The Fox: in his Henhouse (The Dubious Mates #1)

Chapter 38

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

I n her rush to flee Lord Wellesley, Charles had transferred coaches as often as was possible, traveling even overnight. It meant the nearly week-long trip from Cumberland to London was achieved in under four days, not the five it usually took to travel that distance. She was exhausted; every bone in her body ached. But she’d done it. She’d escaped.

Clutching her small bag of belongings—which consisted of little more than Ruby’s stitched frock—she asked the coach driver for the closest, cheapest lodging, yet the man blatantly ignored her. Asking a fellow traveler proved no better, so she looked down both sides of the crowded street she now stood on and decided left was as good a turn as any to take.

She’d forgotten London’s charms: the noise, the stench, the very offal that lined its streets. It had been ten years since she’d stepped foot in this city, and when she had, it had been on finer streets than this. She’d need to get her bearings fast.

Rounding a corner, Charles at last spied a sign for a tavern aptly named the Wayward Inn—and looking no less reputable than the rest of this quarter. She enquired after a room, choosing to rent for the night rather than the hour, and within minutes had gratefully sunk into a deep stupor upon a none-too-clean bed.

She awoke after nightfall to the sound of a terrific crash, followed by screams of distress. She ran to lock the door but found no key. She wedged the lone chair in the room against the doorknob and was beginning to think she ought to have brought one of Cook’s carving knives with her for defense. But it was too late to ponder that. She crawled back into bed with the room’s lone brass candlestick clutched in her fist, praying for morning to come.

Five days later saw Wells in London, staring up at his parents’ opulent townhouse in Mayfair. A piece of him shuddered to be back in the city he hated above all others, yet he knew this was but a temporary visit. Besides, he could do worse than see for himself just how poorly his father, the Duke, fared.

As he entered the front hall, trailed by two footmen carrying his trunk, his parents’ butler came hurrying towards him, looking as the man always did: perpetually put out.

“My lord.” The butler bowed, a frown plastered to his lips.

“Tompkins, inform my parents I am staying but briefly on business. I’d like a bath and a shave. Oh, and a haircut as well.”

Tompkins blinked, stating, “My lord,” once more.

Wells began the long climb upstairs to his old bedroom when, much to his displeasure, he spotted Miss Mowry rounding the landing and looking none too pleased to see him, either.

“Miss,” he addressed her politely as he hastened past.

“Lord Wellesley.” She bobbed before scurrying off.

What the devil is she doing here? Wells thought to himself, and then recalled his mother had taken the girl on as her ward. Damn and blast. He’d have to avoid her as best he could during his stay.

Later, while soaking in a tub to wash the grime of travel from his skin, he contemplated next steps. He’d formulated a plan of sorts on the long journey here, but there were holes. In addition to actually finding Charles, he’d need to speak to his father about knighting Cuthbert, obtain two special licenses for marriage, and pay a call on Lord Enright, The Earl of Denbigh—for which he might actually need his mother. He’d decided that in order to ensure Charles Merrinan be seen by society again as a lady in good standing, he must convince the Enrights to accept her and her sister back into their fold. He did not think the earl would balk if he informed him of his intention to make Charles his future Duchess. Though he would leave out Eleanor’s engagement to a former street urchin, for the time being.

Wells sank deeper into the water, allowing the tension of the past week to melt from his body. Where could she have gone? he wondered. Or more to the point: If he were Charles, where would he go? For she’d not asked him for a letter of recommendation, and she could hardly apply without one for any positions here in London as housekeeper. What was more, if she’d been educated by her father, rather than sent to any boarding school, she would hardly know a headmaster willing to write her a reference for the position of governess, or even lady’s companion for that matter. What the devil would she do for funds? He knew she’d saved her wages, yet he also knew how stubborn she was; she’d likely left half or more to Eleanor.

Wells searched the recesses of his mind for a solution to her quandary. What line of work, with no reference, could Charles hope to find in London? And the more he thought, the more panicked he became, for the one job she’d no doubt earn most at and was now, thanks to him, altogether well qualified for, was the one job he could not stomach her taking: mistress to some debauched London lord.

