“Prey upon them?” That drew him up short.
“Of course. Why else do the dairy maids look so happy to lose a shoe? Because they believe they are safe. If the astoundingly mediocre predator was safe, he would make himself known. But instead, they are depicted as hiding in the brush, or far below as the prey soars high above.”
“Perhaps that is a depiction of man placing woman on a pedestal.”
Mrs. Reid snorted in disdain. “If men put women on pedestals, we’d have much better lives, on the whole.”
Beckett put the offense he felt, categorized as a simple, mediocre predator, aside. This was Mrs. Reid, after all, and she spoke what she believed was fact. There was no ulterior motive or insult to her conversation. Probably, anyway. “Are you speaking from experience?”
“Somewhat. But largely I speak of the woman on the street, begging with her children. The widows who cannot live on their husbands’ pensions. The intelligent people who are not allowed to dictate their own wishes, own property, or testify to their own experiences in court. If I stood on a pedestal, every word I spoke would be believed. Every sentence would be taken as true and incontrovertible. And,” she paused, turning to him, “I would be able to open my own bank account.”
He opened his mouth to rebut her assertions, but when parsing her statements, they were true. Women could not open their own bank accounts. The Crown did not always pay widow pensions on time or in full, especially if the men were not officers or had an influential patron to demand the pay on their behalf. And the number of women and children who lived on the streets was a problem acknowledged by everyone who spent a day or two in London.
Still, he wanted to refute it. “But women need not work—”
This elicited a forceful laugh from Mrs. Reid. “Are you daft?”
Beckett waited, thinking she would continue her interruption, but no, apparently that was the only question she had for him. He clenched his jaw trying not to be insulted. But he was. “I am not daft. However, I also don’t pretend to know the intricacies of a woman’s life, as I am not married.”
“Do you have a housekeeper, Lord Beckett?” She emphasized the wordlord, no doubt to highlight his wealth and privilege.
He drew himself up to his full height. She knew damn well that he had a housekeeper, as any person of means did, and he also was well aware that this conversation as a whole was a trap. “Of course I have a housekeeper.”
“And cook?”
He squinted. “Yes. But a dear friend has hired a man-cook from France to serve—”
“If one is so rare that one must make a gendered prefix to differentiate him from his peers, that hardly signifies, does it not? Does your friend pay his man-cook the same wage as his usual woman-cook?”
“Of course not.” Everyone who employed servants knew the typical wages, as the tax code depended on how many of which kind of servant one had. Men were taxed higher, which was why there were so many maids in a house, and far fewer footmen. “My friend pays the man-cook a higher wage because of his superior skills.”
“Oh, his superior skills.” Mrs. Reid nodded thoughtfully, and for a brief moment, Beckett felt a spike of elation that he had won a point in this meat grinder of a discussion.
“Is your friend also landed and titled?” Mrs. Reid guessed.
“Of course. Like goes with like,” he said.
Mrs. Reid gave a snort. “So his previous woman-cook must have been quite the talent. To be employed in one of the great houses and great families of England.”
“Yes, she was excellent. In fact, I believe that my friend had persuaded her away from another family for just such a reason.”
“So her superior skills mean nothing.”
“I said he persuaded her away. That implies that he did so with money.” Beckett was irritated. Why was he still standing here? He could go at any time. They had completed their walk, it was their second rendezvous, and he was keeping up his end of the bargain. Damn his curiosity.
“But you also said the man-cook is paid even more than she was.”
“That’s not the point!” Beckett nearly stomped his foot. This woman didn’t listen.
She crossed her arms in front of her, and the gesture lifted her bosom just as Beckett was lifting his eyes to her face, and suddenly, his mind blanked. He was still irritated, but he could no longer remember what he was saying. But he had to have the upper hand in this argument, and it wasn’t fair that she did something as underhanded as…that.
He took a breath, met her eyes, and gave her a tight smile. “Good day, Mrs. Reid. I shall see you again next week for another turn about Hyde Park.”
She gave a short bob of a curtsy, her eyes never leaving his, which only made her seem full of malice.
He stormed out of the parlor, snatched his hat and gloves from the manservant—oh no, what would Mrs. Reid say about gendered prefixes?—and stormed out of the town house. He shoved his hands into his leather gloves and flexed, feeling the material stretch and creak around his fingers. It soothed him as he stomped down the road, glad that he had a healthy walk before he reached his own home.
Chapter Four
