by Cheryl Holt
Michael Scott was seated in a chair behind his desk. Unfortunately there was a trollop seated with him, balanced on his thigh and doing things Maggie could only guess at. The front of the trollop’s dress was unbuttoned, the fabric pushed to her waist, her bosom exposed. Her blond hair hung down her back in a curly wave, her combs scattered on the desktop.
On seeing Maggie, the girl squealed with dismay and leapt to her feet. She struggled with her clothes to shield what should never have been on full display.
Maggie ignored the girl and focused on Mr. Scott, being desperate to learn if any of the wild rumors swirling through the neighborhood about him might be true.
There was an air of danger about him, so she couldn’t show any fear or vacillation. He was like a hawk circling in the sky, and at the slightest sign of weakness he’d rip her to shreds.
She hadn’t expected him to be extremely handsome, but he was. His hair was black, worn too long and tied into a ponytail with a strip of ribbon. Though he was sitting down, she predicted he’d be very tall, six feet at least. His shoulders were very wide, his arms muscled, his body physically fit. He appeared tough and strong, as if he fenced or boxed to keep himself in shape.
But it was his eyes that most intrigued her. They were very blue, alert and searching, probing every detail of her dull gown, her severe countenance. He was taking her measure, trying to figure her out, and she wanted to say, You’ll never unravel my secrets. Not in a thousand years, but she held her tongue.
The trollop had finished buttoning her dress. She nervously peeked at him, and he shooed her out. She scooted by Maggie, the sound of her strides swiftly fading down the hall.
Mr. Scott leaned back in his chair and asked her escort, “Who is this?”
Her escort answered, “She claims to be Miss Magdalena Wells, from the Vicar Sterns Rescue Mission.”
“The Rescue Mission?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Scott snorted with derision. “I’d have thought such a do-gooder would have better manners.”
“As I mentioned, sir,” the guard replied, “she’s a tad ferocious.”
“That she is,” Mr. Scott agreed.
Maggie scoffed and stepped to the desk. “Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here.”
She was having the devil of a time deciding where to look, whether she should stare at Mr. Scott’s face or at his person. His blue eyes were riveting and disquieting, but his shirt was open to the waist, so quite a bit of male flesh was exposed, and he’d made no effort to conceal it.
Maggie had had limited experiences with men, and in a society where people completely concealed themselves with clothing in all situations, she didn’t think she’d ever seen a man’s bare chest before. She was surprised to note a dusting of hair across the top, and the sight of that hair, dark as the hair on his head, tickled her innards.
Her cheeks heated, and she flushed, which he noticed immediately, and he smirked.
“What brings you by, Miss Wells?” he asked. “What can I do for you? Is there something special you were hoping to accomplish with me?”
He was scrutinizing her bosom, so it didn’t take more than a moment to realize his question was impertinent.
“Stop it,” she fumed.
“Stop what?” He appeared innocent as a choirboy.
“Stop being rude.”
“Was I being rude?” His tone dripped with sarcasm. “Then I most humbly apologize.” He pointed to a chair. “Would you like to sit?”
“I prefer to stand.”
“As you wish, but I have no desire to stand with you, so I’ll remain seated. Is that all right with you?”
“Yes, that’s fine.”
“May I offer you a refreshment?”
She shuddered to imagine what sort of refreshment might be provided in such a place. “No, thank you.”
“Suit yourself.” He gestured to her escort. “May he leave us and return to his duties? Or are you frightened to be in here alone with me? Will your reputation be shredded if we don’t have a chaperone?”
“I’m twenty-five, and I’ve been on my own for seven years. I hardly need a chaperone, and I’m not afraid of you.”
“You’re not?”
“No, so don’t act the bully. You can’t scare me.”
“Well then, I won’t even try.”
He waved his employee away, and the man slinked out and closed the door. The quiet settled, and very quickly Maggie grasped she should have had the guard stay.
She’d been truthful when she said she wasn’t afraid of Mr. Scott. He oozed virility and stamina in a manner no other male of her acquaintance ever had, but she sensed no menace from him. He might preen and posture, and she’d heard he could be deadly if provoked, but she didn’t feel he would harm her.
Still though, she hated having the door shut. The room was small, and he simply took up too much space in it. She wanted to walk over and yank the door open, but she’d insisted he didn’t scare her, and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of thinking that she might have been lying.
He stared, waiting for her to start, and it occurred to her that this would be much more difficult than she’d assumed. On the way over she’d drafted a pretty speech in her head, but now that they were face to face, she couldn’t begin.
He wasn’t what she’d been expecting at all.
Terrible tales constantly swirled about him and his antics. He’d grown up on the streets of London, an orphan who was brilliant and dangerous and amoral. He would cheat and steal and rob or kill without a ripple in his conscience—if it increased his personal wealth.
He owned the gambling club and was a gambler himself, but he also loaned money at exorbitant interest rates, and he owned buildings and property and ships. He smuggled and blackmailed and purportedly engaged in every unsavory business practice ever devised.
He had a penchant for violence too, and because of the gossip she’d always pictured him as an ogre, the kind who huddled under bridges and devoured unsuspecting travelers.
