After a quick glance around, Prudence picked up her basket and walked over to her friend, who was standing by the corridor that led to the kitchens, a heavy silver tray in her hands.
“Who was that man?” Maria asked.
“A duke.”
“Stuff!” Maria said in disbelief. “Really?”
Prudence nodded. “Lady Alberta, the girl whose dress I was mending, called him the Duke of St. Cyres.”
“Well, his chivalry seemed sincere enough,” Maria answered, laughing at the adjective that matched the pronunciation of his title. “If I’d been in your place, I wouldn’t have been able to sew a stitch!”
“It was difficult,” Prudence admitted, grinning, “but I managed. A treat to look at, wasn’t he?”
“Rather! You should have seen all the other ladies watching him while he helped you. And then he took a look under the girl’s skirts and scandalized ’em all, the saucy fellow!”
Prudence felt a delicious little thrill. He’d done that for her, she knew, and it amazed her that a man of such exalted rank would bother.
“The girl didn’t like it, not by half,” Maria told her. “She was staring daggers down at you the whole time. He didn’t seem to care, though.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and grimaced. “My feet hurt.”
“I should imagine so. You’ve been trotting back and forth from the kitchens to the dining room all night with those trays of supper.”
Maria’s grimace of pain changed at once to a grin that lit her pixy face. “It does have some compensations. I’ve sampled my share of the goods.” She held up the nearly empty tray. “These crab cakes are too delicious for words.”
Prudence groaned, a pang of hunger twisting her insides. Her mouth began to water. “Don’t! I’ve eaten almost nothing these past few days.”
“Listen to you. Always trying to slim, and those tight corsets you wear! Hurts me just lacing them for you. I don’t know why you torture yourself.” Maria glanced around to be sure no one was watching, then pulled the last three bite-size crab cakes off the tray and shoved them into Prudence’s hand. “Here.”
Tempted beyond bearing, Prudence popped one of the stolen canapés into her mouth and groaned again, looking at the other woman with heartfelt gratitude. “I don’t think anything has ever tasted this delicious,” she said around the bite of crab cake. “How are things in the kitchens?”
The girl lifted her gaze heavenward. “Andre is the most temperamental fellow. Throws a tantrum if things on the trays aren’t just so. These French chefs are all the same. Fuss, fuss, fuss. And the other maids—” She broke off with a sound of contempt. “Lightning strike me dead if Sally McDermott isn’t the flightiest bit of goods! She’s too occupied with chatting up the footmen to give the work any attention.”
“She is a terrible flirt,” Prudence agreed. “Still, if I were as pretty as she, I’d flirt, too.”
“Sally McDermott does far more than flirt.”
“We don’t know that.”
Her friend gave an exasperated groan. “You’re too nice, Pru, that’s your trouble. Believing the best about everyone, mild as milk, and hiding your own lights under a bushel. Make me quite cross sometimes, you do.”
Prudence felt compelled to protest. “I’m not nice! Whenever I look at Sally McDermott, I want to pull every pretty blond curl out of her empty head. Her, and that awful Lady Alberta, too. I wanted to stab her in the leg with my needle. There, you see,” she added as they both laughed, “I’m not nice at all.”
“Aren’t you? If I had your situation, I’d starve. I can manage Andre, for he doesn’t mind if I give as good as I get. Rather likes it, in fact. But those women you make dresses for? I wouldn’t last a day. I saw how that girl kicked your basket and abused you up and down, while you just kept sewing and saying, ‘Yes, my lady.’ You should’ve stabbed her, I say.”
“Be glad I didn’t. I’d have lost my post, and then you’d be paying all the rent on our flat.” Prudence glanced at the window, noting it was still pitch-black outside. “Isn’t this ball almost at an end?”
“We’ve two more hours, at least. It’s barely three o’clock.”
Prudence’s shoulders slumped a little at that discouraging news. The thrill from her encounter with the handsome duke had faded, and she was once again feeling the effects of exhaustion.
Maria studied her with concern. “You look all in, Pru.”
