Even if she really wasn’t. Not when she was using their home as a place to hide from someone who wanted to kill her. It caused her a twinge of guilt, but Brenna reasoned that Quinn would never actually hurt any of them, and if Louise had been the one to hire him, the former countess would hesitate before causing harm to anyone but Brenna. The other women should be in no danger.
She hoped.
“So, where do you work?” Batrice seemed to be the most outgoing of the lot. She was also the only one who was dressed more outrageously than Brenna herself.
“I’ve just convinced Myra to take me on at The Bad Apple.”
Dora giggled adorably, revealing a dimple in one cheek. “As what?” she asked.
“Bouncer,” Brenna replied, straight faced.
A chorus of laughter ensued, from everyone but Grita.
“No, really, are you a barmaid?” Batrice asked curiously.
“Something like that,” Brenna admitted. “What about you?”
“Oh, I’m an actress.” Batrice flopped down onto the single couch in the room with a dramatic sigh. “And an acrobat on occasion.”
That explained the short, sparkling skirt and tightly fitting pants beneath it.
“I’m out of work at the moment,” she continued, “on account of me being so shy and retiring.”
The other women chuckled, and one of them chucked a cushion at her.
Batrice grinned and threw it back. “There aren’t many roles for women,” she admitted. “I was with a troupe of traveling performers for a few years, but it wasn’t really what you’d call a steady job.”
“Sounds like an exciting life,” Brenna remarked, “if you enjoy seeing new places.”
“I did.” Batrice shrugged. “Anything was better than sitting around in drawing rooms being dull and decorative. At least until the owner of the traveling company insisted that I marry him if I wanted to stay on. I’m only here while I wait for a better opportunity.”
Brenna was already considering what Lizbet might make of an acrobatic actress with a taste for travel, but suspended her speculation when Batrice continued her introductions.
“Grita sells flowers,” she said, grinning unrepentantly when the older woman shot her a scowl. “Which explains her sunny personality. Sinna is allergic to flowers, and works as an apothecary’s assistant, which means she can cure you or poison you, and we all hope she doesn’t ever get confused about which is which.” She leaned closer to Brenna and whispered loudly, “We don’t let her cook!”
Sinna laughed merrily and Brenna couldn’t help but join in.
“Dulcie is a copyist for a bookseller, and can teach you to read if you don’t already know.”
The bespectacled Dulcie blushed bright red. “Batrice, I’m sure Renee can read.”
Batrice only shrugged, unrepentant. “You never know. Dora is a waitress like you, but she works at a fancy hotel and serves sandwiches to handsome gentlemen in expensive coats, so she’s hoping someday one of them will take a fancy to her sandwich-serving skills and sweep her off to his mansion.”
“Aye, after which I’ll invite you all to live with me in luxury, eating sweets and not getting out of bed until luncheon every day,” Dora said, giving a dreamy sigh and fluttering her lashes.
Brenna suppressed a sigh of her own at the young woman’s naive dreams. Living in luxury was not all she’d once believed it to be. And as for being swept off her feet…Well, she hoped Dora would find someone someday who would do just that. And who would care for her genuinely and completely, without regard to her face, her money, or her family.
“That leaves Silvie and Hannah,” Batrice said. “Hannah takes in sewing. She can let down a dress faster than anyone I’ve ever seen, works until her fingers bleed and almost never takes any time for herself, and yet somehow still doesn’t have any idea how to frown.”
“I can too!” Hannah protested, pulling her lips into a crooked grimace and crossing her eyes until everyone in the room, including her, began to laugh.
“And finally,” Batrice concluded, “you should know that Silvie is a laundress. She gets up so early that she’s usually yawning by dinnertime, but she’s a genius at removing even the most appalling stains, including blood, so if you ever feel inclined to commit murder, you’ll want her on your side.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Brenna said with a dry chuckle. “I had to clean up from all my previous murders by myself.”
Hannah looked up from the stocking she was mending. “So where are you from, Renee? Have you been in town long?” Brenna began to suspect that the rule against questions was Grita’s alone, as none of the other ladies seemed to have anything against sharing secrets.
“Oh, I’ve been around,” Brenna said vaguely. “But my last job was in Evenleigh.”
Another chorus of questions arose. Everyone wanted to know what it was like, if she had ever been to the palace, if she had ever seen either of the princes, and whether Princess Trystan was beautiful.
Laughing, Brenna tried to field their questions without giving away too much about her past. “I have seen Prince Ramsey,” she admitted, “and Princess Trystan too. They aren’t exactly the handsome prince and beautiful princess of storybooks, but they are kind and very popular with the people of Evenleigh. I believe they care about Andar very much, and, from what I hear, they are also very much in love.”
A chorus of sighs echoed around the room. “Is it true she’s a commoner?” Dora asked.
“Her father was a landowner, with a peerage,” Brenna told her regretfully. “But she spent much of her life believing she was illegitimate, and the prince loved her anyway.” She probably shouldn’t encourage them, but what was life without dreams of the future?
