Reckless Rules (Brambridge Novel 4) (9 page)

“If you might excuse me, Lady Colchester, I have urgent business to attend to in the kitchens.” Mr. Deacon smiled weakly and nodded at Victoria. “A pleasure to meet one of our main benefactors in person.”

Victoria barely had time to murmur a similar platitude before Mr. Deacon left through an unassuming oak door.

This time it had been stockings that had been bought with her money. It would have been the height of indelicacy to have collared one of the paupers and asked if they had been given stockings, especially by a peer of the ton.

Victoria moved towards the great front doors of the house, and stopped. Something didn’t quite sit right. Mr. Deacon had disappeared with unseemly haste. And if she couldn’t investigate whether or not her money was being spent wisely, then she surely could be a little bit nosy and find out what had put him into such a flap?

Acting as if she knew the way, Victoria turned her back on the front door, and pushed on the same oak door Mr. Deacon had disappeared through. It led onto a dark red stone-flagged hallway with low ceilings, a direct contrast to the magnificence of the entrance hall. Crashing sounds of pots and pans, steam and smells of cooking vegetables indicated the near presence of the house’s kitchens.

“But that is the third girl in as many weeks!” A shout echoed down the hall to where Victoria stood. She pressed herself up against a dark cupboard. The voice was easily discernible as Mr. Deacon’s.

“You think you are worried, Mr. Deacon? Every time I try and train up a new girl they always leave. You try making plum duff singlehandedly,” a reedy voice piped whilst the crashing of pots continued unabated.

“Never mind the plum duff. I’ve just had that Lady Colchester in here interrogating me about our numbers of inmates and where we have spent the money. It’s a good thing we actually did buy the stockings and give them out to the rabble. I’d hate to think what would happen if we hadn’t.”

“Do you think she noticed?”

“What, that I lied about the numbers? Of course not. She hasn’t a brain cell in her head. She’s too pretty to be able to think. I wouldn’t mind giving her one.”

“Hurr hurr,” the reedy voice laughed knowingly.

“A bit like the pretty girls that I keep giving you for the easy work in the kitchens.”

“Hey, look, it’s not my fault that they want to go back to being streetwalkers. You know that we can’t stop them.”

“But this is getting ridiculous, three girls in three weeks. The numbers are unprecedented. And what am I going to do about Mr. Durnish? He requested the first one for his new house that he is setting up.”

Victoria tensed. Durnish again. Why, she had never heard of him before, and now she had heard his name three times in one week.

“Not my problem, sir. All yours. I just cook. Now will you leave me alone? I have to do everything around here without an assistant now that the latest girl has gone.”

Victoria frowned. Both Mrs. Prident and Mr. Robertson had said that it often happened, the young girls vacillating between being in the pauper house and taking to the streets. But here was Mr. Deacon, actively worried about the disappearance of just another example of one of these.

Apart from the continued clanging of pots, the hallway had fallen silent. Victoria slipped out from her hiding place in the shadows of the cupboard and fled back up the short hall and through the oak door. She barely had time to compose herself before a red faced Mr. Deacon re-entered the entrance room by the same oak door she had only just shut.

“Lady Colchester!” he said in obvious surprise. His face darkened and he frowned. “Did you forget something?”

“Lah! Aren’t you amusing, dear Mr. Deacon.” Victoria couldn’t help remembering what the man had said about her lack of brain cells. There was no point in looking a gift horse in the mouth, however. “It is such a cold day and I travelled in an open barouche. I sent Oswald Coachman down the street to get some warm bricks for my dainty feet. I have been told that I will come out in an outbreak of warts if I don’t keep them nice and warm.”

Mr. Deacon swept a look in the direction of Victoria’s feet which were well covered in sturdy white ankle boots, and the hem of her dress. She smiled sweetly at him. “So I hope you don’t mind, but I wanted to wait here in the warm.” She wiggled her fur-clad fingers at him.       

“Quite right, err... Lady Colchester.”