“I’m all right. It’s just so warm in here, and the fumes from these gaslights give me a headache.”
“When this ball’s over, we’ll take a hansom home, shall we?”
She shook her head. “I’m not going home. Madame told me I have to be in the showroom at seven o’clock. We’re to make things ready for a group of Austrian ladies who want gowns for the Embassy Ball. They come at nine, so there’s no point in returning to Holborn.”
“Madame Marceau’s a slaver.” Maria set the empty tray on the floor, leaning it against the wall, and reached out to grasp the handle of Prudence’s sewing basket. “Go get some air and clear your head. I’ll take your place for a bit.”
“You can’t!”
“Well, I like that!” Her friend sniffed, pretending to take offense. “I can sew on a button or fix a torn hem, I daresay. Not as well as you, but—”
“I didn’t mean it that way. Someone will notice you’ve taken my place.”
“No one ever notices a servant or a seamstress,” Maria responded blithely. “We’re part of the furniture, don’t you know?”
“I meant Madame. She’ll notice.”
Both of them glanced at Prudence’s employer. The dressmaker was on the other side of the alcove, her back to them as she supervised the efforts of the seamstress who was making repairs to the torn frock of Lady Wallingford. In her phony French accent, the dressmaker from Lambeth was exclaiming over the marchioness’s beautiful figure and the elegant arrangement of her hair.
“She’s too busy bootlicking to notice anything,” Maria said.
“We can’t risk it. We’d both lose our posts, and then there’d be no one to pay the rent.” Prudence shook her head. “Besides, if I take a rest now, I’ll just drop.”
Her friend let go of the basket with a reluctant nod. “All right, but come find me after the ball. We’ll share the cab as far as New Oxford Street. The driver can leave you in front of the showroom then take me on to Little Russell Street.”
“All right. I’ll come to the kitchens and find you after. And Maria—” She hesitated, wavering, then added in a rush, “If there’s any more of those canapés left—”
“Girl?” A commanding voice rose nearby, and both Prudence and Maria turned their heads to see a very stout woman encased in an ice-blue gown so tight it made her look like a sausage.
“Yes, ma’am?” both younger women answered in unison, bobbing deferential curtsies.
The stout lady perched a lorgnette on her nose and peered at Prudence as if she were some sort of insect. “You are one of Madame Marceau’s seamstresses, are you not?” Without waiting for a reply, she beckoned Prudence with an impatient wave of her white-gloved hand. “Come with me,” she ordered. “I’ve a split seam to be mended. And you’d best be quick about it, girl. I don’t have all night, you know.”
The friends exchanged wry glances.
“Yes, ma’am,” Prudence murmured, and turned to Maria with a grin as the woman flounced away. “I’ve changed my mind. Take my place.”
“Too late,” Maria told her with a wink. “You lost your chance, luvvy. But I’ll save you all the crab cakes I can.” She departed for the kitchens, leaving Prudence to stitch the sausage lady back into her dress.
It was indeed two and a half hours later before the ball finally ended, just as Maria had predicted. Dawn was breaking by the time the guests began to depart and Prudence went in search of her friend. When she entered the kitchens, however, she found Maria still occupied with her duties.
“I’ll wait for you in
the alley,” Prudence said, pulling her cloak from the row of hooks near the entrance to the kitchens. “I need some air.”
“Right-ho,” Maria called back. “I’ll be along in just a few minutes.”
Prudence donned her cloak and fastened the buttons as she walked down the corridor toward the servants’ entrance. She opened the door and stepped out into the alley, inhaling the cool air of early spring with gratitude, savoring it after the stifling heat and horrid gas fumes indoors. She started down the alley, intending to stroll up and down its length while she waited for Maria, but came to a halt almost at once.
A couple stood in the back corner where the alley ended, and though the man had his back to her, blocking her view, it was clear the pair were engaged in an amorous encounter. Hotly embarrassed, Prudence started to turn around and go back inside, but the woman’s voice stopped her.
“No, sir! No!”
