A struggling chicken jarred Eleanor from her thoughts as she tightened her grip on the bird and continued the short walk up to the coop. The air was brisk and she hadn’t her shawl, both of which made her shiver. Nor had she expected to receive chickens instead of her sister at so early an hour. She wondered what could possibly have happened for Charles to go fromthieving to employment in the span of one night. Already she missed her sister as she dumped both birds into the ramshackle run. Eleanor was irritated by her emotion, feeling somehow abandoned, for she and Charles had never been parted before. She wondered what work her sister could possibly be doing for the new Lord of Almsdale Abbey. And then she imagined how miserable the coming long winter would be without her, with only Papa for company in their cold stone house.
Eleanor glanced up at the sky—a brilliant blue horizon over the rock-strewn grey fells, no other cottage for miles. She hurried back to fetch the man’s basket at their doorstep, where it sat like a dog, waiting to be let in. She picked it up, walked inside, and set it on the table where Papa sat staring into space, an empty cup and plate before him. She put the kettle on to boil, then unpacked the basket’s contents, discomfited almost by the abundance of riches she discovered inside.
Father, at least, would dine well this day. Eleanor had lost all appetite.
Wellesley’s men had made quick work of Charles’s loaves, not even bothering to slice pieces but tearing off great hunks with their greedy paws. She’d watched in horror as they’d devoured her hard work, having not witnessed such a rough group of men as these before. Even in Cumberland, where lads were raised on moor and heath, the men had better manners. These Londoners were uncouth in comparison, chewing with open mouths and spitting on the floor. She could scarce imagine where—or why—Lord Wellesley had acquired such lowlifes and merely backed her way out the kitchen door in slow, steady steps, hoping to escape more notice.
Cuthbert, alas, caught her.
“Oi!” he shouted above the din, holding fast to her arm. “You’ll thank Miss Merrinan for the loaves, boys, as she’ll be bakin’ for us now.”
“Bakin’ for his grace, y’ mean,” piped up one, the others erupting into laughter.
“More like a bun in ’er own oven soon enough,” offered another.
“Tell his grace more’n one woman’s needed in this musty ol’ abbey.”
“Aye!” chorused more as Cuthbert pulled her into the hallway.
“Let go!” Charles chafed under his grasp.
“They don’t mean no harm.” His voice sounded less harsh. “Lonely’s all. ’Aven’t seen a woman in months out ’ere.”
“They’re louts, all of them,” she muttered.
“And you’re that much better?” He threw her a look. “Thinkin’ t’ ply yer charms on his grace t’ gain more’n his chickens.”
She opened her mouth in shock, then thought better and closed it.
“I know what you’re about.” His gaze narrowed. “And I’ll make damned sure his grace ain’t tricked by yer fair face.”
Charles stuck out her chin. “Why, aren’t you clever, Mr. Cuthbert, for seeing through my oh-so-devious plan to seduce the future Duke of Allendale. No doubt my body covered in chicken shit makes him wish to marry me tomorrow. If you haven’t thrown me out before, that is.”
Cuthbert’s grip tightened so that Charles’s wrist ached. “You’re a might clever, miss,” he warned, “but I’m no fool and you’re no typical Cumberland gel. I’ve me eye on you—you’re not t’ harm Lord Wells.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “Harmhim? How the devil am I to harm a man such as his lordship when he’s harmed me, by God! Do you think I wish to be his mistress, sir? Want to be imprisoned here, baking bread for you ruffians? Please, discard me! By all means, toss me out and I shall happily take leave of you all.”
He let her go, but his parting words stung. “Hurt him and I’ll hurt you, miss.”
Charles kept walking even as he tossed another barb at her. “And put some bloody clothes on afore y’ drive them yobs mad!”
Charles was still fuming, having finally found her way back to his lordship’s bedroom to ransack his wardrobe. She barely noticed the room’s rough condition: a wine-stained rug and dirt-streaked windows, the thick layer of dust that coated the mantlepiece and picture frames. If the steward wished her better dressed she’d don trousers like a man and tell his ‘yobs’ to go to perdition next time they addressed her in such uncouth manner.
She did not like Lord Wellesley’s man, Cuthbert.
In fact, he was just as crass and overbearing as his master, but she did, at last, find a pair of velvet breeches that sat her better than his lordship’s other trousers. She stole a cord of rope from the room’s moth-eaten drapes to hold these up, then found a belt, or leather holster of sorts, to cinch his large shirt at her waist. She even found a short waistcoat to hide her bosom better.
Charles stared at herself in the cloudy mirror of his lordship’s room. A boy in men’s clothes stared back, but she was decent at last, which was all that truly mattered. Hair she twisted into a bun to hide beneath a kerchief tied tight across her scalp. And as for shoes . . . She silently prayed Cuthbert had spared her boots.Stockings Lord Wellesley had in abundance, though they were all much too large. Everything was overly large; even the room seemed largely empty to her, with fewer furnishings than one would expect for a duke’s son.
Still, the less female she looked, the better.
“Where’s the girl?” Wellesley surprised from the door.
Charles froze a moment, her back turned to him, before she dropped her voice. “Dunno, Yer Grace.”
“And what, exactly, areyoudoing in my room?”
“I . . .” She kept her voice low. “Makin’ the bed, Yer Grace.” Her affected accent rang false.
