by Wendy Vella
“Do you suppose that’s his wife?” Julia whispered, her face pale.
Samantha angled her body a bit to get a better view. “Can’t say just yet,” she responded. The purse meant Mr. Comber could be arranging a liaison with the woman. They were in the slums, after all, where most of the women had to prostitute themselves for enough money to get by. Or he was just passing along his earnings to his wife. Either way, it meant Mr. Comber really shouldn’t have been engaging in kissing her best friend.
As Samantha continued to watch, the group suddenly disappeared into the building. For a very quiet ten minutes, no one said anything. Julia was about to order the driver to take them home when Samantha inhaled sharply. “Mr. Comber just came out,” she said in hoarse whisper. “And now the woman has come out. She’s carrying the babe.”
“How old?” Julia wondered, angling her head so that she could get a glimpse of the tableau unfolding in Monmouth Street.
“A year or so,” Samantha guessed. “He’s taking her hand and kissing the back of it,’ she added, her tone suggesting she was impressed by the groom’s manners.
“She kissed him.” Julia sank back into the worn leather squabs. A sense of utter disappointment settled over her then. What had she expected, though? When Mr. Comber announced he had a previous engagement, shouldn’t she have figured it would be something like this? He was using his afternoon off to pay a call on his family.
Julia fought back a tear, blinking rapidly in an effort to clear any evidence that she might be more heartbroken than she let on.
Samantha suddenly turned in her direction. “He’s walking back to his horse,” she said, wide-eyed.
Julia took an experimental breath. “Does he seem ... happy?” she wondered, willing her voice not to break from a sob.
Glancing out the window again, Samantha shook her head. “Not particularly,” she said carefully. “But he’s not sad, either. And I believe he just gave the boy another coin for seeing to his horse,” she said, apparently surprised by the groom’s generosity. Samantha continued to watch as Mr. Comber mounted the horse and turned it around. Before she could move away from the window, Mr. Comber had managed to ride past and give her a glance as he did so.
Samantha’s eyes widened. “He saw me!” she said in surprise.
Julia, who had made sure she was away from the window when the groom rode by, rolled her eyes. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” she murmured, her thoughts still on whom the woman might be. His wife, no doubt. Given his position as a groom, with only a room above the stables in which to live, meant his family had to live in separate quarters. Such squalor, though, she thought as she took in the general poor condition of the buildings that lined the streets that made up the Seven Dials. Soot clung to the exteriors, making everything appear gray and dingy. The children who played in the street or who were clustered on the pavement in small groups looked as if they hadn’t bathed in weeks. Others who walked about on the streets weren’t much cleaner. At least the woman who had kissed Mr. Comber seemed ... well, poor, but not destitute.
The door above them opened and the driver’s face appeared. “I do believe we should be taking our leave of this place, my ladies,” he said in a hoarse whisper. Indeed, even as he said the words, Julia became aware of a group of children making their way to the coach. Beggars, she thought. She was at once appalled and at the same time felt a bit sorry for their situation. After all, it was a mere accident of birth that had her the daughter of an earl whilst the poor street urchins were borne of the lower classes.
“Agreed, Mr. Gray. Home, but take us by a different route if you would,” Samantha suggested. Should they manage to catch up to Mr. Comber, she didn’t want the groom thinking they were following him.
In a moment, the driver had the coach pulling away from the curb, the children voicing their disappointment at not getting to the coach doors before it pulled away. As they passed the open door of the run-down dwelling that apparently housed Mr. Comber’s family, Julia wondered if she would be able to see any of the children. She was surprised when she realized the woman was standing just inside the threshold, tears flowing down her cheeks as she looked into the fabric purse the groom had given her, and wearing a smile that belied her circumstances.
“There must have been a good deal of money in that purse,” Samantha whispered as the coach turned a sharp corner and headed south.
“Indeed,” Julia agreed, wondering if the groom had just been paid. When did the servants in her father’s household get their pay? she wondered. Mr. Comber hadn’t been a servant very long, so it was doubtful he could have made that much money working for her father. Did he win the money gambling? She chided herself. When would he have had time to gamble? He is always in the stables or in lessons with me, she considered.
