Althea was familiar with the cost of a trousseau. She had been planning her own before her father spoiled things. She couldn’t have Beth sacrifice those coins. “No, actually—”
“Yes,” Beth interrupted. “I am creating magnificent frocks and gowns for her.” She turned to Althea. “We shall have the fitting Friday, and everything will be ready next week.”
“Beth—”
“’Tis done.” She gave her attention back to Lady Jocelyn. “Do not worry yourself needlessly about your beautiful trousseau, Lady Jocelyn. I shall donate it to a mission that caters to the poor. I’m certain there are women aplenty who can make use of the items my ladies and I spent hours stitching. I wish you all the best. Good day.”
Flabbergasted. That was how Lady Jocelyn appeared, and Althea was relatively certain her once-dear friend had never had someone below her in station speak to her as though she were above her in station. She wanted to hug Beth.
“I’m certain the Duchess of Thornley will not be at all happy to hear of this development as I came to you based upon her recommendation.” Lady Jocelyn turned on her heel and went for the door, only to find it blocked by Benedict, his arms crossed over his chest. Althea was quite familiar with that implacable stance.
“You owe Miss Stanwick an apology. Her father was treasonous, not her.”
“I don’t see that it’s any of your business.”
“I’m making her my business.”
While she couldn’t see Lady Jocelyn’s face, Althea was rather certain she was bestowing upon Benedict a hard stare capable of shooting daggers because she’d seen it many times in her past. The woman didn’t like being challenged. “You look familiar.” She lifted a finger, wagged it at him. “You’re one of those Trewlove bastards.”
She spat bastards as though it left a foul taste in her mouth and might cause her to cast up her accounts. Apparently, it had yet to register with her that the Duchess of Thornley, whose name she’d tossed out imperiously as though she were related to the Queen, was a Trewlove as well and considered this man her brother. But it wasn’t the reason Althea stepped forward. She did it because she didn’t want to see him hurt for a kindness he’d shown her. Although it took everything within her not to grab the woman’s hair and yank her back. “Jocelyn, you have no call to insult him.”
“It’s Lady Jocelyn to you.”
“No insult,” he said evenly. “’Tis true. I am a bastard, born on the wrong side of the blanket, with no earthly idea who my parents might be, but my manners far exceed yours, Lady Jocelyn. Apologize.”
“Or you’ll do what, precisely?”
He leaned back against the door. “I can stand here all day barring your way. While you need to hasten to another dressmaker in order to get work started on your new trousseau. A simple ‘I’m sorry’ will suffice.”
Lady Jocelyn glanced back over her shoulder. The fury distorting her lovely features should have ignited Althea on the spot. Her mouth went askew, flat, tight, pinched. She squeezed her eyes shut, opened them. “I apologize.”
“As do I. I wish you nothing but happiness with Chadbourne.”
For a moment the woman was blinking so much that Althea thought she might be fighting tears. But when Benedict opened the door, she was through it in a blur, her faithful servant trailing quickly after her.
Ignoring the stares of the few remaining customers and staff in the shop, Althea turned to Beth. “I’m so sorry. Let me know the value of her trousseau and when I have the means in three months, I’ll pay you for it.” She was rather certain it would take at least a quarter of the extra she was going to earn by meeting his deadline.
“Don’t worry yourself. The clothing will be put to better use. I doubt she would have worn anything more than once.” She took Althea’s hand, squeezed it. “To be honest, I’m glad to be rid of her. She kept changing her mind about what she wanted, but only after we’d finished making what she’d asked for. It was becoming tiresome.” She looked over Althea’s shoulder and clapped her hands. “All right, ladies, back to work. The entertainment is over.”
Now it was Althea blinking back tears at the simple kindness. Once she’d taken so much for granted, and she no doubt wouldn’t have appreciated the manner in which a hardworking seamstress—who was dependent on the goodwill of others to earn her living—had stood up for her.
“Hopefully, everything went better before I returned here,” Benedict said, having moved closer, distracting Althea with his presence. For which she was grateful. She’d never shed a tear in public and certainly didn’t want to begin now.
“Everything was lovely,” she assured him. “I’m quite looking forward to seeing all the frocks completed.”
His assessing gaze held a touch of sorrow. “I recall you telling me that a Lady Jocelyn had once been your dearest friend. That particular Lady Jocelyn?”
She merely nodded, for what more was there to say?
“Now she’s to marry the man who threw you over.”
“So it would appear.”
She was grateful he left it at that. They bid their farewells and headed out into the rain. Or would have if an elaborate blue coach with red trim hadn’t been waiting and a footman hadn’t immediately opened a door when they emerged. Benedict’s hand came to rest against the small of her back as he urged her forward. “Is that for us?”
“Yes. Inside. Quickly.”
The footman assisted her up, and she settled against the plush interior. The vehicle rocked as Benedict joined her, sitting opposite her.
“How did you come to have this?” she asked as it launched forward.
“It belongs to my brother Aiden. I was visiting with him and asked to borrow it to spare you getting soaked.”
“I appreciate your thoughtfulness as well as your insistence that Lady Jocelyn apologize.” She looked out the window at the sheets of rain, listened as it pattered the roof of the carriage, lulling her into a place of calm and quietness, completely opposite to the tenseness she’d felt in the shop.
