A Woman Made For Sin

by Michele Sinclair

  Millie jutted her chin in the air. “I’m wearing a day dress. It is simple and appropriate for any woman of any station. Now, will you please introduce me to Mr. Langdon?”

  Stuart took three steps back and shook his head. “I ain’t introducin’ youse to no one, especially Mr. Langdon. Just bringin’ youse ’ere is goin’ to ’urt my reputation the moment Clive throws you out. You, Lady Chaselton,” he quietly hissed, reminding her that he knew the truth, “are on your own.” And with that he turned and left. In seconds, Stuart had disappeared into the crowd, which Millie suspected was intentional so that she could not follow him.

  Taking a deep breath, Millie stared at the closed doors. It was now solely up to her. No more reliance on others for help. They had got her to this point, but now it was up to her to convince Clive she was somebody he should hire. But as soon as she learned of Aimee’s fate, she intended to end this farce and get her life back. And never again will I jeopardize it, Millie silently vowed.

  Brushing away a tear, Millie pushed the handle of the lopsided door and entered a public house for the first time in her life.

  The large room smelled of smoke and spilled liquor mixed with the distinct scent of the pine tar worn by seamen. To her right, attached to the wall, was a large painted plank with a dozen large, worn circular nobs that served as hooks for sailors’ coats and hats. Just beyond the rack was a serving area consisting of a well-used counter with several mugs lying haphazardly on its surface. Behind the ale-soaked surface were three casks, and on a shelf above them were several bottles of liquor. Millie noticed that to the far side of the serving area was the establishment’s only other door. She suspected that it led to a room where most of the liquor was stored.

  In the corner was a single padded chair facing a fairly sizeable stone hearth, and despite the chair’s obvious well-used state, it appeared to be the tavern’s only comfortable place to sit. To her left was a large bay window that let in a surprising amount of light considering the layer of grime covering every pane, which Millie decided was a good thing. For though she could not really look out and see who was coming, neither could onlookers glance through to see just who was within.

  With the exception of six brass sconces, nothing ornamental was anywhere to be seen. The tavern’s main decorations were the scars along the walls from brawls involving thrown furniture. The interior of the room was full of tables, benches, and scattered chairs, most of which were either skewed or toppled over.

  A whistling sound caught Millie’s attention and she took a step farther inside. Instinct told her to look down and see what had made her leather-soled boots stick to the floor, but Millie kept her eyes on the closed door beside the bar. A second later a massive bald man with wide-set eyes bounded through the doorway, carrying a crate of whiskey bottles on his left shoulder. He had several small scars scattered along his scalp and was smiling, which made him appear friendly—but only for a moment. That impression changed the instant he saw her. His whistling stopped and his face turned to stone.

  Millie began to blink and felt her pulse race. “Are you Mr. Langdon?” she asked, returning his direct gaze. She straightened her back, suspecting any sign that she was either meek or mild would end any hopes of her being hired. Her height might make her look otherwise, but she was far from helpless.

  A dark eyebrow rose upon hearing his rarely used surname. “Call me Clive,” he instructed, praying the little thing he was looking at was not the woman Sasha had mentioned when she had stopped by last night. Damn woman looked like she belonged in Mayfair. “And ye better not be the chit I was told tae expect,” he added, visibly raking her with his lapis-colored eyes. He had seen many pretty women in his time, but this one, with her delicate features, chocolate-brown hair, and unusual colored eyes, had them all beat—easily.

  Clive set the crate down on the counter with a small grunt and reminded himself of the very firm rules he had about women working at his place. The first of those rules was by far the most important—no whoring in his establishment. He had allowed it at one time and every night had become a nightmare. Drunks he could handle. Thieves, angry dockworkers, disgruntled watermen—there wasn’t a sailor he could not manage or find some means to persuade to behave when all he was after was a drink. But men lusting for a woman were pure trouble. And the woman standing before him was the complete embodiment of how Clive defined trouble. “Tell Sasha that I changed me mind.”

