“The result, Captain Emerson?”
Again, his expression was mischievous. “You may not be so glad of my company without my indulgence.”
It was a warning and a fair one. If he indulged as much as she feared he did, the sudden cessation might leave him disgruntled, if not worse.
“I am not afraid of you, Captain Emerson,” she said with resolve.
“Is that wisdom or folly, Mrs. North?”
“It is trust,” she said firmly, noting the flicker of surprise in his eyes. “I look forward to your arrival at Almack’s this evening, Captain.”
Eliza returned to Damien’s carriage, wondering at the bargain she had made. Thomson called to the horses and the carriage began to move when Eliza looked up at the house. She spotted Helena at the window, watching her departure, that girl’s expression inscrutable.
Between the two of them, Eliza’s evening might prove a challenge, indeed. But despite that, she could not regret the prospect.
Not in the least.
Miss Esmeralda Ballantyne did not, as a matter of principle, incur debts.
To owe money or favors to any other individual was to be beholden to that person, and this she could not abide. In addition, those who made loans had a nasty habit of demanding repayment of said obligations at the most inconvenient moment possible. As a result, Esmeralda bought what she could afford, paid immediately and owed nothing to anyone.
Thus, it troubled her deeply to have a benefactor, even in her current dire situation.
That the identity of this mysterious patron was unknown to her, was simply salt in the wound.
Fleet Debtor’s Prison was not the Hulks, but neither was it home. She had nearly despaired on her first day of incarceration, having been required to surrender every penny she carried to avoid being stripped by fellow inmates for her clothes. She had been locked in a cell with a dozen other women, four filthy children and countless vermin, without so much as straw for bedding, much less anything to eat. The crusts of bread cast into the cell and onto the floor were not food in Esmeralda’s view, though watching her fellows and their desperate consumption of those offerings gave an indication that her views might change.
She had not slept for two days, simply stood in one corner with her arms folded across her chest, and despised Jacques Desjardins with every measure of her being.
When they came for her, she feared the worst. To be compelled to provide entertainment to a crowd of dirty and desperate men was not a price Esmeralda was prepared to pay, though she feared she would be overwhelmed and forced to do as much. She was shaking inwardly as she left the cell, planning how she would fight to the bitter end.
To her surprise, she was ushered up the stairs and into a room of her own. It was smaller than the one she had left but markedly cleaner. There was even a window, though barred, which emitted both a beam of sunlight and a waft of fresh air. It smelled like the river, but she was hardly particular after the foul odors of the past two days. There was a stool and a small table, as well as a straw mattress in one corner.
“Doubtless your friend will arrive soon for his reward,” snarled the jailor, then locked the door behind himself.
She had been bought, evidently, and doubted the sum had been more than a few pounds for the benefactor would have to pay the warden for this privilege, too. She nudged the mattress with one booted toe and vermin did not erupt across the floor, which was some consolation.
“I should like a broom,” she called at the door. “And a bucket of water.”
The jailor’s voice was a growl of irritation. “Your ladyship has expectations,” he sneered.
“As will my friend,” she said sweetly. “I am certain a measure of his generosity goes to your purse so neither of us would wish for him to be disappointed, would we?”
There was a moment of silence instead of a reply, then the sound of the jailor’s footsteps faded. It took an hour, but Esmeralda had her bucket of cold water and her broom, though the light filtering through the window had dimmed.
“I will need a light to make a job of it,” she said when the sloshing bucket was set on the floor inside the door.
The jailor eyed her. “Then I might have need of a favor myself,” he said, but Esmeralda had her limits.
And she possessed a small advantage that she was not adverse to using.
She smiled as she removed her gloves, but knew her gaze was hard. “I would not recommend such a demand,” she said with resolve. “Friends, in my experience, do not care to share, particularly with those outside of their social class.” She let her eyes widen. “Such a demand might eliminate this ally’s interest completely, and that would regrettably leave both of us the poorer.”
He muttered a curse and slammed the door behind himself, but Esmeralda had her candle. It was short and made of tallow, the kind that smoked and would soon gut itself, but she was glad of it all the same. She removed her jacket and hat, then set to work, praying all the while that her mysterious benefactor did not abandon her.
She knew only his contribution was keeping her jailor’s demands at bay—after this support was withdrawn, her position would be worse than it had been and she would become the lowest victim in the entire prison.
She had best make the most of opportunity. She would also have need of a comb.