“You are extremely skilled at displaying haughtiness,” he said quietly as though he, too, found the atmosphere peaceful and was loath to disturb it. “I must admit I very nearly clapped when you offered her your condolences.”
She gave her head a little shake. “I was already fuming because she’d threatened to deny Beth payment. I was going to skulk out after announcing that Beth would be making nothing for me, but then the sweet woman stood up for me and the lady I’d once been came to the fore and I couldn’t let Lady Jocelyn go unchallenged.”
“Beth will be paid for that trousseau.”
“It shouldn’t come out of your coffers.”
“It won’t. Lady Jocelyn’s family will pay, one way or another. I simply need to know who her father is. Or her eldest brother. Whoever sees to her care.” He shrugged. “Or perhaps I’ll have Chadbourne pay.” A bit of malice and glee wreathed his smile. “I like that idea better.”
She looked at his large gloved hands folded over his thighs. “When you say one way or another . . .”
“Perhaps they’ll lose more than normal at the gaming tables or something they wish to remain hidden might come to light if they don’t pay for work that’s been done.”
“You’re not going to actually hurt them.”
He heaved a heavy sigh and glanced out the window as though disappointed that she’d asked. “Let’s just say they’ll see the advantage to paying a seamstress who has put in hours sewing clothing for spoiled Lady Jocelyn.”
“If they should fail to see the advantage?”
The smile was gone when he turned his attention back to her. “I can be quite persuasive. And if not me, then one of my brothers. Mick, in particular, has the ear of a good many aristocrats these days, and they want to stay in his good graces. But they won’t feel the weight of my fist, if that’s what’s worrying you.”
She feared she might have hurt his feelings, so she gave him an impish smile. “I probably wouldn’t mind
if Chadbourne felt it once.”
His laughter, deep and rich, rang through the confines of the carriage. “I’ll have to keep in mind that you’re a vindictive wench.”
With a long exhale, she studied her hands covered in worn gloves, knotted in her lap. “A woman scorned and all that.” She looked up. “Beth told me that you and your brothers helped her out of a difficult situation with her landlord.” Difficult being a paltry word for the situation in which he’d been extracting payment with sexual favors from the sweet seamstress.
“That was Gillie’s doing.”
“She said you confronted him.”
“Because Gillie asked us to.”
“Did he feel the weight of your fists?”
“Several times.”
“Is that the reason they call you Beast?”
“Part of it.”
“And the rest?”
He merely shook his head. She wasn’t in the mood to push. He’d stood up for her today. He could keep his secrets.
“How was your visit with your brother?” She missed her own brothers, but wouldn’t put them at risk by sending word she wanted to see them.
“Successful. It got us a comfortable ride back to the residence.”
Chapter 14
Later that evening, as the clock chimed ten, clutching Murder at Ten Bells, she strolled into the library. If he wasn’t in the mood to give her a lesson, she would read. When she spotted the small tulip-shaped glass of sherry resting on the small table beside the chair in which she’d sat the night before, something melted inside her chest, near the area where her heart beat.
As always, Benedict came to his feet. She shouldn’t be so glad to see him. Only a few hours had passed since dinner, and yet it had seemed an eternity.
Gracefully, she lowered herself into the chair, just as she’d taught the ladies that afternoon to lower themselves. She didn’t know when he’d done it, but at some point he’d spoken with the women because they all arrived in simple but elegant frocks that revealed not so much as a quarter of an inch of cleavage.
“Thank you for speaking with the ladies regarding their clothing. I noticed a decided difference—a positive one—in how they responded to the lesson this afternoon. Then, of course, it was nice to enjoy dinner without so much skin on display.”
“I noticed they were less . . . rambunctious than usual during the meal.”
“Today we focused on sitting and dining etiquette. They’re sharp, anxious to learn. I thought of a couple of books that might prove helpful to them.” Reaching into the pocket of her dark blue frock, she removed a scrap of paper upon which she’d written the titles. Leaning forward she extended it to him. Leaning forward he reached for it. As he took it, his fingers skimming over hers, she felt as though the rain from that morning had returned with lightning in full force, striking her. How could so simple a touch in such a small area be felt throughout her entire body?
She settled back so quickly she might have created a breeze that stirred the flames on the hearth to dance more wildly, while he merely leaned back as though he’d felt nothing at all. Except that he, too, was watching the flames as though they’d become the most fascinating thing on earth. “I’ll have Fancy order copies for each of the ladies.”
He looked to be a man battling demons, a man pulled taut who could snap at any moment. If he snapped, she wondered if his lips might land on hers. She was tempted to find out.
He’d told her that words seduced him. Was it the same with all men or with only him? She’d thought being a temptress involved peering through lowered lashes, revealing bits of forbidden flesh. What if she’d had the wrong of it all along, and it merely involved being only herself?
Last night he’d sought her secrets. Tonight she wanted his.
“After dinner I had time to curl up with your book. I suspect after we are done here, I shall be up the remainder of the night turning the pages.”