  Millie took a step forward, reminding herself that this gruff man ran one of the few public houses where patrons were not allowed to assault the women who worked there. Clive owned a tavern that seamen and dock laborers from all over the Thames frequented. Working here was her chance, probably her only chance, to learn just who had taken Aimee. “Mr. Clive, I understand that you may have reservations about hiring someone of my stature, but I assure you I am strong and able.”

  Hearing her fancy talk, Clive snorted and began taking bottles out of the crate and putting them on the shelf. He knew from the onset to be suspicious about Sasha’s request, but she was impossible to refuse. Saying no to this female, however, was well within his ability. “I don’t have reservations, woman. I would if I was offering ye anything, but I ain’t. So take yourself back out that door and trouble someone else.”

  Millie removed her gloves and began to unbutton her pelisse, refusing to give up. “Mr. Clive, you are a businessman, and the fact is that while I admit to desperately needing this job, you are short a server. I can do the job and as a fair man, you should at least offer me the chance to fail.”

  Clive stared at her in shock. If he had not already been annoyed and squeezing his jaw, it might have fallen open hearing her little speech. No one he knew spoke like that, and certainly not to him in his place. He knew he needed to say something, anything, that conveyed those sentiments, but all that would come out was, “Not mister, just Clive.”

  Millie nodded her head and offered him a smile. “Clive then. And my name is Ellie . . . Alwick,” she lied, laying the pelisse over the back of the chair that was near the hearth.

  Clive grunted, repeating “Alwick” under his breath skeptically. The woman was a horrible liar and he was about to say as much when he realized the woman had taken her coat off and was starting to straighten up the chairs. Damn little thing believed he had actually agreed with her little speech. He needed to regain control and fast.

  Straightening his shoulders, he said, “Fine. Don’t tell me yer real name, as it don’t matter. Ye can put yer coat thing right back on because, as I said before, you are not working here.”

  Millie used her foot to shove a bench out of the way and then began to organize the tables so that they were evenly spaced from each other. “Yes, Clive, I am.”

  Clive strolled around the counter to where Millie was working and stood right in front of her, preventing her from going to the next table. “Look, announcing stuff may have worked in whatever fancy house ye used tae live in, but nobody tells me how tae run my place.”

  Millie jutted her chin out, praying she looked more confident than she felt. “I am certainly not telling you how to run your place. You did when you promised Madame Sasha.”

  “Madame Sasha,” Clive huffed, amazed that the old bird still got people to call her that. “I don’t owe that convict nothing. All I promised was tae look at ye, and I’ve done that. The answer’s no,” Clive stated unequivocally. Thinking he had finally made his point, he went back to the bar and his crate of liquor.

  “But with Clarice gone, you need someone who is willing to work hard . . . and not on their backs.” Millie paused upon seeing Clive’s darkening gaze.

  “Aye, maybe I do, but not the likes of ye,” he said, refusing to relent. He pointed his finger at her and then the door. “So now take yer pretty arse out of here before someone sees ye in here.”

  Millie was undaunted. “Is that the basis of your refusal to hire me? You think I’m pretty?” When Clive refused to look at her, Millie moved forward to the bar
. “But, Clive, that is a reason to hire me, for it will bring more business to your establishment. And if you are worried about someone becoming . . . let’s say, friendly . . .” She waited until he looked her directly in the eye to finish her thought. “I can take care of myself.”

  Clive suppressed a smile. For a tiny female, the lass showed spirit, and that was a quality he had always admired, especially in women. Too often the females who came to work in drinking dens were either timid and full of fear, or so jaded that they could no longer express feelings of any kind. But the idea of this petite beauty fighting off even the weakest of seamen was more than a little amusing.

  Seeing his smirk, Millie leaned in closer and added, “Without it costing you any customers.”

  Clive stood bewitched by the sparkling deep purple hue of her eyes. The lass was serious in her claim. She truly believed that she could keep men away and keep them happy. It was almost worth giving her a chance just to see how she intended to do that. “What do ye know of serving ale and whiskey?”

