not why I'm ‘ere, m'lord,” the woman assured him. “I ‘ave…I ‘ave a letter for his lordship…on behalf of a mutual friend.”

Kurt approached the woman, who automatically took a step away. He smiled at her, trying to appear as benign as possible. He assumed she hadn't had many favorable interactions with members of the opposite sex.

“Well, if you give the letter to me, I'll be sure that Lord Anderson gets it right away, Miss…”

“Brittany,” the woman said, bobbing a small, wobbly curtsy, “and beggin' your pardon, m'lord, I promised to deliver it to ‘im personally.”

Kurt opened his mouth to object, but the woman continued.

“It was a deathbed promise, m'lord,” she said, bowing low, hiding her suddenly wet eyes behind her shawl.

Kurt felt his heart twist. He didn't want to let his husband anywhere near this woman, but this was an issue that had naught to do with him, and besides, it would be a sin to deny a deathbed request.

“Marley,” Kurt commanded, keeping his eyes on the woman who struggled to regain her feet, “please fetch Lord Anderson from the ballroom.”

“Yes, milord,” Marley answered, sounding as if she didn't approve of the task set to her.

“And Marley?” Kurt called, catching his maid before she left.

“Yes, milord?”

“Please fetch our guest a plate of food from the kitchen and some brandy.”

“Yes, milord,” Marley said, bustling away.

“I'm sincerely sorry to intrude, m'lord,” Brittany began, “but I didna know you and y'ur husband were receiving guests this evenin'.”

“That's quite alright,” Kurt said, bringing forward a wingtip chair and motioning for Brittany to sit.

Brittany looked at the chair oddly, as if she meant to refuse the seat, but her knees wobbled again, and she was forced to sit.

“Thankin' you kindly, m'lord,” Brittany said. “Y'ur vastly more civil than I thought you'd be, all things considered.”

Marley came with the plate of food before Blaine arrived, and it broke Kurt's heart to watch the woman eat, devouring the food without chewing it, shoveling it into her mouth as if she hadn't seen food in weeks and wouldn't see it again after this. Probably no further in age than Kurt, Brittany's face appeared much older, lines around her mouth deeper than they should be, her eyes more burdened with sadness and loss than should be allowed. 

“Brittany?” an authoritative voice called from the hallway. Her face bobbed up from her empty plate, which she was in the process of licking clean. Blaine entered the entryway with Marley behind him. He stared at the blonde woman with conflict in his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“She came to bring you a letter, my lord,” Kurt said, stepping up to his husband, his voice commanding in a quieter way than Blaine's. Blaine looked from Kurt's face to Brittany's, and then back to Kurt's with a curious expression.

Brittany stood from the chair on steadier legs after she downed the glass of brandy. She handed the licked plate and the empty snifter to Marley, who looked at them and Brittany with the same repulsed expression she would use if a mange-ridden cat had just dropped a dead rat in her lap.

“That will be all for now, Marley,” Kurt said after seeing her face, sending the girl on her way.

Brittany walked up to Blaine and handed him the folded piece of paper, which she pulled from inside her glove. Blaine took the letter, opened it and read it. Brittany watched on, her eyes clouded, and Kurt wondered if she knew what the letter contained. Kurt did not read over his husband's shoulder, but watched his eyes as they scanned the page. Blaine read the letter over twice, and then peered at the signature, as if he was trying to make out its authenticity.

Satisfied, he folded the letter and looked at Brittany.

“Thank you for delivering this,” he said, though he looked anything but. He shoved the letter in his pocket and turned to Kurt.

“I need to away immediately,” he said. He turned over his shoulder and, seeing his manservant lingering nearby, he motioned for the man to come over.

“No, my lord,” Kurt said, feeling a little bitter at Brittany for showing up when she did. Tomorrow at breakfast perhaps, or in the afternoon would have been a better time. Not now during their first ever ball – not after they had gotten the chance to make love.

Kurt had been hoping that after all the guests had departed, he might be able to persuade Blaine to make love to him again.

“It's imperative that I go, my love,” Blaine said softly.

Sam came over and bowed to his master.

“I will need my hat and coat, and the carriage hitched and brought around,” Blaine commanded. “And please make haste.”

“Yes, Lord Anderson,” Sam said and hurried away.

“Can you at least tell me where you are going in such a hurry, my lord?” Kurt asked.

“I would explain it all to you if I had more time,” Blaine said with regret. “But we'll discuss it as soon as I get home. I promise.”

Kurt nodded. Sam returned with Blaine's coat and hat, and helped him put them on. Kurt held tight to Blaine's cane while he dressed, and handed it back over when Blaine was done.

Blaine pulled a gold coin from his pocket and handed it over to Brittany, who took it with eyes shining.

“For your trouble,” he said.

“Thank ye,” Brittany said, bobbing a curtsy and tucking the coin in her cleavage.

“May I drop you off somewhere?” Blaine asked Brittany.

Brittany looked at Blaine, and then at Kurt, who smiled politely, but dropped his eyes.

“No, m'lord,” she said, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders, “I'll be a'right. Your husband has a'ready been execp'ionally gracious. I wouldna want to impose.”