In the woman’s voice was the violent protest and raw fear any other woman immediately understood. Realizing her initial assumption had been a mistake, Prudence turned back around, further alarmed as she saw the man grasp the woman’s wrists and pin them against the wall over her head.
“No, sir, please let me go,” the woman sobbed as she twisted in a violent effort to free herself. “Let me go.”
“Don’t carry on so, my girl. There’ll be a bob in it for you afterward.” Holding her wrists with one hand, he began pulling up her skirts with the other.
Heart in her throat, Prudence started forward, but before she’d taken three steps, she was shoved aside. She looked up to see the handsome duke who had collected her sewing supplies earlier in the evening. “Stay back,” he muttered to her as he passed. “Keep well out of the way.”
She let out her breath in a sigh of relief as she watched the duke stride down the alley toward the struggling couple in the corner. Without preliminaries, he grabbed the man by the arms and hauled him away, his action revealing the sobbing woman in the corner.
It was Sally McDermott.
Prudence gave a gasp of surprise, but had barely registered the other girl’s identity before Sally dodged sideways, scrambling to get clear as the duke spun the other man around.
“St. Cyres?” the man cried in amazement. “Are you mad? What in blazes are you doing?”
“Rescuing a damsel in distress, it seems.”
“What?” The other man twisted his shoulders as if to free himself from St. Cyres’s grip. “She’s a scullery maid, for God’s sake!”
“A scullery maid who said no, Northcote.”
“What does that matter?”
Whether it was that question or the laughter accompanying it that ignited the duke’s temper, Prudence couldn’t tell. He slammed the man called Northcote against the wall of the alley. “It matters to me,” he said, drew back his fist, and landed a blow to the other man’s jaw.
Northcote’s head snapped sideways, but St. Cyres did not seem content. He dealt the other man several more punishing blows, giving him no opportunity to strike back. When he finally stopped, Northcote fell to the ground, where he lay unmoving on the cobblestones.
St. Cyres watched him for a moment, as if to be certain he was thoroughly incapacitated, then turned away just as Sally hurled herself into his arms.
“Oh, sir, thank you, sir!” she cried, clinging to his neck. “Thank you!”
Behind Prudence the door to the alley opened and banged against the brick wall of the building. “I’m finished, Pru,” Maria cheerfully called as she stepped into the alley. “Let’s be on our way before all the hansoms are—crikey!”
That last startled exclamation came as her friend paused beside her and took in the sight of the unconscious man on the ground and the terrified Sally McDermott sobbing into the shirtfront of the gallant duke.
“What’s happened here?” Maria asked.
Prudence didn’t answer. Instead, she walked down the alley and put her hand on Sally’s arm. “Are you all right? What can we do to help?”
“Nothing,” Sally said from the depths of the duke’s shirtfront. “I’ll be all right.” She shook off Prudence’s hand, then lifted her head, gazing up at her savior. “If I could just sit down for a bit?”
“Of course.” St. Cyres glanced around, then gently disengaged himself from her embrace and reached for a large wooden crate from a nearby rubbish heap. He removed his jacket and draped it over the crate. “Will this do? Alleys don’t come furnished these days, more’s the pity.”
Sally gave a shaky laugh and sank down onto the crate, grasping his hand in hers. “Thank you, sir,” she said again, holding onto his hand as if it were a lifeline.
The duke looked at Prudence. “It might be best if you and your friend went home,” he advised. “After all Alberta’s abuse,” he added with a smile, “you must be exhausted. And it’s bloody freezing out here. If you linger, you’ll catch a chill.”
Was it cold? Prudence wondered. She couldn’t tell, for this man’s smile warmed her all through. “You’re very kind, but—”
“I will arrange for the girl to be taken safely home,” he assured her, seeming to know just what concern she’d been about to express. “You needn’t worry.”
“Thank you.” She could feel Maria tugging on her cloak, and turned away, following her friend toward the street, knowing there was nothing more they could do. But when she reached the corner, she was unable to resist one last look at the duke. Glancing back down the alley, she saw him hovering over Sally with the solicitous regard of a true gentleman.