  Millie forced herself to remain calm. “Absolutely nothing. I am just as ignorant as you believe me to be when it comes to working in a public house. However, that does not mean that I am incapable of learning or hard work. I intend to earn my wages.”

  Clive let out a huge gust of air and folded his arms across his massive chest. Hard work, the woman said. She was as familiar with hard work as he was the waltz—and he couldn’t dance to save his soul. So if this pretty little chit knew nothing about earning wages through hard physical labor, why would Sasha send her to work in a dockworkers’ tavern? Why not one with gentlemen clientele?

  Clive took another look at Ellie and tried to discern her background. A widow? He did not think so. She was unhappy, stressed, but lacked the telltale signs of grief. Governess? Perhaps, but doubtful. There were other, much easier forms of employment for someone like her. So if she lost one cully, why not just get another? Clive narrowed his eyes as he answered his own question. Ellie was here because she did not want to be found. “Why do ye want tae work near the docks?”

  Millie licked her lips, somewhat unnerved that he had discerned that the locality of the job was essential to her. “I have my reasons.”

  Clive shook his head upon hearing his suspicion confirmed. She did not need a job. She wanted this job. “Now that makes me curious, and a man like me doesn’t like tae be curious. Makes me think ye might not only be trouble, but might be bringing it here.”

  “M . . . Clive,” Millie began, “I can assure you that—”

  “No, it’ll be me doing the assuring. Ye may be seeking a way tae make some money while avoiding those looking for ye, but I don’t need a bailiff poking his head in me business.”

  Millie’s eyes popped wide and her stance suddenly became hostile. “A bailiff ? Why, I have never done anything illegal in my life! And I am offended you could think so when you know nothing about me!”

  Clive flinched at her violent reaction to the accusation. Ellie might be beautiful and a mite small, but she was also fiery. He liked that but quickly scowled at her to hide his appreciation. “Hell, lass, how was I supposed tae know? Ye claim ye can take on a brawlin’ bunch of seamen, when anyone can tell ye’ve only been around gentry. Don’t deny it,” he said, waving a finger in the air, drawing an imaginary circle around her. “It’s written all over ye. Yer hair, yer walk, yer damn posture, and those hands . . .”

  Millie looked down. “What about my hands?”

  Clive reached out and grabbed one, touching the smooth, velvety palms. It was a mistake and he flung it back. “Just like I thought. Soft as a new bairn.”

  Millie’s heart lurched. She clenched and unclenched her fist. It was strange, but only Chase had ever touched her in such a familiar way. She suddenly wondered if she could really endure this job.

  Millie licked her lips and pushed the thought aside. She was about to lose this opportunity unless she gave Clive a compelling story about why she needed to work for him. She opted for something closer to the truth. “I admit I am having some difficulties disentangling myself from my previous life. It is possible—though very tenuous—that someone may make some inquiries about me. But I give you my word that I have done nothing dishonest. I only made a mistake, and it cost me . . . my life in a way. I am just trying to correct it and I need this job in order to do so. Give me one night, and if you still think I cannot do the job, I will leave and give you no more trouble.”

  Clive’s deep blue eyes stared long and hard at the small, captivating woman standing in front of him asking for a job. He must be out of his mind to agree, but he knew that was exactly what he was going to do. “Be here at six. And don’t dress up like ye’re going to a party in Mayfair. Wear working clothes. That one’s tae distracting.”

  Millie bit her bottom lip and Clive rolled his eyes as he realized that she was already wearing her plainest garment.

  Millie returned on time, wearing the same gown. The place was empty. “Clive?” she called out.

  A bald head poked up from behind the bar. A second later he stood up to his full height and tossed a cloth onto the counter. “Ye’re back,” he huffed.

  Millie could not figure out if he sounded surprised or disappointed. “You did not think I would be?”

  “A man’s allowed tae hope,” Clive groused. “But since ye are here, ye can prove tae me how good ye are at hard work.”

