Tompkins blinked, stating, “My lord,” once more.
Wells began the long climb upstairs to his old bedroom when, much to his displeasure, he spotted Miss Mowry rounding the landing and looking none too pleased to see him, either.
“Miss,” he addressed her politely as he hastened past.
“Lord Wellesley.” She bobbed before scurrying off.
What the devil is she doing here?Wells thought to himself, and then recalled his mother had taken the girl on as her ward.Damn and blast.He’d have to avoid her as best he could during his stay.
Later, while soaking in a tub to wash the grime of travel from his skin, he contemplated next steps. He’d formulated a plan of sorts on the long journey here, but there were holes. In addition to actually finding Charles, he’d need to speak to his father about knighting Cuthbert, obtain two special licenses for marriage, and pay a call on Lord Enright, The Earl of Denbigh—for which he might actually need his mother. He’d decided that in order to ensure Charles Merrinan be seen by society again as a lady in good standing, he must convince the Enrights to accept her and her sister back into their fold. He did not think the earl would balk if he informed him of his intention to make Charles his future Duchess. Though he would leave out Eleanor’s engagement to a former street urchin, for the time being.
Wells sank deeper into the water, allowing the tension of the past week to melt from his body.Where could she have gone?he wondered. Or more to the point: If he were Charles, where would he go? For she’d not asked him for a letter of recommendation, and she could hardly apply without one for any positions here in London as housekeeper. What was more, if she’d been educated by her father, rather than sent to any boarding school, she would hardly know a headmaster willing to write her a reference for the position of governess, or even lady’s companion for that matter. What the devil would she do for funds? He knew she’d saved her wages, yet he also knew how stubborn she was; she’d likely left half or more to Eleanor.
Wells searched the recesses of his mind for a solution to her quandary. What line of work, with no reference, could Charles hope to find in London? And the more he thought, the more panicked he became, for the one job she’d no doubt earn most at and was now, thanks to him, altogether well qualified for, wasthe one job he could not stomach her taking: mistress to some debauched London lord.
Charles had not realized her lack of reference would shut so many doors, for every position she found advertised for housekeeper, maid, governess, or companion, any position at all in London required one. Even for laundry, scullery, or charwoman. She felt beat, for she could hardly write Lord Wellsnowto beg him for a letter. No, she should have asked for one before she’d left, only like as not he’d have not given it to her, the cad.
Yet with the very same breath she cursed him, an image of him in bed flooded her mind: thick lashes over sleeping eyes, calloused hands so like a laborer’s and so unlike a lord’s, the wonders those hands knew how to provoke . . .Scoundrel!she reminded herself more vehemently. He’d asked for her hand only once his mother had deemed her fit for marriage, not before. He’d been content, in fact, to marry Miss Mowry and keep her as his sidepiece. And though Charles might have lost much in the way of dignity, she had some pride left. She drew the line at being a married man’s mistress. She’d not debase herself utterly.
Yet there remained the matter of her rapidly dwindling funds. Given her lack of reference, she’d visited mills and factories in her quest for employment, but at every one the line of women seeking positions had stretched around the corner. She’d waited patiently like everyone else, but each time they’d closed the gates before she could even cross the threshold to apply.
She’d need to find employment somewhere fast or else find a cheaper room. Already she was skipping meals to save her funds. She’d even asked at the inn if they had need of help in laundry or the kitchen, but no, they did not.Though if she wanted blunt there were a fellow down the street who’d pay handsomely for a chit with hair her color.
Charles had quit the innkeeper in outrage.
She scoured the advertisements daily, desperate for any job that might pay, when a heading at last caught her eye:Madame LeBrecht’s. She scanned the ad, trying not to feel too hopeful, for it had been more than a week of fruitless searching.
Shop girl, attractive, for ladies’ garment store.
5 Crawford Ln. French a must. Discerning
clientele, service & discretion required.
In-person enquiries only.
Well, she’d a better chance at an in-person enquiry for sure. And no mention of a reference, thank God. Though that would surely follow. Perhaps she could simply forge one, though without a seal . . . She shook off the thought. Here, at least, was a lead worth pursuing. And her French,par Dieu,was not half bad.
“Enchantée, j'en suis certaine, mademoiselle. Alors voulez-vous entrer, s’il vous plait?”
Charles heard the voice before she saw the woman atLeBrecht’sguide a well-dressed young lady into a back room for a fitting, for this was indeed a garment shop—an undergarment shop—and she remembered where she’d heard the name before.Lord Wells had ordered her those stockings and chemise from this same London shop. She blushed to recall the items, now stashed in the bottom of her bag, for when in God’s name would she have occasion to don them again? She wouldn’t think on it. Not now.
She smoothed Ruby’s day dress, checked her hair in the shop window’s reflection, pinched her cheeks rosy, and stepped inside. She had one chance to impress.
“May I help you, miss?” an exotic-looking woman asked, her skin a rich bronze, hair so black it was almost blue, and almond-shaped eyes that looked like wells of deepest ink. Charles had never seen anyone so beautiful in all her life.
“I . . .” she stammered before collecting herself. “I came about the advertisement, for the position of shop girl, ma’am.” She curtsied low before the woman, willing herself to look a vision of propriety.
“The job is filled, I’m afraid.” The lady’s voice carried the faintest of accents.
Yet Charles would not give up so easily. “Then perhaps there is another position here,Madame?” Her eyes met the woman’s with determination. “Je parle bien français et suis parfaitement capable de servir vos clients.” Reassuring the woman in French would hopefully do the trick.
“Et les messieurs?” The lady raised a brow at her. “Do you know how to serve gentlemen, too, miss?” Her tone suggested service of an altogether different sort than that which Charles had assumed. Yet she would not back out now.
“Oui.” She nicked her head.
The lady stared at her a moment and then motioned for her to follow, slipping behind an ornately painted screen into what appeared to be a back office.
“Asseyez-vous!” she commanded, and Charles immediately sat down.