“It would be no imposition,” Blaine said, trying harder to persuade her, but the woman shook her head of blonde curls and backed away toward the door.

“You are very generous, m'lord,” she said, reaching a hand back to open the door, “but for the sake of your marital happiness, I must decline.” She opened the door a crack, and with a smile and a nod, ducked out into the night, closing the door behind her.

Blaine looked at Kurt, as if he didn't realize Kurt might not appreciate Blaine riding alone in a carriage with a woman of Brittany's chosen profession.

Blaine waited till Sam had gone to ready the carriage, then walked over to Kurt, wrapped his arm around his husband's waist, and held him tight.

“I'm yours now, my love,” he whispered, placing a kiss on Kurt's cheek. “No one else's mouth will ever tempt me the way yours does. No one else's eyes will ever look at me the way you do. I will not dishonor you with anyone. I promise.”

Kurt let those words sustain him after Blaine kissed his forehead and headed out into the night.

The clock had only just struck eleven when Blaine slipped into his awaiting carriage and took off. Down the more unfamiliar streets of London the horse-driven carriage took him, stopping at the gates of a deserted looking compound.

Blaine rapped the head of his cane against the heavy wooden door, the sound echoing within. Blaine waited a tense moment, keeping an eye out for thieves in the shadows, but no one came to answer. Everything appeared abandoned. Blaine rapped again, harder. He saw the flicker of a lamp making its way down a long corridor. Blaine heard the shh…shh… shuffling sound of dragging feet, and a tinny high-pitched voice muttering swears. The door opened, the iron hinges squeaking loudly. A ghoulish woman with thin skin stretched tight across her bones and sunken black eyes off-set in her narrow skull peered menacingly at him from beneath a flimsy shawl.

“It's th' mid'le of th' night…” was the greeting she croaked. She let her eyes roam unabashedly over him, “m'lord,” she added at the appearance of his fine suit and layered driving coat.

“I have come for a child,” Blaine announced.

“Com' back tomor...”

The jingling of his purse dangling in front of her face stopped her tongue.

“I cannot return,” he said. “You understand, I'm sure.”       

The old woman reached out spindly fingers to grab hold of the purse. She weighed it in her hand.

“Wha' age?” she rasped, her voice harsh like the grating of metal against metal.

“I need a particular child.” Blaine held the letter Brittany had given him open in front of the woman's eyes.

“We don' do requests...” she said, batting it away.

Another leather pouch of coins halted her speech. She snatched it and had the audacity to weigh this one as well.

“Come in, m'lord. There ar' papers to...”

Blaine pulled forward a third pouch and plopped it into the old woman's already outstretched hand.

“Why don't you fill out those papers for me, hmmm?” Blaine said as he followed her down the hall. 

The gray woman looked up at him, her dry lips splitting into a wicked smile. 

“Gregory?” she bellowed, not caring whom she woke from a sound sleep. Within the space of a breath, a skittish child appeared. He was no more than five by the look of his face, but he had the stature of a three-year-old, and from what Blaine could see of his arms, the shivering child was nearly skeletal.

“Y-y-y-yes, m-m-m-madam?” the child squeaked with a pronounced stutter.

“Go fetch tha' dark-haired brat what calls herself Beth.” The child took no notice of Blaine, only nodded to his mistress and sped down the hallway, bare feet shuffling along the rough stone floor.

“An' be quick with you or I'll skin yur hide!” she yelled to the child's retreating back.

Blaine was disgusted, but he held his tongue. He couldn't save them all, but he needed to at least get the child he came for.

From the far end of the dark hall, Blaine could hear a door creak open. A dim ray of light spilled out from the narrow entryway. Against the light, Blaine could see the shadow of another small child as the first stepped out. In their fist they clutched a beat-up box with a make-shift handle. With their free hand, they rubbed a fist to their eyes. Whether the child was crying or simply wiping the sleep away, Blaine could not tell. The child walked cautiously toward them, head bowed.

“Quick now,” the old harpy wailed. “There's sum of us needs to sleep, a'right?”

The child quickened their pace, keeping eyes fixed on Blaine.

Beth stepped into the light, and Blaine noted with amazement the child's inquisitive green eyes...just like hers. Blaine felt something inside him die.

“Your mother sent me for you,” Blaine said softly.

The child nodded, a multitude of questions hiding behind her tired eyes. Blaine put an arm around the child's narrow shoulders.

“Do you have all of your clothes?” Blaine asked, nodding toward the case in her hands. 

“Her clothes are sufficient,” the irritated woman answered for her. “Now be off with you both and leave us in peace.”

Blaine ushered the girl away, glancing back over his shoulder to look at the child called Gregory, his diminutive face fading in the shadows of the grim orphanage. A lump rose to his throat and settled there.

In a perfect world, those three bags of gold Blaine surrendered would go towards making that boy's life better, along with the lives of the other destitute children boarding within.

But Blaine knew the world they lived in was far from perfect.

Blaine took Beth's frail hand in his and led her swiftly to his carriage, eager to be gone from the disgusting confines of the orphanage and its severe-faced proprietor.