Charles had not realized her lack of reference would shut so many doors, for every position she found advertised for housekeeper, maid, governess, or companion, any position at all in London required one. Even for laundry, scullery, or charwoman. She felt beat, for she could hardly write Lord Wells now to beg him for a letter. No, she should have asked for one before she’d left, only like as not he’d have not given it to her, the cad.

Yet with the very same breath she cursed him, an image of him in bed flooded her mind: thick lashes over sleeping eyes, calloused hands so like a laborer’s and so unlike a lord’s, the wonders those hands knew how to provoke . . . Scoundrel! she reminded herself more vehemently. He’d asked for her hand only once his mother had deemed her fit for marriage, not before. He’d been content, in fact, to marry Miss Mowry and keep her as his sidepiece. And though Charles might have lost much in the way of dignity, she had some pride left. She drew the line at being a married man’s mistress. She’d not debase herself utterly.

Yet there remained the matter of her rapidly dwindling funds. Given her lack of reference, she’d visited mills and factories in her quest for employment, but at every one the line of women seeking positions had stretched around the corner. She’d waited patiently like everyone else, but each time they’d closed the gates before she could even cross the threshold to apply.

She’d need to find employment somewhere fast or else find a cheaper room. Already she was skipping meals to save her funds. She’d even asked at the inn if they had need of help in laundry or the kitchen, but no, they did not. Though if she wanted blunt there were a fellow down the street who’d pay handsomely for a chit with hair her color.

Charles had quit the innkeeper in outrage.

She scoured the advertisements daily, desperate for any job that might pay, when a heading at last caught her eye: Madame LeBrecht’s . She scanned the ad, trying not to feel too hopeful, for it had been more than a week of fruitless searching.

Shop girl, attractive, for ladies’ garment store.

5 Crawford Ln. French a must. Discerning

clientele, service & discretion required.

In-person enquiries only.

Well, she’d a better chance at an in-person enquiry for sure. And no mention of a reference, thank God. Though that would surely follow. Perhaps she could simply forge one, though without a seal . . . She shook off the thought. Here, at least, was a lead worth pursuing. And her French, par Dieu, was not half bad.

“Enchantée, j'en suis certaine, mademoiselle. Alors voulez-vous entrer, s’il vous plait?”

Charles heard the voice before she saw the woman at LeBrecht’s guide a well-dressed young lady into a back room for a fitting, for this was indeed a garment shop—an undergarment shop—and she remembered where she’d heard the name before. Lord Wells had ordered her those stockings and chemise from this same London shop. She blushed to recall the items, now stashed in the bottom of her bag, for when in God’s name would she have occasion to don them again? She wouldn’t think on it. Not now.

She smoothed Ruby’s day dress, checked her hair in the shop window’s reflection, pinched her cheeks rosy, and stepped inside. She had one chance to impress.

“May I help you, miss?” an exotic-looking woman asked, her skin a rich bronze, hair so black it was almost blue, and almond-shaped eyes that looked like wells of deepest ink. Charles had never seen anyone so beautiful in all her life.

“I . . .” she stammered before collecting herself. “I came about the advertisement, for the position of shop girl, ma’am.” She curtsied low before the woman, willing herself to look a vision of propriety.

“The job is filled, I’m afraid.” The lady’s voice carried the faintest of accents.

Yet Charles would not give up so easily. “Then perhaps there is another position here, Madame ?” Her eyes met the woman’s with determination. “ Je parle bien francais et suis parfaitement capable de servir vos clients .” Reassuring the woman in French would hopefully do the trick.

“ Et les messieurs ?” The lady raised a brow at her. “Do you know how to serve gentlemen, too, miss?” Her tone suggested service of an altogether different sort than that which Charles had assumed. Yet she would not back out now.

“ Oui .” She nicked her head.

The lady stared at her a moment and then motioned for her to follow, slipping behind an ornately painted screen into what appeared to be a back office.

“ Asseyez-vous !” she commanded, and Charles immediately sat down.

“What is your name, miss?” She reverted back to English.

“Charles Merrinan, ma’am.”

