“Hawke. Who else?”
Had Dominic been drinking coffee, he’d have spit it out.
“He’s never brought a lady to the hen house.”
Miss Harland frowned. “The hen house?”
“This is the coop,” Dominic said, wondering if the world felt vast to her now that she’d lost her only anchor. “A haven for Mrs Haggert’s chicks, children without parents. The ones left to wander the streets alone, often blind to the dangers.”
“Foxes are ten a penny in these parts,” Mrs Haggert said with a world-weary air, “and they don’t just roam the city at night.”
“They often congregate in London ballrooms,” Miss Harland replied, which earned a chuckle from their hostess. “I hear White’s is overrun with them.”
“Likely you’ve met your fair share.” Mrs Haggert’s gaze fell to the full bosom Dominic was having trouble ignoring. “You’ve a figure men would easily admire. Including Hawke, I’d wager.”
“Mr Hawke and I are barely friends,” she countered.
“Ah, so you have thought about bedding him.”
He stilled, eager for the answer, but Mrs Haggert was done playing games. “Sit down, the pair of you, and tell me why you’re here. It ain’t as if I’m short of problems already. I may as well add another to the list.”
Dominic revealed nothing but the necessary details. His deal with the enquiry agent, the letter naming Harland as his mother’s lover, the waltz, the kiss. Acquiring a new maid, though he had never expected to see Miss Harland again, let alone house her in a cottage.
Mrs Haggert tutted. “I hope you paid Daventry for theinformation. He’ll have you by the danglers till you do.” She looked at Miss Harland and gave a toothy grin. “You’ve got some pluck, girl. I’ll give you that.”
“What else does a lady have but her wits, ma’am?”
“You’ve got more than enough to recommend you. Tell her, Hawke. She could have her pick of the plums.”
“Not her pick,” he corrected. “Some men like the docile types.”
Mrs Haggert gave the air a nudge and a wink. “Not you, though. It’d take someone with gumption to stir your pot.”
“Enough about plums and pots,” he barked.
Mrs Haggert snapped her spine straight. “Watch your tone, laddie. You ain’t too tall to get a clip round the ear.” She turned to Miss Harland. “The week I took care of him, he never said boo to a goose.”
Bloody hell.
Coming here had been a mistake.
Miss Harland was on it like a terrier sniffing out a burrow. “Mr Hawke stayed in the hen house? When?”
“How old were you?” The matron pursed her lips. “Eight?”
“Ten,” he said reluctantly. “I was small for my age.”
Mrs Haggert cackled. “You wouldn’t credit it, would you, deary? Look at those thighs. Thick enough to make an oak look spindly.”
“I can’t say I’ve noticed,” Miss Harland lied.
Best he rectify that. She’d be pumping the water the next time he washed. It was only right she earned her keep.
Mrs Haggert glanced at the mantel clock. “You’d better get to the point. I’ve somewhere else to be this afternoon.”
Miss Harland spoke up, tucking that distracting dark curl behind her ear. “My father owed money to the Moseley brothers,and we wondered if that’s who killed him. We were hoping you might arrange a meeting.”
The comment was met with a high-pitched whistle. “Happen you should visit the coffin-maker on Monmouth Street, unless you’ve got ten thousand sovereigns hidden in a chest.”
