With a cheeky grin, Cecilia quickly removed her elbows.
“If t-the sun comes out, perhaps we could have a t-tea party in the g-garden.” When had Miss Elvins begun stuttering? Thorne smiled, hoping to ease her discomfort. Instead, her face flamed a dark crimson, clashing greatly with her red hair.
“Oh, could we, Lady Kimpton, er, uh, might we, please?” Cecilia bounced in her chair, arms straight at her side.
Oswald peered around the door with his shiny silver tray. “A note, my lord.”
Thorne grabbed the contents off the tray. “Ah, I am not the only recipient.” He handed off one card to Miss Hollerfield. “This is addressed to you.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
She dropped the envelope in her lap. With an inward shrug, Thorne stuffed his own into an inside pocket of his waistcoat.
Shaking his head, he rose from his chair and leaned over to Lorelei. He whispered, “Do not lock the adjoining door, my dear, for I shall break it down. I care not whom I wake in the process.” He dared a swift, hard kiss, dared her to thwart him. Her color heightened, but she otherwise remained composed.
He laughed. “I’m off, ladies. Enjoy your picnic.”
Grinning like a fool all the way to the stables, Thorne made his way to White’s and tipped his hat to everyone in his path. Fifteen minutes later he’d found a quiet corner, still smiling. Nothing could shake this euphoric semblance.
Brock strode up to him.
“You look like hell,” Thorne greeted him.
“You would too if you’d been scouring the streets for a no-good bastard.” He shoved a hand through his hair and dropped into the chair across from Thorne. “Maudsley hasn’t been to any of his usual haunts.”
“When did you start looking?”
“Around two this morning.”
“Ah, well. You should have rested. It would have served you better.” Thorne tipped his head toward the common area.
Brock’s gaze followed his direction, his mouth tightening at the corners. Maudsley’s gloves and cane were gripped in one hand, his knuckles white, his stride singularly direct, straight for Thorne’s once quiet refuge. His expression was murderous.
Brock stood slowly. Thorne followed suit. Maudsley stopped nose to nose with Brock.
His glove flicked across Brock’s face, and just like that, Thorne’s euphoric mood evaporated. Brock didn’t flinch.
“I’ll see you and your seconds at Hampstead Heath. Dawn. I’ll teach you to make off with one’s wife, you bounder.” Spittle flew from his mouth, landing on Brock’s reddened cheek.
He wiped it away. “It will be my pleasure.”
Maudsley turned on his heel and marched out. Thorne watched him go with a sigh. His morning was officially ruined. He and Brock would be settling affairs well into the night. Lorelei was not going to be happy.
Sarah vomited another three times after breakfast. Mostly dry heaves, since she’d only managed crackers washed down with tepid tea in the last three days. Every day, she prayed for more rain because each rainy day was another that she could put off the inevitable. And with each additional day, she grew more sick than the previous one. For three solid days, God had seen fit to answer her prayers.
She went to the window. Alas, her luck had run dry, along with the weather. Her pun was not in the least amusing. She bit her fist, choking back tears.
Now she was down to an hour. One measly hour to ruin the lives of the very people who’d housed her, fed her. What would it matter? No one would believe she had a shred of decency. She’d been such a fool over Maudsley. And after what Irene had told Lord Kimpton, she hadn’t been alone once with Lord Maudsley’s precious brats.
Hopelessness suffocated her. She went to the bed and stood. After a long moment, she fell to her knees and put her palms together. “God, please. I’m only sixteen,” she pleaded. “What am I to do?” The tears fell yet again. She knew what happened to girls like her. They ended up on the streets begging for food, on their backs handing out favors for a pence. And how many others would she bring into the world, with yet another mouth to feed? What choice had she?
There would be no one to take care of her after today. She rose slowly, went to the basin, and rinsed her face.
The plan was in place. In another hour, she would be fifteen pounds richer and her own woman. With a deep breath, she opened the drawer containing her unmentionables, reached into the far back corner, and felt for the small brown bottle. Steeling her spine, her resolve, her eventuality, she stole from the room.
No one looked her way as she made her way down the servants’ stairwell. She paused at the kitchens. Two girls were peeling potatoes for the night’s supper.
Her stomach dipped. Cook was putting the finishing touches on the elaborate set tea service. It was to be a grand tea party. Another pot of tea was next to the tray; Sarah assumed it belonged to the servants. The woman was as broad as a house, and as she fussed about, Sarah’s mettle waned. She took a quiet step back.