“I’m sorry,” Samantha said from across the coach. “I didn’t realize you felt affection for him,” she added carefully.
Julia raised her head in alarm and stared at her friend. “Whatever do you mean?” she questioned, about to deny Samantha’s conclusion. Mr. Comber was a servant, a mere groom in her father’s stable! She couldn’t be feeling affection for the man.
She couldn’t!
But a tear fell from her cheek and Julia stilled herself. Her chest felt heavy, her heart suddenly in pain, as if it were breaking. A sob escaped before she could swallow it. “I didn’t ... I didn’t either,” she whispered, lifting a gloved hand to wipe away the tears.
A hanky was suddenly pressed into her other hand as Samantha moved to sit next to her. “Surely a single kiss didn’t cause this,” Samantha whispered as she wrapped an arm around Julia’s shoulders.
Julia shook her head, dabbing at her eyes with the handkerchief. “Of course, not,” she agreed, wondering from where the sudden sense of loss had come. Why would she have thought Mr. Comber was unattached? Why would she have believed such a handsome man to be unmarried? Because he kissed me, she thought, a sudden feeling of anger replacing some of the sorrow she felt. The despicable man! she suddenly thought. Damn him! How could the man kiss her when he had a wife and ... and children ... just a few miles away? Her sadness now entirely replaced with indignation, Julia announced, “He’s a rake. A rake, I tell you,” she added for good measure.
Samantha frowned at the change in her friend’s countenance. “I was not aware a woman could have such a sudden change of heart,” she murmured in awe. “One moment, you’re feeling affection for the man ...” She held up a finger to stave off Julia’s protest ... “And the next, you’re accusing him of being a rake.”
“That’s because he is!” Julia nearly shouted, tears still streaming down her cheeks. Her eyes, red-rimmed from crying, were suddenly ablaze with anger. “He would make me an ... an adulteress!” she whispered hoarsely, not wanting to be heard by anyone but Samantha.
Her eyes wide, Samantha removed her arm from around Julia’s shoulders. “Did he ... did Mr. Comber ... bed you?” she countered in alarm.
“No!” Julia shouted, her denial loud enough to be heard by anyone within five feet of the ancient coach. “But he ... he kissed me,” she reminded her friend, not adding that she had kissed him, too.
Samantha sighed, not sure what to say to Julia to calm the poor girl. “The woman back there,” she started to say and then stopped. “She may have been his sister,” she offered quietly. “Or just a destitute friend,” she added, realizing there weren’t any other excuses she could make for the man.
“Oh, do you really think so?” Julia replied, her eyes widening as if she favored the suggestion over the woman being the groom’s wife.
Suppressing the urge to smile at her friend’s sudden change in mood, Samantha found she couldn’t decide what she believed. Either Mr. Comber was a married man, or he wasn’t. And either way, she realized, Julia Harrington was probably in love with him.
“I really don’t know what to think,” Samantha replied with a shake of her head. “Perhaps you should just ask him.”
Julia turned to regard her friend with a look of shock. “Ask him?” she repeated, incredulous.
Samantha nodded. “Yes,” she replied.
Staring at her friend, Julia shook her head. “I couldn’t do that,” she argued, wondering how Samantha could have made the suggestion.
“Of course, you can,” Samantha argued. “You don’t even have to ask directly.”
Julia frowned. “Then ... how do I ask him?” she wondered.
“Like this. ‘How are you today, Mr. Comber? And how is your family? It must be terribly difficult to have to live apart from them,’” Samantha said with a sad expression followed by a shake of her head.
Julia’s eyebrows arched up. “Of course. That is exactly what I shall do,” she agreed, her spirits suddenly raised. “Thank you, Sam,” she said with a nod.
Samantha beamed, satisfied that she had come up with a workable solution.
She suddenly realized the downside to her solution, however, and her smile disappeared.
“Now, if he agrees with your statements, then you’ll know he is married,” Samantha warned carefully. “And you have to promise not to beat him if that should be the case.” Pity the poor groom should he be married, Samantha realized just then.