“Tell me, have you seen my great friend Mr. Durnish recently?” Victoria was curious. Mr. Deacon was looking sufficiently disconcerted to find her still in the hall that he might let fall something interesting. “Is he looking well? I did tell him to come here…”

“Oh? He’s a friend of yours?” Mr. Deacon relaxed visibly. “Yes, he did tell me that he had just come into some money and had bought a house in Kensington. I didn’t realize that it was on your recommendation that he had come here, but yes, he was looking for staff for his house.”

“Did he come with anyone?”

“There was a man with him but I didn’t catch his name. I think it began with a C.” Mr. Deacon frowned. “He mumbled his name but he was obviously quality. Couldn’t wear a top hat in the same league as Mr. Durnish, however.”

Victoria didn’t understand the last statement but didn’t want to push it too far. “Thank you, Mr. Deacon, once again. I’m so pleased the paupers have received their stockings. I may manage to persuade some of my compatriots to donate in future and I would be so glad if you could accord them the same courtesy?”

“Of course, Lady Colchester.” Mr. Deacon smiled weakly and opened the front door for her. “Can I help you up into your carriage?”

Victoria tensed.
‘I wouldn’t mind giving her one’
whispered in her head. She didn’t want the man’s hands anywhere near her. She smiled in relief as Oswald leapt down from his stand and held out his hand.

“No, that is very kind of you, Mr. Deacon.” She took the coachman’s hand and mounted the steps into the open barouche. “Until the next time.”

Mr. Deacon nodded with a jerk of his head and disappeared back into the house. Oswald remounted his stand and, with a quiet click to the horses, set them in motion. They had barely pulled around the corner when Oswald hauled on the reins.

Victoria rose to her feet in panic and looked around the deserted street. “Why are we stopping? Oswald? Can you hear me?”

“I persuaded Oswald that you needed another passenger,” came a soft voice from behind the carriage.

Victoria looked on in horror as a large shadowy figure climbed effortlessly onto the axle of the wheel, and stepped lightly onto the leather seat.

“You again!” she said outraged. Once would have been acceptable. Twice was not a coincidence. “You were just passing, I imagine?”

“You, my lady, are extremely perceptive.”

Victoria felt for her pelisse. Unfortunately it wasn’t heavy enough to clunk him on the head and do him some real damage.  Something she had wanted to do since the last time he had invaded her carriage.

For Bill Standish seemed to have stepped up his campaign yet again.

He was everywhere, at the balls and musicales, theatres and parties. Always with another woman… women, even. Yet he always pursued her for a dance which she had to give. And when they danced he swept her off her feet. Made her feel lighter than air, mesmerized her with his eyes of burnished bronze, and punctured her like a balloon with a well-placed quip about respectable widows.

“Where is your transport?” Victoria demanded. She wasn’t going to be bamboozled by him again. “I don’t believe you were just passing. I never thought to ask you where your carriage was last time.”

“I sent it home,” Bill said confidently, leaning back on the white seat with a sigh. “Goodness, these seats are well sprung. One could have a lot of fun in this barouche.”

Warmth rushed into her cheeks. Did he deliberately say such things just to elicit a response? Unfortunately she could not stop the images his comments had initiated forming in her mind. Bill, torso naked… oh dear. Victoria shook her head. Why did he affect her so badly? She had never thought about anyone else like this. She didn’t know that she could even think about someone like
that
.

She stared at the tip of Oswald’s left ear and put her nose in the air. Perhaps Bill would go away. But he wasn’t easily ignored.

“So you’ve been tending to the poor have you again, Lady Colchester?”

The comment was all the more barbed as his lips curled mockingly around her title. He used to call her Victoria. Insistently called her Victoria.

“As much as you have been hobnobbing with the rich, Mr. Standish,” she said tartly. Really, she couldn’t understand what the chip was on his shoulder. At least it had banished all the unwanted, but strangely beguiling, images from her mind.

“Hobnobbing?”

“Yes as in to associate with—“

“I know what it means. You haven’t been talking to my footmen, have you?”

Had the man lost his marbles? She hadn’t been down to Brambridge since the previous summer. 

“No. Tell me, Bill. What do you know about streetwalkers?”

“Are you insinuating something?” Bill sat up from his relaxed position and stared at her. His eyes no longer contained the hints of soft brown that she had come to expect. Victoria shivered. She would not like to cross Bill when he was really angry.

