The Winter Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance) (5 page)

Daisy finished the cuff and bit off the thread. “I know you said it’s not because of the brothel that you don’t want to get married, but if it was—”

“It’s not. It’s . . . complicated.” She’d never told anyone about how and why she’d been sold to the brothel and she didn’t intend to start now. Any marriage she made would be doomed to misery—her misery. Like Mama.

Daisy sniffed and knotted a new thread. “But if you ain’t going to nab yourself a bloke, how are you goin’ to support yourself? It ain’t easy on your own, you know.”

“I know.” In the weeks before they’d met Lady Beatrice, the four girls had been trying to support themselves in London and had almost starved, it had been so dreadfully hard to find work. Damaris had been the luckiest, having found a job painting china in a pottery.

Daisy went on, “When you start your life by bein’ dumped in a gutter ’cause nobody wants you, you soon learn you gotta look out for yourself.” She glanced up at Damaris. “If you’re useful to people, they’ll want you around. But the minute you’re not, or someone else takes their fancy, or they change their mind—or die—you’re on yer own. So it’s up to you to save yourself, ’cause there ain’t no Prince Bloomin’ Charmin’ gonna come lookin’ for girls like us, Damaris.”

Damaris laughed. “I know. And I’m not expecting anyone to save me. I had a lucky escape from that brothel—if you and Jane hadn’t let me come with you . . .” It didn’t bear thinking of.

“Now, don’t go all misery-guts on me, Damaris, that’s all water under the bridge. But yeah, you and me, we don’t fit here the way Abby and Jane do. You fit better’n me—you’re a lady, at least, with all them pretty manners that come natural to you, brought up wiv ’eathens or not. But them two are real sisters, and blood is thicker than promises—that’s all I know.”

“Don’t you trust them?” Damaris was troubled by the thought. It was the one little piece of security in her whole world, that she and the other three had sworn to be as sisters.

“Now don’t take this the wrong way, mind, it’s not that I don’t trust them—or you—but that I don’t trust anybody, not deep down, not really. Only meself.”

“Oh, Daisy.”

She shrugged. “People change, things change.” She hesitated and said, “You know Mrs. B, who used to be the madam of the brothel before she handed it over to that black-hearted son of hers?”

Damaris nodded. “Mort, yes.”

“Mrs. B found me when I was just eight. I was a right mess, me life was a misery and this had just happened.” She gestured to her crippled foot. “She took me away from the place where I was, took me to see a doctor, spent ’er own money on me—a stranger!—and then she took me home and looked after me. Nobody had before. I was that grateful.” She finished a seam and bit off the thread. “She never once pressed me to work for her as one o’ the girls, neither.”

Damaris nodded. Daisy had worked in the brothel as a maid and a seamstress.

Daisy continued, “I loved Mrs. B, thought of her like a mum—well, I used to pretend she was me mum if you want to know the truth. Thought me and her would be together the rest of our days an’ I’d look after ’er in ’er old age.” She threaded her needle with a different thread. “And then she went off and left me wiv that bastard Mort, din’t she? Chucked me away like a pair of old shoes as if I meant nuffin’ to her at all.”

“It must have hurt you terribly,” Damaris said softly.

Daisy shrugged. “Taught me a lesson I needed to learn, din’t it? You got nobody in this life to look out for you except yourself.” She looked up at Damaris. “And if you ain’t goin’ to get married, you’d better think of some way to support yourself.”

“I know.”

They bent over their sewing, deep in thought.

Daisy’s philosophy might be a grim one but it was true for Damaris as well. She loved Abby and Jane and Daisy as sisters and she loved Lady Beatrice with a mixture of fierce protectiveness and a desperate yearning for her mother.

But she didn’t want to live on Lady Beatrice’s bounty, like a sponge or a charity case, just because she didn’t want to marry. If she’d learned anything in her life, it was that she was strong and could work hard.

“You can work with me, if you like, bein’ a mantua maker. I don’t mean just helping out, like now, but—”

“Thank you, it’s very generous of you, Daisy, but—”

“I dunno if there’ll be much money in it for a while, though, even if we do succeed. Any money that comes in is goin’ to be needed for the business. I’ll need to find a place of me own eventually and rent a shop.”

“I know. And though I’ll help you as much as I can at the moment, I have . . . other plans for the future.”

Daisy gave her a shrewd look. “Still hankerin’ after that cottage in the country?”

Damaris nodded. It was her dream to live in a little cottage in the country, with chickens and a vegetable garden, somewhere quiet and peaceful. And safe. Above all, safe.

Daisy wrinkled her nose. “Sounds ’orrible to me. I hate the country, all empty except for mud and cows and trees. What would you do all day?”

