Two sets of eyes flicked from me to the window and back again, each man utterly befuddled.
Slowly, Miss McAllen tucked back into the window and I stepped back into the house.
“I’ll be a little while,” I called back over my shoulder to the waiting men.
“Seems like it, lad.”
Twenty
DALTON PLACE, LONDON - JULY 5, 1816
TOM
My week continuedin the same vein—dragged off to Hart and Summers, Solicitors, to half-heartedly assist in some manner, then return home to drink until I could sleep.
Kit and I hadn’t spent any significant time together before, but he was easy company—reminding me a great deal of my eldest brother in temperament and wit. While the work was messy—I’d left covered in soot every single day—I could see why Kit enjoyed having an occupation and was reluctant to give it up. This work offered a small sense of purpose I hadn’t known before.
On Saturday, I woke to a now expected knock—to find not only Kit, but three familiar housemaids from Grayson House who bustled in without explanation and set about cleaning without a word.
“What…”
“I told Katie you would need at least three. Do not worry, they’ve been very well compensated for the extra work.”
“But—”
“No. You’re disgusting.”
“Thank you.”
His only response was a raised brow and a nod toward the door. Dutifully, I followed him on what had become our ritual. First, a stop at Hudson’s, followed by the practiced walk to the offices.
Hudson’s was bustling, as it always was, but Anna waved with a smile from behind the counter when she saw us before returning her attention to the patron at the front. While I missed having the exclusive access to her pastries that I had enjoyed when she served as maid at our family home, I was pleased at the evidence of her success.
Kit and I joined the back of the line, content to wait our turn with the knowledge that our usual selection was already set aside for us.
My eyes slid shut as I inhaled. The air in the bakery was always sweet and buttery, with varying waves of whichever fruit tart was currently in the ovens—I suspected apple this morning, but I wouldn’t stake my life on it. The scent was comforting, as familiar as it was mouthwatering.
“Brother,” a familiar voice washed over me.
I opened my eyes to find Michael, bag in hand, an unfamiliar expression on his face.
“Can you spare him this morning?” he added, turning to Kit.
The man merely nodded, too focused on the proximity to pastry to devote much attention to anything else.
“Walk with me? I need to get these back to Jules before the craving passes.” He raised the bag, presumably full of some delectable treat or other.
“Pardon?”
“Apparently women with child have cravings. And husbands are expected to fulfill those cravings. I do what I’m told,” he added with a shrug.
I turned to follow him before recollecting myself. “Do not forget my tart. Whichever is currently in the oven, please,” I said to Kit.
“You’ll get whatever she has saved and like it,” he retorted without turning.
Rather than argue, I sighed as I followed Michael out. Any tart was better than no tart—and was certainly delicious.
As soon as we stepped out of the crowded shop and onto the street, Michael cleared his throat uncomfortably. We turned toward his home while he waffled for a moment before finally settling on, “How have you been?”
