He stopped on the third step and waited for her to join him. “I’ll not comment, Ruth. I remember being tossed out the last time I shared my direct opinion.”
She smiled then her expression sharpened. “I’m surprised that every eligible daughter in Mayfair hasn’t been paraded before you at Blaren House. The marriage-making-mamas must be slacking off in their duties.”
How could she be serious? He offered a soft laugh, one that wouldn’t startle Christopher. “Fortunately, the sjambok eviction has put them off.”
The door to the house opened. The butler, Clancy, had a frowning look. Every time he’d seen the man, he possessed a cheeky grin. Now he looked mournful.
“What’s wrong, Clancy?” Ruth asked as she handed him her bonnet and gloves.
Mrs. Fitterwall came from the hall. “Clancy, don’t be upsetting Mrs. Wilky. There’s nothingshecan do about it.”
Ruth looked down as if this was some unspoken dig, but Wycliff had that sense, that sensation crawling up his spine, that this was about him. “Why not let Mrs. Wilky decide? She knows her own mind.”
“Yes, I do. Mrs. Fitterwall, put Chris to bed first.”
The woman blanched as if she’d just heard Ruth’s voice for the first time.
The housekeeper complied without a complaint. “Yes, ma’am.”
Clancy fumbled with the buttons on his livery. “Mrs. Johnson’s in the parlor with your mother.” His voice became lower and lower as if he spoke in secret. “She’s in an awful state. She’s been asking for you, ma’am.”
Ruth ran to the parlor, and Wycliff chased behind her.
When she opened the door, Mrs. Johnson was red faced, prostrate and crying on the sofa.
Mrs. Croome was there in her lace mobcap, seemingly unbothered. She’d even knitted. What type of dire situation was this?
Mrs. Johnson wiped her eyes on a very wrinkled handkerchief, something that had been twisted up tight. His cynical spirit thought it purposeful for dramatic effect.
The woman lifted from the sofa and came to Ruth, taking both of her hands. “You are here with him. You have to help. Make him help me.”
“Me…him?” Ruth’s tone wasn’t quite questioning. It sounded suspicious. That was his girl.
“Talk to my daughter, Mrs. Johnson. Lord Wycliff, why don’t I see you out and let these two have a conversation.”
His sense about things like cheaters, scandalmongers, and bad tailors nudged him. “Ma’am, I want to stay. I need—”
“He’s the one. Mrs. Wilky, use your influence. Make him help.”
Ruth folded her arms. “Make Lord Wycliff help what? What are you talking about?”
“Look at me,” the hysterical woman said. “You know me. Madame Talease’s brothel. We shared a room. I tended to you when you came. You have to remember me.”
Ruth’s blinked a few times. “I don’t know you. Why are you lying?” She looked toward Wycliff’s direction and then back toward her mother. “I was at Madame Talease’s, but I don’t know you.”
Mrs. Johnson wiped at her eyes. “Maybe not directly. Your face was bandaged, your fever was high. I thought maybe you would know me. I hoped you would recognize me. I was good to you.”
Ruth balled her fingers.
The room felt on fire as if the rage coming from her fists heated the air. She stepped closer to Mrs. Johnson. “You’ve been to this house many times over the past six months. Why is it important to announce this today and in front of my company?”
“Because your cousin is ruining my husband. We’ll lose everything.”
Ruth tweaked her spectacles. “You are here to blackmail me. My mother, everyone here knows that I was at Madame Talease’s, sold to the woman after the vicious attack that killed my husband.”
“No, Mrs. Wilky, no blackmail, but a favor. The baron is ruining my husband. He’s doing it. You can get him to stop.”
Wycliff half leaned on the fireplace, not denying or confirming anything. His business would never involve Ruth. His worlds, his finance dealings, and his personal affairs would never again mix.