But he wasn’t horrid. He was handsome and clean-shaven and obviously rich. Dressed casually in a flowing white shirt and tan trousers, his clothes were exquisitely tailored and sewn from expensive fabrics.
He was much younger than she’d expected too. She’d envisioned him as being grim and elderly, but he wasn’t much older than she was. She was twenty-five, and he was probably thirty. There was a rough edge to him though, as if he’d struggled and persevered through difficulties she’d never had to experience.
“I’m busy, Miss Wells, so get on with it, would you? Are you here to scold me, evangelize, or beg me for a donation?”
His snide tone jolted her out of her stupor. “I hadn’t thought of asking you for a donation, but I’d love you to contribute to the mission.”
“You’re not too proud to take ill-gotten gains?”
She scoffed. “No. Ill-gotten gains and virtuous gains buy the same kinds of food for the hungry.”
“That they do.”
His intense scrutiny was disturbing, and she was perplexed by the offer of charitable money. She’d believed him to be cruel and vicious and was disconcerted by the evident disparities in his character. Perhaps there was some hope for success.
“Have you heard of the Rescue Mission?” she inquired.
“Of course. In this neighborhood, who hasn’t?”
“Vicar Sterns and his wife purchased it several years ago. They’ve passed on, and I run it now.”
“You?”
“Yes. Why are you so surprised?”
“A stiff wind would blow you over.”
“What has that to do with anything?”
“You just don’t seem the type.”
She snorted with disgust. “What type is that?”
“You’re too pretty to dabble with the less fortunate, and since you’re a miss, you’re not married. Why aren’t you? You should be home tending a dozen brats instead of trying to aid desperate people who couldn’t
care less.”
His comment required so many retorts that she was dizzy with figuring out which she should address first.
He thought she was pretty! How thrilling!
Yet she shoved away the remark, refusing to linger over it like a dog at a bone. No, she wasn’t married, and the reason was too humiliating to reveal and she never discussed it. As to her helping others, how dare he denigrate her efforts!
“You grew up on the streets, Mr. Scott.”
He nodded. “I did.”
“You had to have been provided assistance. When you were, weren’t you grateful?”
“No one ever helped me. I helped myself.” He stared at her, those cool, riveting blue eyes showing no emotion. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why aren’t you married? You’re not getting any younger. Why waste time on nonsense?”
“Nonsense!” she huffed. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“Am I?”
“Yes, let’s get back to business.”
“You haven’t told me what it is. I’ve said I’ll donate, but you haven’t departed, so you’re either about to evangelize or scold. Which is it?”
Despite her owning a Christian mission, she wasn’t very religious, and she’d learned practical wisdom from Vicar Sterns. He hadn’t been overly concerned with sin and damnation. His worries had run to more mundane issues, to the hordes of homeless waifs who were starving and unclothed. If that was the focus, a lot of sin could be overlooked.
Maggie had adopted his pragmatic attitude, and the idea of her preaching was humorous. “I’m not about to sermonize.”
“Praise be. What is it then? I’m to be scolded? As we haven’t previously met, I can’t imagine how I could have upset you.”
“Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Scott. You’ve done plenty.”
“I stand corrected. I have been known to misbehave on occasion. What has spurred your visit? Did I spit on the sidewalk? Kick a dog? Curse in front of a female? What?”
“A boy has been employed here.”
“Yes, I employ many boys.”
“He ate regularly at the mission. He was a good boy, a sweet boy.”
Mr. Scott’s beautiful, seductive mouth curled into a smile, and she was taken aback by it. She’d already admitted he was handsome. How could he become even more striking? It didn’t seem possible.
“This boy was living on the streets,” he said, “and eating at your mission and you describe him as sweet?”
“Just because a person is poor, it doesn’t mean he’s corrupt. I’m sure this is a very fine establishment—”
“Oh, it’s the very height of posh and opulence.”
She ignored his sarcasm. “I refuse to have him working for you.”
“You refuse.”
“Yes.”
“Are you his mother? His sister? What?”
“I’m merely worried about his future under your tutelage. May I be blunt, Mr. Scott?”
“Yes, please be blunt.”
“I’ve heard terrible stories about you.”
He chuckled. “I’m certain they’re all true.”
“I want to take him with me when I leave.”
“Are you positive he wishes to go?”
“No, but if I could speak with him…?”
He narrowed his gaze, clearly trying to figure out what drove her. Ultimately he asked, “What’s his name?”
“Tim. He’s ten or so. Brown hair. Very thin.”
“Aren’t they all?”
He stood and went to the door, and he opened it and hollered down the hall. “Ramsey, I need you.”
He came back to the desk, and they listened as heavy boot steps pounded up the stairs. A man loomed in the doorway. He was broader and taller than Mr. Scott, handsome too, and dressed in black clothes, so he appeared menacing in a way Mr. Scott didn’t seem to be.
“What?” he inquired of Mr. Scott.
“Have we hired a new boy named Tim?”
“I believe we have.”
“What are his duties?”
“This and that.” Mr. Ramsey made a waffling motion with his hand, the phrase this and that obviously intended to hide what Tim had been hired to do.