Damaris smiled. “I’d be busy growing vegetables and keeping hens. I might even keep bees.”

“Nuffin’ but bees and chickens for company? Won’t you be lonely?”

“If I am, I’ll get a dog. Or a cat. Or both.” She’d been lonely most of her life. She was used to it. And animals didn’t judge you; their love was unquestioning. It would be good to have Daisy and the others close by, but it was much more expensive to live in the city where you couldn’t even grow your own food.

“Don’t you want kids, Damaris?”

Damaris swallowed. She did, of course she did. “I looked after some little girls in China.”

“Foundlings?” Daisy was a foundling herself.

Damaris nodded. The unwanted ones. “The babies and toddlers were my special charge. They were so sweet. . . .” Her voice cracked as she remembered how she’d last seen them. She swallowed again and said in what she hoped was a light tone, “But children are a lot of work.” And loving them made you so vulnerable. There had been enough grief in her life. . . .

“You didn’t want to leave them behind, did you?”

Damaris shook her head. “No,” she said softly. “But there was no . . . no choice.” She rose and busied herself putting coal on the fire and stirring up the embers. She didn’t want to dwell on the past. It was too painful. She had to think about the future.

If she were to get her cottage in the country, she would have to earn money for the rent. And the sooner she started the better. On that thought she said abruptly, “Daisy, I’m sorry but I need to go out. There’s something I need to do.”

Daisy gave her a thoughtful look, then nodded. “Off you go, then.”

“You don’t mind?” Damaris gestured to the unfinished sewing.

Daisy grinned. “Nah, go ahead, do what you gotta do. I got me own plans, you got yours.” She hadn’t asked what Damaris intended or where she was going. Daisy had learned young to mind her own business. “Just be back in time for the literary society. Lady Bea will have a fit if you’re not there to read.”

“I’ll be there.”

“What! would I be turned back from doing a thing that I had determined to do, and that I knew to be right, by the airs and interference of such a person, or of any person I may say?”

—
JANE AUSTEN
,
PERSUASION

T
he dawn of another day. Mist swirled in ghostly shreds, caressing the lampposts and softening the stark outlines of the bare winter trees in the park. The hoofbeats of the nag pulling the cab echoed on the cobblestones. Inside the cab, Freddy lounged against the grimy seat back, tired and faintly blue-deviled. He’d just bidden a final and quite energetic farewell to his mistress but his mood had little to do with that; truth to tell, they’d wearied of each other, and her decision to marry again was both timely and convenient.

The truth was, he was beginning to tire of this way of life; having to leave a warm, comfortable bed in the dark, making a discreet exit by the back door, braving the cold, predawn streets.

He yawned. For once he’d like to take a woman to his own bed. And stay there as long as they wanted to. Perhaps it was time to employ a mistress, set her up in a house so he wouldn’t have to sneak out before dawn. He’d never fancied the idea of paying for it, but . . . these cold morning risings were killing him. Or perhaps he was getting old. He’d be thirty soon.

He gazed sleepily out of the carriage window. London was stirring, men and women trundling their goods along in handcarts—everything from cabbages to rags and bones—street sweepers, maidservants scurrying along the street, some with baskets heading to the market, others carrying jugs to purchase fresh milk from the herd of cows kept in Green Park.

Freddy shivered and pulled his coat tighter about him. Better them than him. He was a few moments from home and a warm, comfortable bed. Through half-closed eyes he watched a woman walking briskly along the footpath ahead of him. There was something about her . . . the way she walked. . . . She was swathed in a plain gray cloak, but he thought she was slender, and perhaps young. Possibly pretty. She was moving in the opposite direction, away from Mayfair, toward a much less salubrious district.

His cab passed her just as she was walking under a lamp and out of idle curiosity Freddy turned to look, just to see whether she was pretty or not.

“Bloody hell!” he exclaimed and rapped on the ceiling of the cab. “Stop here!”

“Thought you wanted Mayfair, sir,” the cabbie grumbled.

“Changed my mind.” Freddy tossed him a coin, jumped down and ran after the girl, who’d turned a corner and disappeared down a side street.

At the corner he spotted her, a slender gray shadow swirling through the mist, insubstantial, but walking briskly and with purpose, seeming to know exactly where she was going.

She turned another corner and disappeared. He hurried after her and found himself in a narrow street. The gaslights didn’t extend this far. In the dim, predawn light he could make out a few dilapidated houses with boarded-up windows, a couple of warehouses, narrow yards enclosed by high walls topped with shards of glass, and the occasional chimney of a manufactory. What the hell could she want in such a district?

He followed quietly, burning with curiosity, but when she turned into a dark and narrow alley he could hang back no longer. Didn’t she realize the danger a lone woman could face in these parts?