Was that why she felt so dissatisfied of late? For years, all of her dreams for the future had been of acceptance by her family. Of finally taking the place she’d been born to. Now she had that place, and the prize was both empty and bitter. Everything she’d once loved about her life was gone, so what did she have left to dream of now?
Before she could sink too deeply into that train of thought, the other women began to open up and share their own histories. All were from poor families except Batrice, and most had left their homes hoping to achieve some degree of financial independence, in defiance of their families’ preferences. That was always a hard road for a woman alone, but somehow, these seven women had all found each other and banded together.
They were all so different, and yet in some way, each of them reminded Brenna of her own past. They may have chosen this path, while she had been forced onto it by necessity, but their stories were echoes of the road she’d walked to get to where she was.
For Grita, Dulcie, Batrice, and the others, that road was unlikely to end with a fortune and a title. But none of them seemed unhappy with their choices—there was joy and contentment in that little house, and a feeling of community that made Brenna ache to find such a thing for herself, and not for only a few days under an assumed name.
That night, as Brenna lay on a narrow cot in a tiny room, listening to the deep, even breaths of Dora only a short distance away, she wondered whether she would change her past, if she had the chance. Knowing what she now knew of her family—their prejudices and their entitlement—would she choose to be raised as a part of it for the sake of security, or choose to remain Brenna Haverly, who worked hard to provide for herself and hadn’t always known where home was? Would she still wish to be accepted by her family if it meant taking back all those years of figuring out how to stand on her own, to make her own choices and be responsible for her own future?
No.
Brenna took a deep breath and allowed a few tears to escape as she realized she should actually be grateful for the life she’d been granted. She’d once resented her parents for abandoning her to an uncertain fate—for forcing her to grow up in a home for orphaned girls with no one who cared what became of her.
But it had spared her from a far worse fate.
From growing up surrounded by a cold, uncaring family, learning nothing of warmth or love, unable to engage in something so simple as friendship without layer upon layer of calculation and deception. From growing into a woman like her mother.
Instead, she’d lived a life of hard work and fought for her independence. She’d gained the confidence to acquire new skills, approach the unknown with curiosity, and go after the things she wanted.
And like the women whose house she now shared, she’d done it with the help of others like herself. Other strong women who had taken the place of the mother she’d never known. Like Miss Prentiss, who had taught her to keep accounts and given her a chance to use her mind. And Lady Norelle, who had believed in Brenna enough to offer her countless opportunities to grow and learn and try new things without fear of failure.
Staring into the dark, Brenna swore to herself in that moment that if she ever had a daughter, that daughter would never have to leave her family in order to reach for her dreams. She would have loving parents who encouraged her to become as strong as she dared, and supported her in whatever course she set for herself. And she would never, ever, be made to feel smaller to increase her own mother’s consequence.
Too bad there was really no point in speculating about children she didn’t and probably never would have. For now, all Brenna really needed to do was survive the day ahead. And then the day after that. And the day after that. After experiencing the suffocating life of a countess, taking each day as it came seemed like a blessed relief.
Because when it was over, she would have to go home. Back to her life of suffocating privilege and smiling, cold-eyed lies. The world that had formed Louise Seagrave’s character.
Perhaps Brenna ought not wonder how her mother could have become so cold and cruel, but rather wonder how any of the nobility escaped that fate.
Chapter 7
Dear Sir,
Taking into account your status as a professional of impeccable reputation, I can only consider your performance thus far to be utterly lacking. If you recall, it was suggested that an accident in the forest was to be preferred, as it simplifies disposal and prevents immediate discovery. As it is, the thing is bungled nearly beyond repair. If I do not receive word of your success by this evening, consider our association at an end.
- Grim Hill
Rom stalked down the streets of Camber feeling utterly annoyed with the world. Three days he’d searched the woods near Louise Seagrave’s estate, enduring mud, brambles and an encounter with a seriously annoyed bear. On the first day, it had rained for the entire afternoon and his horse had thrown a shoe, forcing him to walk back to Lorenhall. On the second, he’d twisted his ankle falling into a whistler’s burrow, and on the third, a pair of vagrants had made an ill-considered attempt to relieve him of his coat and boots.
After all that, he’d found nothing but aggravation and confusion. He had certainly found no trace of the slightly silly Lady Seagrave, whom everyone but he and Quinn seemed convinced was dead.
Perhaps he was the fool for believing otherwise, but according to the only note he’d received from Danward since that fateful night, the only proof of foul play had been a few drops of blood on the carpet, which Quinn had admitted to leaving for the servants to find. He’d insisted they were necessary to produce a genuine reaction from Lady Seagrave’s maid, and to hopefully provoke an entirely different sort of reaction from whoever had hired him.
Despite the lack of convincing evidence, Louise had donned black and insisted her entire household do the same. She maintained that something terrible must have happened and that it was all her fault, a fact which Rom was in no mood to dispute, even to be polite.
If he didn’t find the errant countess soon, he would be forced to send a message to Lady Norelle, and that was not an action he cared to take. For whatever reason, she was clearly fond of the vapid and tactless Lady Seagrave, and Rom winced whenever he thought of his employer’s response should he be forced to admit that he’d lost her.
