“Well…” Sally plonked herself into a chair and the others gathered around. “I’m from Essex, Miss, and I came ter London ter find fame and fortune on the stage.”
“And did you?”
“No. I found meself in Mrs Figmore’s dockside brothel with a grinagog sailor and a jug-bitten soldier who intended ter take advantage of me person fer two shillings and thruppence.”
“And did they?”
“No. ’Cos I screamed. I got quite a gob on me, yer know, as I used to call fer the cows each sunset. Anyways, a golden angel, but with a whoppin’ blade instead of wings, came bursting through the door to save me.”
“Mr Cadwalader?”
Sally sighed. “My hero. He paid off Mrs Figmore and brought me here. I’d still like ter be an actress, though.”
Amelia did have to wonder what their esteemed master was doing in a brothel in the first place.
“And he saved Lucy Tibbs here,” said the housekeeper, pointing to a thin maid with blushing cheeks.
“How so?”
“I…” The blush spread down to her collar. “I were lured, Miss, and fell in ter a pit of debauchery.”
The housekeeper snorted. “Fell with your legs spread for the first handsome buck, you mean.”
The girl rolled her eyes. “Me fellow deserted me, Miss, fer a bleached mort with teeth like a horse. I was crying on the street with nowhere to go, destined for a life of lewdness, when Mister Cadwalader handed me a handkerchief. With his initial on and everything. I still keep it beneath me pillow. My hero.”
“So he took you in too?”
“No, I followed him home as I thought he might make me his fancy piece.” Her grin dropped somewhat. “But once here, Mrs Dawkins took me on instead.”
And so it went on, the servants all regaling her with tales of Mr Cadwalader’s saintliness.
It made one quite ill.
And more difficult to question them. “But…he is a scandalous rascal, is he not?”
“Ain’t they all?” said Sally. “Cruikshank has three lady friends on his poker.”
“Sally!”
“Well, he has.”
Amelia blinked. Surely not.
“One day, he’ll find the right one,” said the housekeeper sagely. “He’s a family man at heart.”
“The butler?”
“No. Mr Cadwalader.”
Amelia placed hand to forehead. Following a certain Monsieur Du Burgh’s long-legged strides through Covent Garden on a Saturday night had been easier than this.
As though summoned, the butler himself appeared at the kitchen door, shooed the footman for lolling and skewered Amelia with a glance.
“Mr Cadwalader desires tea.”
“I’ll take it,” chirped up Lucy, springing to her feet as though she’d hot coals in her shoes.
“Mr Cadwalader requests Miss…Jones convey the tea.”