“That is not a woman’s name.” The lady pursed her lips, gesturing with her hand. “It must be something more . . . feminine.”

“Charlotte?” Charles proposed, wondering why her name should matter at all.

“Charlotte, yes, better.” The woman continued to stare. “Let down your hair, Charlotte.”

Which Charles did, perplexed.

“Very nice.” She nodded to herself. “There are gentlemen who seek this color you have. It is not so common.” The lady’s stare by now unnerved Charles. “Stand up and turn around. I wish to look at you.”

Charles again obeyed, though she was beginning to feel the lady’s scrutiny was not without reproof.

“ Bien, bien, parfait .” Madame nodded to herself. “And you say you have experience serving gentlemen?”

“Yes,” Charles answered. “I was most recently housekeeper to a duke’s son, ma’am.”

“A duke?” Her face looked suddenly shrewd. “Which Duke, may I ask?”

“The Duke of Allendale’s son, Lord Wellesley, ma’am.” Charles decided there could be little harm in saying this, especially if it served as indirect reference.

“Lord Wellesley, eh?” The lady’s smile turned cat-like. “He is one of our clients , you know.” She stressed the word in French, assessing Charles more keenly. “We were very sad to see him leave London.”

“I served him in Cumberland, ma’am,” Charles clarified.

“Hmm, yes.” The lady’s eyes bored into her. “No doubt he liked your hair, too.”

Charles felt suddenly uncomfortable. “Madam, may I ask what position you are considering me for?”

“Position?” The lady laughed. “What position do you think I am considering you for, miss?”

“If it is not that of shop girl then perhaps seamstress? Or maid?” Charles frowned. “I am good at bookkeeping too, ma’am.”

“My dear Charlotte.” The lady smirked. “I believe we were discussing how you serviced Lord Wells in bed, were we not?”

Charles knew at once she’d made a grievous error coming here. She hastily backed away from Madame LeBrecht, or whoever this woman was. “I am not . . . I can assure you, madam, I am not interested in serving gentlemen in the manner you assume. I believed you to mean I might be of service to them as purchasing clients only, here in your shop.”

“Ah but you would, chérie ,” she replied smoothly. “You would work here in the shop, attending to customers, and if you caught the eye of a gentleman and he requested the pleasure of meeting you elsewhere, well, then perhaps you might service him further, for far better pay than the pennies you will earn selling garments here.” Her onyx eyes had become two sharp points.

“I see.” Charles steeled herself not to react. “And this would remain my choice, madam? I would not be forced into any situation I did not willingly choose to engage in?”

“Of course not.” Madame gave her a canny look. “It is a matter of honor, my dear, that all liaisons begun in my shop should be mutually beneficial and, of course, consensual.”

“Then I will take the position, madam, provided what you have told me is indeed true.”

“My dear Charlotte, with your looks and a little charm, you will soon find you have no need of a position here at LeBrecht’s . The gentlemen of the Ton will all be falling over themselves to keep you as their mistress.” Her laugh tinkled like harsh, bright bells.

“I’ve no wish to become another man’s mistress.” Charles scowled.

“Did Wells mistreat you, Charlotte?” Madame looked surprised. “I always found him to be a most generous lover, if not always the most gentle.” She grinned.

“You mean you were his mistress?” Charles felt her gut lurch.

“It was very long ago, miss.” Madame’s smile was almost rueful. “He brought me to this country, you see, when I had nowhere else to go.”

Charles was stunned. “On his ship?”

“Yes, years ago now. I do not wish to reminisce.” Madame returned to business. “Come tomorrow and look your best, flirt with every gentleman who enters, and throw in a little French. Style your hair loose, show something of your shape. Within a day or two, you will have more than enough offers to choose from.”

Only Charles had no intention of choosing anything of the sort. She intended to simply work at the shop and save whatever pittance Madame paid her. It was a job, after all, and she would have taken any job offered her right then.

Well, almost any.

“ Bien, Madam e.” She bobbed her head, curtsied, and quickly exited the shop, noting how Madame LeBrecht gazed after her through the window.

It gave her chills.