Where could she have gone? And how could she have disappeared leaving no evidence behind? Granted, she hadn’t been a countess forever, so she knew something of the world, but to the best of his knowledge, the current Lady Seagrave had grown up in the city. She would have been terrified to be alone in the woods at night, and even if she’d survived that and made her way to Camber, she’d be alone in a strange town with no money and no friends.
Was it possible that Louise was right, and she truly was dead?
Rom decided to hunt down some of his local contacts. He’d made several casual acquaintances on the shadier side of Camber society since moving to town, and they typically kept him apprised of any happenings he might find of interest. Sadly, it had been a while since they’d convened over a pint, but as long as he was willing to buy the beer, they would no doubt be happy to renew the relationship. He was counting on the fact that someone who stood out as badly as Lady Seagrave was bound to have made a stir in a town like Camber, and someone, somewhere, would be gossiping about it.
Over the course of the evening, he made his way around to several of his favorite local spots, but no matter how many drinks he bought, no one seemed to have heard or seen anything. They were happy to accept free beer, but it accomplished nothing beyond acquainting him with the usual selection of well-worn local legends and personal marital woes.
Rom was beginning to consider simply buying the drinks for himself when he stepped into yet another tavern full of loud, boisterous, excessively cheerful people. He wasn’t sure how many more of these he could take. The Bad Apple was particularly crowded, and he had to clench his teeth against the onset of a headache as he shoved his way as politely as possible through the crush to reach the bar.
He’d only made it halfway when his progress was stopped by the beginnings of a shoving match between overenthusiastic patrons. Before it could devolve into an out-and-out rip-roaring bar fight, however, it was interrupted by a firm hand. Two hands really, one pinching an ear of each of the offenders.
“And that’ll be enough of that. Grint, Delber, you either keep those hands to yourselves or I’ll be pouring your drinks into your boots and returning you to your wives smelling of ale and wet socks, is that clear?”
It was a woman. The crowd roared with laughter as the two men sagged in her grip and muttered their apologies. Rom, however, was entirely engaged in staring at the apparition before him.
She was new, that was for sure. He would have remembered if he’d seen her before. The woman with a rather hairy ear in each hand was not particularly tall, despite the fact that she wore boots with impressively high heels. She wasn’t even all that terrifying to look at—she was actually quite pretty—but her sense of fashion was decidedly startling. She wore a flounced skirt that cut away in front to reveal trousers tucked into her boots, a tightly laced red bodice over a white silk blouse, and about twenty bracelets on each arm. Her enormous blue eyes were outlined dramatically in black, and a kerchief wrapped around only enough of her head to prevent her long black hair from falling into the customers’ drinks.
Rom stared a little too long. She looked up from the altercation at hand, caught his eye, and winked. “Hello there, love. What can I get you?”
And that’s when Rom finally realized he was looking into the eyes of Brenna Seagrave, Countess of Hennsley, who was clearly enjoying herself, and was most decidedly not dead.
“You…” he spluttered, but she interrupted him before he could decide what sort of words would be appropriate to the situation.
“Pardon me,” she said with a smile, and turned away to drop the two would-be wrestlers back in their seats.
“Now”—she turned back, eyes gleaming—“I’d be happy to get you a drink, but, as I’ve not seen you here before, I’ll warn you of the rules. We don’t stand for any language and if you harass the barmaids I’ll not hesitate to throw you into the street. It’s all very well for the likes of you to want to mingle with the common folk, but we don’t h
ave to put up with any of your unsavory habits.”
“My… unsavory habits?” Rom growled softly, feeling his jaw grow dangerously tense. “I’ve been searching the blasted woods for you for three days. Three days. Not to mention buying drinks for half of Camber in hopes someone remembered seeing you. And you’re here playing barkeep without a care in the world like…”
“And you can just shut your lips before you go any further,” Brenna said, her voice turning to steel. “Whatever you were about to say, I don’t care, but you won’t be insulting working girls in front of me.”
“I wasn’t insulting anyone, you infuriating woman! I was about to say that you’re not just an ordinary person who can afford to disappear. You have obligations and responsibilities and people who care about you, though at the moment I honestly can’t imagine why. What were you thinking, endangering yourself this way?”
Her eyes narrowed ominously and Rom thought about taking a step back, but he was just a moment too late.
“And here’s another one with a bit too big of a mouth on ’im,” she called out, above the noise of the crowd. “Shall I throw him out?”
A loud cheer answered her, and the sound was mostly affirmative.
“You can’t throw me out,” Rom asserted.
“Maybe I shouldn’t,” she said, smirking, “but never tell me I can’t.”
Before it occurred to him that he might need to defend himself against a countess dressed as a barmaid, she had twisted his arm up behind his back.
“Outside,” she murmured in his ear, “without another word. Maybe you don’t mind if the whole town knows your business, but I don’t care to share mine.”
Something was very wrong. Very wrong indeed. For one thing, this woman was neither silly or helpless. She might look like Brenna Seagrave, but looks were the only thing they had in common. For another, Rom could feel what he suspected was the point of a knife resting against his kidney.
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