“We fucked, Pandora.” His harsh words cut short her breath. “If you think to manipulate me with your sexual charms, think again. Your wiles no longer work on me. I will take as much time as I want to decide upon our future, and you have no say about it. Now I’m going out. When I return, I’ll expect you back in your own room.”
Silent, her lungs straining for air, she tried to summon a reply.
Brushing past her as if she were invisible, he stalked out.
Chapter Ten
1819
“Milady, it isn’t safe for you—”
“I’ll be quite alright.” Penny cut the footman off in tones that brooked no argument. “Wait here at the carriage. I shall return shortly.”
She headed down the narrow lane framed on both sides by leaning, ramshackle tenements. The air was choked with smoke from cooking fires, and lines of wash crisscrossed overhead, the garments swaying like limp flags of surrender. Poverty was an invincible enemy, but to Penny’s mind, the inhabitants of this small street on the fringes of St. Giles were still fighting the good fight. At least the folk here still bothered to cook and do laundry—which was more than she could say for some of the places she’d lived growing up.
Poor but not yet beaten,she thought, tucking away the information.
As an agent, she’d learned that information was power. A spy was only as good as her informants and the knowledge they passed her way. In the nearly two years that Penny had lived amongst theton, she’d come to understand that the Upper Crust operated by similar principles and thus her visit today. She found the address she was looking for and, gathering up her pale blue skirts, climbed up the creaky steps.
Arriving at her destination, she rapped her kidskin-covered knuckles against the peeling wood. She heard shuffling from inside, a high-pitched voice quickly shushed. The flat had no windows, not even a peephole on the door.
A voice emerged from the other side of the barrier. “Who is it?”
“The Marchioness of Blackwood,” Penny said.
Silence. The door cracked open. A thin, ginger-haired woman in her twenties peered out, her light brown eyes widening beneath her cap at the sight of Penny.
“Milady,” she stammered and bobbed an uncertain curtsy.
“Miss Randall,” Penny said pleasantly. “I have a proposition to discuss. I’d rather do it indoors, if I may?”
Blinking, the woman stepped aside, and Penny entered, taking in her surroundings at a glance. Seeing as the place consisted of a single cramped room, there wasn’t much to see, and, in truth, the space was much like Miss Randall: destitute and tidy. What drew Penny’s attention was the small table at the center of the room.
Sitting there upon a rickety chair was a young red-haired girl—four or five, by Penny’s guess—working stitches into a piece of cloth. She was a pretty little moppet, her hair tamed into two pristine and elegant braids. She was dressed similarly to her mama in a plain, worn frock that was meticulously patched, pressed, and free of stains. The work of someone who had perfected their craft and would practice it regardless of circumstance.
“Who are you?” the girl said, her eyes rounding.
“Molly, mind your manners.” Miss Randall went over to her child, her stance protective. “This is ’er ladyship, the Marchioness of Blackwood. Do your curtsy now.”
The girl scrambled to her feet and followed her mama’s instruction.
“Very pretty, Miss Molly,” Penny said, smiling.
“Thank you, milady.” The child’s dimples peeped out.
“Molly, you may see if Mary is free to play,” her mama said. “’Alf hour only, mind you. Then back to sewing.”
Molly’s eyes lit up, and she skipped out the door. The instant the girl was gone, her mother said curtly, “How may I help you, milady?”
Yes, everything Penny observed today matched with what she’d learned about Jenny Randall and strengthened her confidence in her plan.
“I’ve come to hire you,” she said.
Miss Randall’s lips trembled. “Is this some sort o’ jest?”
Penny could see why the other might think so. After all, Jenny Randall had been publicly dismissed and humiliated last week by her former employer, Lady Auberville, one of theton’s reigning hostesses. Being a nasty sort, Lady Auberville had fired Miss Randall in front of her entire staff. Then she’d spewed vitriol concerning her maid’s sordid secret far and wide in Society. Everyone who was anyone now knew that Jenny Randall, a once respectable and sought-after ladies maid, had borne a child out of wedlock. Her prospects for a good position were forever ruined by her ex-mistress’ malicious tongue and love of hysterics.
Imagine, the wages I’ve paid the ungrateful trollop have been going toward her bastard’s upkeep, Lady Auberville had shrilled to all and sundry.I dismissed her right away, of course; I had to set an example. One cannot allow such immortality to taint one’s household.