He caught up with her, grabbed her by the arm and swung her around to face him—then ducked as she lashed out at him with—good God!—a cosh? He caught her forearm in his hand and forced it down. The cosh, a small leather bag filled with gravel or some such thing, dangled limply from her fingers, attached by a looped string.

“Wh—Mr. Monkton-Coombes?” Damaris Chance gave him a wide-eyed look of amazement, glanced behind him to see if he was alone, then returned her gaze to his face.

For a moment they stood staring at each other, breathing heavily, small visible puffs in the chill, still air. Her skin was milk pale, luminous with mist, her eyes huge and dark in the dim light. They looked almost black; Freddy knew they were a soft brown like the velvet of pansies. That was in the dark. In the sun, they sparkled like topaz.

Under the drab gray cloak she wore an even drabber gray gown, like some dowdy, down-at-heels governess. In some obscure way it offended him. She always dressed with elegance and style. As befitted her beauty.

And she was carrying a
cosh
, a weapon of the wharves and backstreets. That roused him to further anger.

He shook her by the arm. “What the devil are you doing out here, alone, at this hour, in this godforsaken neighborhood?”

“What are you doing here?” Her voice was cool, low and composed, smoky honey in the chill, bleak surrounds. She tried to pull her arm out of his grip.

His fingers tightened. “I asked you first—and what the dev—
deuce
are you doing carrying a
cosh
?” He was not composed at all.

This—
this!
—was why he should have refused Max’s request, this feeling he got whenever she looked at him this way, with silky sable brows arching over fathomless dark eyes. He had no idea what she was thinking, dammit. A man could drown in that liquid gaze. And the way she pursed those full, wild-rose lips . . . they scrambled his brain.

“Defending myself from unwanted attentions, of course.” She glanced pointedly at the hand that held her. “Let go of my arm, please.”

He ignored her. “If you were where you’re supposed to be you wouldn’t need to defend yourself at all. What are you doing out here?”

“Walking.”

“Don’t try that flummery with me. What are you doing here?”

She gave him a look that might have been apologetic if she hadn’t answered coolly, “That’s my business.”

“It’s my business too.”

She put up her brows in a way that was no doubt meant to make him feel abashed. Trying to look governessy, he supposed, in her drab gray garb.

Freddy had never had a governess—that he knew of—and he didn’t feel abashed in the slightest. The contrast between her fine, moon-pale beauty and the dreary clothing buttoned tightly, swathing her slenderness in drabness, only made her look . . . enticing. The thought flashed across his mind that it might be quite entertaining to have a governess. . . .

Not that he was allowing himself to be enticed. Or distracted. She was very much out-of-bounds to him; a duty only. “Max made me promise that I’d keep an eye on you girls while he’s away—and a blasted nuisance it’s turning out to be.”

She glanced again at his hand, which was still clamped around her forearm. “I quite agree.”

“Well, it’s a good thing he did,” he said crossly. “What do you think he’d say to you wandering about in such an area at this time of night?”

“It’s not night, it’s morning,” she corrected him. “And I’m not wandering, I know exactly where I’m going. It’s nothing for you or anyone else to be concerned about, so I thank you for your interest and bid you good day.” She tugged at her arm.

Interest?
It wasn’t interest he felt, it was . . . dammit, he didn’t know what it was. Annoyance, probably. He could be home in bed by now, and instead he was down some filthy alley arguing with a mule-headed chit who seemed to have no idea of the trouble she could be in. “Does Lady Beatrice know you are here? Does Featherby?”

“Featherby is a butler; it is not for him to approve or disapprove of my doings.”

He wanted to shake her. “Perhaps not, but I’ll lay odds he would have sent that giant footman with you if he had any idea you were going out at this time of the day—and in these streets. And don’t think I haven’t noticed you failed to answer my question about Lady Beatrice. I can see from your expression she doesn’t know, either. Does anyone know?”

She looked away, her jaw clenched, presenting him with a view of her profile. A beautiful profile, he mused, if currently a touch mulish. The sun was almost up, staining the sky pink and lending a faint blush to her milk-white skin.

“Well?” he prompted.

“Daisy knows.”

“Oh, well, that’s all right then,” he said with heavy sarcasm. “Daisy’d be a lot of help if you got into trouble. Do you have
any
idea of what kind of neighborhood you’re in?” He gestured to the run-down surroundings.

“I know exactly what sort of place this is,” she retorted. “Better than you, I expect.”

Better than he? He narrowed his eyes. “Why? How do you know this place?”

“It’s none of your—”

“Don’t give me that. I promised Max I’d keep an eye on you all and I don’t make promises lightly.” Not at all, if he could help it.