He’s splendid, she thought. Brave, considerate, and utterly splendid.
Quite a low pass he’d come to, he supposed, shagging servant girls.
Rhys De Winter slid his palm over one of Sally McDermott’s bare buttocks, and it occurred to him that seducing a serving maid only minutes after rescuing her would inspire a bout of conscience in most men, at least once lust had been sated. Rhys, however, suffered no such inconvenient pangs. When a plum dropped into his lap—or, to be accurate, hurled itself into his arms—he’d be a fool not to take advantage of the moment. Rhys was not a fool, and Sally had turned out to be quite a tasty plum.
Rather a surprise that, since she hadn’t been his first choice. He’d originally had his eye on that delicious little seamstress with the dark hair. She had just the sort of generous curves he favored in a woman, and when he saw Alberta kick over the sewing basket, it provided him the perfect chance for a closer, much more thorough perusal. He’d been quite pleased to discover she had a pretty complexion, fine brown eyes, and hair with the fresh scent of lavender, a fragrance he’d always liked. But after only a few moments, he’d been forced to banish any amorous inclinations about her. Those big, soft eyes had gazed at him as if he were king of the earth just for retrieving a few spools of thread, but she jumped and shied at the mere brush of his hand, making it clear his little seamstress was innocent as a baby. Innocence had never held much charm for him.
It was just as well, he’d told himself at the time. His reason for attending the ball hadn’t been skirt chasing anyway, but heiress hunting. He had returned to the ballroom with Alberta, one of the richest heiresses in Britain, and for the rest of the evening was a very good boy, doing his best to seem virtuous, marriage-minded, and responsible, particularly in front of her father.
Rhys rolled onto his back and stared at the painted cherubs and gilded ceiling moldings overhead. God, Milbray has gaudy taste, he thought. Still, a hideously decorated town house borrowed for the season from an old school friend was better than nothing. At least it was a fashionable address. He might be stone broke, but he was also a duke, and if he was going to find himself an heiress to marry, he had to maintain a residence worthy of his position.
Alberta had a dowry that could rescue him from the mire of his debts, but a few hours in her company had rid him of any notion to marry her. He had no intention of going to hell until he was actually dead.
Though Lady Alberta Denville had proved an un
tenable solution, he couldn’t complain about how the evening turned out. The ball had ended with the usual crush of people waiting out front for their carriages to be brought around, and Rhys, tired of standing amid the suffocating mass, had ducked out the back, thinking to fetch his carriage from the mews himself. In so doing, he had ended a rather unsatisfactory evening on a very satisfactory note.
Turning his head, he glanced at the naked woman who lay on her stomach beside him with her head pillowed on her folded arms.
Yes, he’d come to a very low pass, indeed, when a maid or seamstress in need of a few bob was all he could afford. But he had no taste for streetwalkers, and keeping a mistress was out of the question. He hadn’t been able to afford that particular luxury for quite some time, an unfortunate circumstance unlikely to change in the near future. Though he’d only returned to Britain five days ago, any courtesan worthy of her trade was already well aware that the newest Duke of St. Cyres couldn’t scrape together the blunt for his own household, much less provide one for her.
Sally stirred and lifted her head to find him watching her. She smiled at him sleepily amid the tumble of her wheat-colored curls, and his desire began to stir. He returned her smile with a wicked one of his own, rolled onto his side and pressed a kiss to her shoulder as he eased his hand between her thighs.
“Wantin’ another toss already, are you?” Her smile widened. “Greedy bloke.”
“Very greedy,” he concurred, and nipped her shoulder. She giggled, and he pushed his hand deeper. Finding the result of that exploration satisfactory, he slid his free arm beneath her stomach.
“All right, all right, I’ll give you second helpings,” she murmured, her body stirring in response to these amorous advances. “But only because you rescued me.”
He lifted her hips and positioned himself behind her, thinking it a damn fortunate thing he was such a chivalrous fellow.
Chapter 2
Indebted Dukes Now Available at a Discount. Heiresses, What Shall You Bid?
The Wicked Ways of a Duke Page 2