“No. It’s just that I have heard something at these poor houses. It’s probably nothing…”

“If you are worried about it, then it
is
important,” Bill said in a soft voice.

Victoria looked up at him in surprise. The caramel glints had returned to his gaze. “I’ve heard the owners speaking. They seem to be worried about some of the young girls in their care going missing, presumably going to a life of streetwalking.” She mentioned nothing about Mr. Durnish’s presence. It didn’t seem appropriate.

Bill shrugged. “It’s not unknown.”

“But they sounded so young… Mr. Robertson mentioned a girl, I think she was called Tessa Dunbar.” Victoria desperately wanted to mention the effect it had had on her.

Unexpectedly, Bill levered himself up from his impromptu seat and swung himself down beside her. Victoria hunched slightly, unfamiliar heat pooling in her belly, a quiver running through her arm and into her elbows. She didn’t know quite whether to huff in indignation or run away in the anticipation that he might kiss her.

Bill made the decision for her. He placed both of his hands lightly on her shoulders and turned her to face him. Her eyes dropped to his mouth and she blinked uncertainly. She felt rather
funny
.

“Victoria. What you have to remember is that for certain people in life, there are choices that they have to make which might involve them undertaking unpleasant things.”

Goodness, had he been reading her memories?

“And it doesn’t matter how old those people are, girls, boys, men or women, if the drive is strong enough, then they will be pushed down paths they would never have envisaged.”

“But these girls…”

“Don’t worry about them. I’m sure they will have been fine.” The concern in Bill’s eyes was evident. Victoria closed hers, longing to give in to the pull of Bill’s arms. Why couldn’t she let herself do that? She clenched her hands in her skirts. It would take more than some paltry worry to drive her into them.

With obvious reluctance, Bill lifted his hands from her shoulders. But he remained sitting next to her for the remainder of the journey, his shoulders rubbing against hers as the horses started off at a small trot.

Victoria swallowed the ball of bile that had lodged itself in her throat. She coughed. “Please take me to Mount Street, Oswald. It’s Lady Anglethorpe’s salon today.” She looked sideways at Bill. “I’m sure Mr. Standish can persuade you to take him to his destination afterwards.”

Oswald nodded and set them on the Highway across town. Victoria stared unseeingly at the carriages and cabs that passed as the barouche kept up a steady pace. She didn’t really want to go to the salon. But Agatha was—had been—her best friend. Now she was married to Victoria’s brother and it made Victoria uncomfortable. She chewed at her bottom lip. She had been the one who had almost orchestrated them coming together. She closed her eyes. Who was she trying to fool? They had been destined for each other from the start. Victoria had just helped them along, telling herself that it would bring them even closer together.

But that hadn’t been the case. She had seen Agatha less often since the wedding; the new bride busy setting up home, enjoying time with her husband. And because her husband was Victoria’s brother, Victoria felt even more uncomfortable about barging in on them and taking away from their time together. She was the little sister. The problematic little sister.

Victoria swallowed as she jolted heavily into Bill’s arm on a particularly uneven stretch of road. She had forgotten that Celine was also going to be there at the salon, part of the eclectic mix that Agatha had gathered around her. Agatha had earnestly told her that Celine was actually quite alright. It didn’t stop Victoria remembering the cat-like look in Celine’s eyes as she had held her gaze in Hanover Square Rooms and patted Bill on the shoulder as if she owned him. Not that she
cared
who owned Bill. She damped down on the urges from earlier. It was just galling that he should make a play for her and then continually go off with other women. Inching her head to the side, Victoria eyed him speculatively as he faced forward, looking at the uninterrupted view the open barouche afforded.

What did he give them exactly? He was a large, overbearing, albeit handsome, male. Again Victoria glossed over the eyes she could drown in, the sensitive hands and the feeling of wanting to fall into his arms that she had just experienced. He
was
hardly ever serious. And yet all of the
afflicted
women raved about him.

And now Celine was his latest conquest. Oh dear. She had forgotten about Celine. Poor Edward Fiske. Did he realize that his lady was toying around with other men? It didn’t matter that Celine had a murky past as a courtesan. No man liked being japed.