He’d abandoned the fire to look at her, and she was grateful to have a clear view of his eyes, his features, as she continued on. “Your depiction of the city at night is so vivid I felt as though I were actually walking through it. How do you manage it?”
“It’s the world I know.”
“Why do you write about murder? Why not write about fairies or ship captains or young ladies searching for a prince?”
“I know nothing of ladies searching for a prince.”
“But you know of murder?” She knew it was a silly question. People could write about things of which they had very little knowledge. Yet a tiny part of her, no bigger than a grain of salt surely, wondered why he’d not told her how his name, Beast, had come to be.
After taking his drink in hand, he crossed the ankle of one foot over his other knee. He looked to be a man settling in to tell a saga that would take most of the night. And she didn’t care if he spoke until dawn, didn’t care that it was dangerous to her heart to know so much about him. To see him as anything other than an impartial tutor. Unfortunately, when it came to him, none of her feelings sought impartiality.
“When I was a lad of about eight, I spied a man, in clothing finer than anything I’d ever seen, strolling about Whitechapel. He so fascinated me that I followed him for a time. Periodically, he would stop, remove a golden timepiece from his waistcoat pocket, look at it, tuck it back into place, and carry on. I wanted that timepiece with a fervor that to this day I don’t think I’ve ever known since. So I stole it.”
Her eyes widened at that because every timepiece she’d ever seen a gentleman carry had been accompanied by a fob that secured the watch to a buttonhole in his waistcoat. It would take remarkable skill to free it without being snatched up by the scruff of his collar, and only one sort of person would have that skill. One with a great deal of experience at lifting things. “You were a pickpocket?”
He merely shrugged. “It’s not an aspect of my life about which I’m particularly proud or tend to boast. However, a lot of lads and lasses in the rookeries are. Some blighter is always willing to teach you how to nick things without getting caught as long as you give him a large portion of what you pilfered. But I saw the timepiece as my way out. I knew if my mum ever realized what I did, she’d be ashamed. At the end of the day, I gave everything I’d stolen, except for the watch, which I’d hidden in my shoe, to Three-Fingered Bill and told him I was done, wouldn’t be working for him any longer. He was not pleased with my announcement, and that evening I returned home with two broken arms.”
“My God, no.” When she reached for her sherry, she realized her hand was shaking.
Again, he simply shrugged. “He gave me the choice. One broken arm for the arrogance of believing I could just walk away. Two if I wanted his permission to walk away. I chose the latter. Never regretted it.”
“He let you go?”
“He might have been a criminal, but Bill was a man of his word. Sometimes I think about how he might have used me once I grew into myself because at the time, I was naught but gangly legs and arms, large for my age but not particularly graceful. I paid a small price to be free of him. And I had the timepiece, so I went to work as a knocker-upper.”
Until three months ago, she’d not known what one was because they’d had servants to wake them. “Griff hired a man for threepence a week to rap on his window at half five every morning so he could get to the docks on time. Is that what you did?”
“I did.”
“Who woke you?”
He gave her a smile that caused warmth to sluice through her as though she’d taken another sip of sherry. “I slept during the day, which actually worked well because my brothers and I had only one bed between us. At night I would haunt Whitechapel, walking the streets, mews, and alleyways until it was time to begin waking people.”
“That’s the reason you can paint such a vivid picture of it.”
He nodded. “I saw the doxies, the drunkards, the sly ones who meant harm, and those who did good. I saw a part of life that some people never see.
And about a year later, one night, shortly after I’d begun waking my customers, I stumbled across a woman slumped in an alleyway. I thought perhaps she was foxed and had fallen asleep. I went to wake her.”
He took a long swallow of his scotch as though he needed the fortification, and she had a horrible feeling regarding where this story was going. “She was dead.”
His gaze was focused on the tumbler, the way the flames from the fire reflected off the cut crystal, and she wondered if he was envisioning the woman there.
“Her blue frock was drenched in blood. The coppery stench of it hit me as I crouched before her. Based on the slashes in her clothing and on her hands and neck, I assumed someone had taken a knife to her. Her eyes were open but no life was in them, and I wondered if the last thing on this earth she’d looked at had been her killer.”
The fire crackled and hissed. The mantel clock ticked. Her own blood rushed through her ears with the pounding of her heart. How impressionable he would have been at that tender age. How horrific what he had seen.
After another swallow of the amber liquid, he met her gaze. “I went to find a constable. I was clutching the willowy bamboo stick of my trade. He patted me on the shoulder, told me to get on about my business of waking people because they needed to get to work. I did as he ordered, but it seemed wrong somehow to carry on, ignoring that something horrible had transpired. After I knocked on my last window, I went back to where she’d been, but she was no longer there. I imagined that I’d been wrong, and she’d stirred herself to her feet and walked home. But deep down, I knew the truth of it. She was never going to walk home again.”
He downed the last of his scotch. Without even thinking, as though in a trance, she took his glass, went to the sideboard, and refilled it. When she returned to his side, she handed him the glass. “I’m sorry I asked. The memories can’t be easy to live through again.”
“But they helped to shape me, I think.”
She sank down onto the plush cushion of her chair. “How so?”
Beauty Tempts the Beast Page 15