There were rumors he was training as a pickpocket. A pickpocket! As if a boy should be trained at such a task! Her temper flared.
“This and that?” Maggie was incredulous. “What precisely would that position entail?”
Both men ignored her, and Mr. Scott said, “Fetch him.”
Ramsey left, and as she and Mr. Scott waited for Tim to arrive, she noted that her knees were quaking.
She peeked at the chair he’d offered earlier, anxious to walk over and slide down onto it, but she didn’t know how to pull it off with any aplomb. She’d been too snotty in her insistence that she’d remain standing.
The quiet interval was fraught with distress that she hadn’t realized she was harboring. For idiotic reasons she couldn’t fathom, she couldn’t bear to have Mr. Scott deem her a ninny or a fool. She craved his good opinion and yearned for him to view her as being worthy of esteem, but why would it matter? He was a brigand. Who cared what his opinion might be?
To her relief, footsteps sounded on the stairs, ending the tense, awkward moment.
Mr. Scott murmured, “You can’t save the whole world, Miss Wells.”
“I can try.”
“You can, but doesn’t it seem pointless sometimes?”
Ramsey entered, and Tim followed. He looked different, clean and tidied, and he was wearing new clothes, his previously-pale cheeks rosy with color.
“You sent for me, Mr. Scott?” He neared the desk, but blanched when he saw Maggie. “Miss Wells? What are you doing here?”
“I heard you’re working for Mr. Scott,” Maggie said.
Tim blushed. “Ah…yes, I am.”
“You can’t want to.”
“I do want to,” Tim asserted. “I’ve been hoping for years that Mr. Scott would notice me.”
“Why?”
“A boy can rise very high in his employ—if he’s loyal and learns his craft. Everyone knows it.”
Mr. Scott smirked. “See, Miss Wells? Tim is fine.”
Maggie stared at Tim. “Will you leave with me? Please?”
“Why would I?” Tim replied. “I like it here.”
“You can’t mean it.”
“I mean it, Miss Wells. Really.” He peered over at Mr. Scott. “Will that be all, sir?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Scott waved Tim out, and Ramsey led him away.
Maggie gaped at Mr. Scott, and to her horror, she was on the verge of bursting into tears.
He’d said she couldn’t save the whole world, but why couldn’t she save her little corner of it? Did every boy have to meet a bad end? Did every child have to struggle and toil and degrade himself? There was so much poverty and strife, and for just a second the weight of all those desperate souls seemed balanced on her slender shoulders, and the burden was much too heavy to carry.
He shrugged. “You were fretting over nothing.”
“You’ll train him in petty crime. He’ll become a criminal, and it will be all your fault.”
“He’ll have a few coins in his pocket and a dry, warm bed to sleep in. It beats starving out in the rain and the cold.”
“He’ll likely be hanged before you’re through with him.”
“There are worse endings for a boy.”
“Name one,” she fumed.
He didn’t reply, but scowled, his expression telling her she was an idiot. He gestured to the door, indicating her appointment was over.
“Are we finished?” he inquired. “I’ve been more than patient.”
“I want the donation you promised me,” she petulantly said. “I demand it as reparation for all the ways you’ll eventually damage Tim.”
“I’ve changed my mind about it. I can’t stand people who ride their moral high-horse. You’re too persnickety, and I don’t like you.”
“You don’t like me?”
“No.”
“We’re scarcely acquainted. How could you have received sufficient details to have formed an opinion?”
“I’m an excellent judge of character.”
“And in your infinite wisdom, what sort of person have you judged me to be?”
“You think you’re a saint.”
“I do not!”
“But you ought to see the world as the dangerous, hard place it actually is.”
“I don’t need a lecture from you on what the world is like.”
“Don’t you?”
Because she’d spent years helping the needy, she was regularly thanked and lauded and praised. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been insulted or disparaged. Well, except by her family, but they didn’t count.
She was furious and aggrieved and feeling greatly maligned. She’d like to castigate him, to list all the reasons he was wrong about her, but for once she was tongue-tied and couldn’t conceive of a single remark worth sharing.
He rose and came over, and he towered over her, glaring as if she was young and foolish and out of her element.
He dragged her over to the door and pushed her into the hall. It was a gentle push, but a push nonetheless.
“Goodbye, Miss Wells. Don’t darken my door again with your nonsense.”
“I wouldn’t lower myself,” she huffed.
“Good.” He shouted, “Ramsey!”
In a thrice, Ramsey appeared. “What now?”
“Miss Wells is leaving. Escort her out, and tell the footmen if she shows up again and they let her in, heads will roll.”
“Heads will roll?” she scoffed. “Oh, you are by far and away the most exasperating man I’ve ever had the displeasure to meet.”
“I try,” he smugly retorted, and he motioned to Ramsey.
Ramsey reached for her arm, but she shook him away and stomped off. She was about to start down the stairs when she peered around at Mr. Scott. He was watching her, looking amused and elegant and maddening beyond measure.
“You haven’t heard the last of me,” she absurdly warned.
“I’m trembling in my boots, Miss Wells.”
“I’ll speak with the authorities about Tim. I’ll inform them of how you abuse boys in this neighborhood.”