"No, no, Richie," Gerald chuckled good-naturedly. "Of course, you'll be accompanied by a representative of the charity, a social worker, a journalist, John, and a driver-security guard."
"Hmm," Richard said skeptically. "I can just imagine how 'happy' the kids will be when such a crowd descends on them. Okay, I'm up for anything."
"Excellent!" Gerald clapped his hands joyfully on his thighs. "I knew you'd understand the importance and necessity of such an action."
- Dad, I've decided to donate fifty thousand pounds to charity. Not dollars.
"Okay, I'll take that into account. Son, be ready. I'll try to arrange a trip this Saturday."
***
Saturday arrived surprisingly quickly. Richie had arrived in London on Friday and was staying at 70 Rich Street. It was a necessary arrangement, as the trips to visit the orphans would have to be made to the capital's suburbs.
The bedroom door swung open, and John stood there. As usual, he was wearing a perfectly tailored three-piece suit.
The valet immediately noticed that his charge was already awake. He said in an exaggeratedly cheerful tone:
"Good morning, Mr. Richie. What a wonderful day. Just a reminder, you're leaving for a charity event in two hours. So, hurry up and wash up. Today we'll be doing gymnastics without a coach, and then we'll have breakfast."
- I'm getting up already, John.
Richard went into the bathroom. From there he asked:
- John, how will our escorts get there?
"The journalist will be traveling with us, and the social worker will be driven by a charity representative in his own car. First on our list is a visit to the town of Little Whinging, outside London."
"I don't recall such a town, but the name sounds eerily familiar," Richie replied. "Couldn't this foundation have chosen orphans who live nearby?"
"I believe, sir," the valet replied stiffly, "that there's no point in helping orphans living in central London. They're already provided with everything they need."
- What's so special about this Little Whinging?
- A specialist from a charity foundation said that they had received complaints from neighbors that the adopted son of one of the families did not look right for the family's status.
"What do you mean?" Richard's gaze, directed at the valet from the bathroom to the bedroom, was filled with bewilderment.
"Forgive me, Mr. Richie, but I can't say for sure. Apparently, the family has a biological son, and he looks plumper and better dressed, while the adopted child looks like a scrawny old man in rags compared to him."
"Why do we need such a complicated case?" Richard asked in surprise.
"Sir, as I understand it, helping a child from a disadvantaged family like this will have a greater impact in the media. That is, it will have a more positive impact on your image as a philanthropist than a simple visit to a foster family."
"In that case, we'll need the constable's help," Richard stated. "I'm certainly confident in the security guard's abilities, but if this family is truly dysfunctional, it's better to be on the safe side. I wouldn't want to end up in the hospital a second time."
"Very well, sir. I'll pass on your wishes to the charity representative. I believe a police escort would be helpful."
When Richard and John left the house, a journalist was already waiting for them on the threshold, and a Bentley Eight was parked near the sidewalk.
The girl with shoulder-length light brown hair had an unattractive appearance, an ordinary young British woman with dimples, brown eyes, a sharp chin, and slightly hunched shoulders. Her breasts weren't her strong point either; they were small, and her slouched posture and the tight green dress, complemented by a long black coat, made it difficult to see anything at all. The journalist appeared to be around twenty-five, give or take two years. She was of average height.
"Fiona Bruce, BBC South East Text Newsroom," she introduced herself. "And you, I presume, are John and Lord Rich?"
"Good afternoon, miss," John replied primly, bowing. "You're right."
"Good morning, Miss Bruce," Richard said politely. "Pleased to meet you. Please come in," he said, pointing to the back door of the car.
"Oh, what a luxurious car!" the journalist marveled. "It's the first time I'll be driving one. I'll have to get used to it," she added jokingly.
"Nothing special," Richard shrugged. "Four wheels, a steel body, and a smoky hydrocarbon-fueled engine. If it weren't for the family's status, I'd drive something more eco-friendly and fuel-efficient, something that doesn't guzzle three buckets of gas for every hundred miles."
The journalist laughed.
"That's a funny point, Lord Rich," she said. "But if you think about it, it really is status that motivates rich people to buy expensive cars."