She glanced down the alleyway to where a couple of shabby-looking men had come out of a yard and stood watching them with interest.

“Make all the fuss you want,” he told her. “You’re not taking another step until you give me a satisfactory explanation.”

She made a small irritated noise. “If you must know, I have a job here. Now please release me, or I’ll be late.”

“A
job
?” He didn’t believe her. Girls who lived in Mayfair under the care of a doting aunt didn’t have jobs. Even if the aunt wasn’t a real aunt, the security she provided was real enough.

“What kind of job?”

“I paint china.”

“China?” It was the last thing he would have thought of. “What sort of china?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “What sort do you think? Cups, saucers, plates, bowls, jugs.” She bared her teeth at him in a falsely sweet smile and added, “Chamber pots.”

“But why?”

She pursed her lips and tried to pull free of his loosened grip, but he wasn’t having any of that. “For money, of course.”

Freddy frowned. Money? A job like that wouldn’t pay much. Lady Beatrice made all the girls an allowance. Pin money, but it would be plenty for their needs. Unless . . . “Have you been gambling?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why are you short of money?” What could be so important that she’d taken up a menial job in secret, in a seedy part of town, at this indecent hour?

He waited, still gripping her slender wrist firmly. A clock somewhere chimed, six sonorous chimes. “I’m not short of money and what I do in my own time is none of your business.” She twisted against his grip. “Now let me go! You’re making me late.” She glanced down the alleyway.

Freddy followed her glance. The two men had been joined by a middle-aged woman.

Freddy returned to the point at issue. “If you’re sneaking out of the house to work in a job in this part of town it’s Max’s business, and Lady Beatrice’s, since you’re living under his roof and under her protection,” Freddy pointed out. “And while Max is away it’s my business.”

“It’s nothing for either of them to be concerned about.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

She made a frustrated noise. “Very well, I’ll tell you, as long as you promise to say nothing about it to anyone.”

She waited, but Freddy would make no such promise. “I’ll decide that when I know what it is.” What if she was involved in something dodgy or dangerous?

She moistened her lips worriedly, considering her options. Freddy stifled a groan, unable to take his gaze off her rosy damp mouth. Dammit, Max had no business asking him to keep an eye on such lusciousness, knowing he could only look and not touch. It was above and beyond . . .

She bit down on the soft, plump flesh, which almost made him groan aloud—he could practically taste it himself—but she seemed to have come to some decision, for she said, “Well, if you must know—”

“This feller botherin’ you, Miss D’maris?”

Freddy felt a heavy hand clamp down on his shoulder.

At the same time a meaty fist grabbed Freddy’s neck and something cold—a blade?—pressed against his throat and a different voice rasped, “Let ’er go—she ain’t for the likes of you.”

Freddy released Damaris’s wrist and the pressure of the blade lifted. Now she would understand the danger she courted in districts like this. He willed her with his eyes to flee—things were about to get ugly. Freddy might dress like a pink of the
ton
, but he boxed regularly at Jackson’s parlor. He could beat off these two, but he didn’t want Damaris in the way, not when knives as well as fists were flying around.

He gave her a hard look, willing her again to run, and braced himself for action. Only to hear her say in that soft, smoke-honey voice, “Thank you, Amos, Henry, but it’s quite all right. This gentleman was just leaving.”

Amos? Henry? She
knew
these ruffians?

The knife disappeared, but the heavy hand remained on Freddy’s shoulder. “We’ll see the fancy gent off, miss, don’t you worry.” There was a wealth of meaning in his voice. And a wealth of onions on his breath. Freddy turned his head away.

Damaris laughed softly. “No, really, he’s harmless. He was just satisfying himself that I really do work here.”

Harmless? Freddy stiffened.
Harmless?

“Let him go, please,” she said in that governessy tone, and to Freddy’s amazement—and annoyance—they did.

“Come, let us go to work,” she said, and like little lambs the two thugs shambled in her wake down the laneway, casting threatening looks back at him from time to time. They reached the plump little woman, who put an arm around Damaris’s waist and cast an indignant glance at Freddy, then all four of them disappeared into the yard.

Tall iron gates closed behind them.

Freddy followed and looked through the high gates just in time to see Damaris ushered through a doorway by the little woman, who appeared clean, dowdy and respectable. Not at all like a procurer of hapless females.

A large brick kiln dominated the yard. Nearby stood an open shed that held racks and racks of china of various shapes and sizes and in various states of glazing. Amos and Henry started moving trolleys containing unglazed pots.

It was indeed a pottery. How very curious.

He watched as a young lad stacked unglazed pots.

“Oi, you!” It was a harsh, female voice. The woman he’d seen earlier was marching across the yard toward him; a small, aggressive barrel of a female, intent, apparently, on conversing with him.