Her mouth dropping open in astonishment, Julia shook her head. “If he agrees, then I won’t beat him. But I think I shall slap him across the face very hard,” she claimed, her chin raised in defiance.
Samantha sighed. Pity the poor groom.
When Alistair found Michael Regan’s widow, a task Alistair realized was easier than he expected given the number of townhouses clustered together in the Seven Dials, he saw a woman whose drawn and pale face made her appear as if she were twice as old as she really was. So he took a bit of satisfaction in how the joy of meeting him changed her countenance to that of a much younger woman. Certainly he was a reminder of her husband’s death, he thought, surprised that she would seem glad to see him. But she was.
“He mentioned you in his last letter,” Faith Regan explained as she pulled the missive from a pocket in her gown. Apparently she kept the note on her person at all times, because it appeared rather worn, the folds nearly torn from having been unfolded multiple times. “He was honored to have been under your command, even if you couldn’t reveal your true identity,” she whispered, as if she’d been charged with keeping his secret and would continue to do so. One of her children had joined her then, wondering who the stranger was. Soon, two more were tugging at her skirts. “Will you come in for a moment?” she asked.
Not sure if he should—propriety didn’t allow him to enter a woman’s house without a companion or maid present— Alistair finally entered the townhouse when Faith urged him inside. Despite the horrible conditions outside the tiny townhouse, the inside was in better repair. “Are you ... safe here?” Alistair wondered, thinking a widow would be an easy target for thieves or worse on any of the seven roads that converged in the center of the Dials.
“We look out for one another,” Faith answered with a shrug. “I work as a seamstress for a nearby modiste—here,” she said as she motioned toward a chair in the best lit corner of the main floor room. “So I don’t have to leave the children— and we ... we get by,” she said with a nod. “Would you like some tea?” she offered as she moved toward a stove and water pump that made up the kitchen. A worn teakettle and several chipped cups were lined up on a shelf.
Alistair shook his head. “I should take my leave. I ... I am expected back at my employer’s house within the hour,” he explained. As he moved to the door, he remembered his reason for finding the widow. “I have something for you, Mrs. Regan,” he said as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the purse filled with fifteen pounds. “If for any reason you no longer feel safe here in the Dials, please send word to me at Harrington House, and I’ll see to it you’re moved to a more hospitable neighborhood,” he promised.
Faith Regan stared at the purse her visitor had placed in her hand. “But, I ... I cannot accept this,” she said with a shake of her head, her first thought that Alistair would expect something in return.
Alistair took a step back. “You must, my lady, as I made a promise to your husband that I would provide for you and your children in his stead.”
Swaying a bit, as if she was feeling light-headed, Faith stared at Alistair for several seconds before her arms suddenly wrapped around his shoulders. She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. “Oh, how can I ever thank you?” she whispered before releasing him.
Alistair stared at the widow, stunned at her reaction. “You already have, my lady,” he said with a nod, an embarrassed smile replacing his brief look of shock.
The simple gesture had been one of the most surprising and gratifying acts anyone had done for him, so when Alistair bade his farewell, he again tipped the caddy who held his horse and rode off feeling rather proud of himself.
As he passed a very old coach, the one that he was sure had followed him from when he had first made Oxford Street on his trip to the Dials, Alistair managed a glance toward the conveyance. The face he saw in the window surprised him, probably as much as the girl who was staring at him was surprised at being discovered. I’ve seen that face before, he thought as hurried his mount down Monmouth Street and out of the Dials. Staring at me from a second story window of Harrington House.
The girl certainly wasn’t Lady Julia—he was quite sure of that—but if not Lady Julia, then who was she? And why had she followed him to the Seven Dials?
Alistair considered the next dance lesson. Since he already knew the steps to the Cotillion, it would be much easier to make conversation with Lady Julia. And now he had the perfect topic. Tell me, Lady Julia, who do you know that might have followed me to the Seven Dials?