  Millie looked around. “But . . . no one has yet to arrive.”

  An unfriendly smile overtook Clive’s face as he pointed to the dingy cloth on the counter and then at the bucket of water near the hearth. “But there is plenty tae clean.”

  Millie inhaled deeply as she picked up the cloth and went over to grab the bucket. It was half full and its contents were not just water. She wondered just how often Clive emptied and refilled it and decided that she probably did not want to know the answer to the question. Plunging the cloth in the filthy water, she wrung it out and began to work her way around the room, wiping off tables and setting the chairs and benches back to their rightful positions.

  Clive grimaced as she began to work. He had half hoped the prospect of cleaning this place would send Ellie running out the door. He had been serious about her hands. Based on his brief touch, the woman had not done a hard day of labor in her life. But Ellie surprised him as she continued to straighten up the room, not uttering a single complaint. Realizing she was not going to, Clive busied himself in the bar area, counting mugs and making sure that the used bottles were stacked in front of the unused ones.

  He did what he always did preparing for the night crowd, but he also found himself spying every once in a while on his new help, watching her tend to tables and chairs that had not been cleaned for days. She had changed her hair to a simple braided bun, but it had done nothing to hide her beauty. Clive doubted anything would.

  He also doubted she was recently let go of a paying position. No, whoever Ellie was, she had been forced out, and based on her desire to stay away from the better parts of Town, most likely it had been by some titled gent with considerable power. That explained how she came to be with Sasha. The old woman made a habit of taking in strays, but it still did not explain why Ellie wanted a job interacting with the most undisciplined and roughest clientele London had to offer. Not when she had the figure and the face to find another man.

  The only thing he did know about Ellie was that she had secrets, and oddly enough, that was the one thing that did make her fit in at Six Belles. Everyone had secrets. And when they drove someone to the docks, it created an intangible bond, where certain rules of privacy were considered sacred.

  Every soul Clive knew, including himself, had a past that was nobody’s business. And that included Ellie.

  Bessie strode into Six Belles and threw Clive an apologetic look. “Sorry ’bout bein’ late. Had somethin’ I had to finish.”

  Clive arched a brow and shrugged his shoulders. Bessie was relieved he was not mad. With him being shor
t-handed, she was expecting him to at least issue her an empty threat about making her stay late to clean up. Turning around, she was not surprised to find the place almost half full, customers shouting for someone to bring them a drink. She was about to holler back that she was coming, when she realized they were not just calling for anyone to serve them, but for one person in particular—and it was not her.

  All eyes were on a dark-haired brunette. She was facing the other way, but Bessie could tell the woman was too small, too fragile, and based on her fancy gold dress, too pampered to be in a place like this. “Just who is that?” she asked Clive in a more shrewlike manner than she had intended.

  “Ellie,” Clive answered, unfazed by Bessie’s glare. “Hired her this morning tae help out.”

  Bessie turned back around to assess her new competition, who was making her way around the tables and men. The woman was striking and young—the two things Bessie used to be, but was no longer. Ten years ago, her fiery red mane would have easily competed with the raven-haired beauty. Bessie’s ample bosom could still turn a man’s eye and she took satisfaction in knowing she was one of the better-looking women who worked around this part of London. Her figure was slim, she had all her teeth, and her eyes were the color of the sea. But none of those features could compete with the youthful curves of the petite woman standing across from her.

  “What were you thinkin’ hirin’ her?” Bessie hissed, only caring slightly how jealous it made her sound.

  Clive started filling a mug with ale and said, “Well, Bess, I was thinking I needed the help and that the men would like her. It looks tae me that I was right.”

  Bessie saw Millie’s shoulders straighten, and when her purple eyes drilled into Bessie’s blue ones, something inside her snapped. The little chit should have acted at least a little intimidated, but instead the missy actually thought to stare her down. Bessie fumed. “Her? That little girl ain’t never served a drink before in her life,” she said loud enough for Millie and everyone else to hear.