Chapter Thirty-Three
A Maid and a Manager
The next day
Sarah peeked into the parlor. Having knocked and not heard a reply, she wondered if the countess and her lady’s maid had fallen asleep by the fire. But the room was empty. Even the dishes from their luncheon were empty, or nearly so. She smiled, glad that the inn’s cook had managed to make another luncheon suitable for a countess. If Thomas’ report from his mother could be believed, apparently Lady Trenton had been quite satisfied with the food she was served the day before. And, in typical aristocratic behavior, the woman hadn’t been seen by any of the inn’s employees until well after noon today.
Gathering the empty dishes onto a tray, Sarah was about to take her leave of the parlor when she realized she was no longer alone. “Mrs. Fuller,” she said as she turned to find the maid just inside the door. “Oh, did you wish to ...?” she started to say, thinking the maid had returned to finish eating.
“Goodness, no,” Mrs. Fuller replied with a shake of her head. “I ate enough for two more days,” she claimed with a wan smile. “Would you have a moment? To ... talk?” she wondered, realizing the inn’s manager was probably needed elsewhere. The sounds from the public room had died down, making her think the mail coach had taken its leave of the inn.
“I think so,” Sarah replied uncertainly as she moved to a chair near the fireplace. The day’s mail coach had departed a few moments ago, and the rest of the staff was seeing to the restoration of the public room for the arrival of travelers later than evening.
Earlier that morning, John Bristow had come down from his rooms to announce that Sally’s fever had broken. Relieved to hear the news, Sarah paid a call on the woman, reminding her of how she’d been missed. “I cannot run this place as well as you do,” Sarah claimed when she left Sally’s room.
Sarah waited until Lady Trenton’s maid had taken an adjacent chair before seating herself.
“Her ladyship is in a bit of a quandary,” the lady’s maid stated suddenly.
“Oh?” Sarah replied carefully. Her heart rate increasing, Sarah held her breath. Had the countess found fault with something at the inn?
“The earl told her about his ... your ... son,” Mr
s. Fuller said then, her hands clasped together on her lap.
Keeping her face as impassive as possible, Sarah regarded the maid before blinking once. She blinked again before giving the maid a slight shrug. “The earl?” she finally replied, hoping she sounded as if she knew nothing of what Mrs. Fuller was speaking.
Mrs. Fuller sighed when she realized Sarah wasn’t going to admit she knew the Earl of Trenton, let alone admit that the baby was, indeed, the earl’s son. “She’s rather fond of him,” Mrs. Fuller went on. “The babe, I mean,” she clarified with a wan smile, as if there was someone else for whom the countess could be feeling fondness.
Then she remembered Gabriel.
“Oh, and her own son, Gabriel, of course,” Mrs. Fuller added, one of her hands suddenly waving in front of her flushing face as if she were overly warm. “The Earl of Trenton.”
“Oh?” Sarah replied, her heart suddenly racing. She could admit to feeling a bit of relief that the woman would feel something for her own grandchild. As a bastard, Gabe would never enjoy the same rights in life as other legitimate males in the world did, but that didn’t mean he shouldn’t be acknowledged by his relatives—aristocrats or not.
Perhaps Lady Trenton would abide by Gabriel’s promise to see to the boy’s education. “Does that mean ..?” Sarah started to ask, and then stopped. She hadn’t yet agreed with anything Mrs. Fuller had said. The countess obviously knew the baby was her grandson, though. “Does that mean she will abide by the earl’s agreement to see to the boy’s education?” she whispered hoarsely, hoping no one was within earshot of the parlor door.
Mrs. Fuller’s eyes widened. The inn manager’s response wasn’t quite what she expected. “I don’t know anything about that, miss,” she replied with a shake of her head. “However, I do know that the countess would like to ... assist you, if you will ... in the ... in the expenses associated with the child.”
Sarah’s eyebrows arched up in surprise. “Expenses?” she repeated, wondering if the countess meant to provide money toward Gabe’s food and clothing. “I can certainly afford to raise my son without any assistance from Lady Trenton,” she stated in a quiet voice, “Or the earl, for that matter,” she added, feeling a bit offended by the implication that she couldn’t afford to raise her own son.