Page 241 of Ten Lords for the Holidays

Aye, that.

And the agency she corresponded with claimed two others had already been told of the position—and were to interview Monday the 28th. With Christmas on Friday, that gave her scant time to win her prospective employer’s attention beforehand.

Lucinda had wagered everything on the gamble that if she were the first candidate the elderly Lady Simmens interviewed, would she—Luce—not have a greater chance of being hired as companion?

Being a silent extension to another crotchety, homebound lady will have you stark raving mad, plucking your toenails off inside a sennight.

“If that—that creature doesn’t do it first,” she muttered, barely resisting the urge to glance over her shoulder to see if it chased her yet, shoving aside the internal discourse in the wake of fear. And relief.

Almost…there…

Feet whirrying over another slippy patch, desperate arms outstretched, she grasped for the door.

Smashed into and shoved it open, slid past and splatted, facedown on the hard floor just inside, the small rug no match for her iced slippers.

* * *

One moment, Brier Chapman was kneeling behind the long counter, elbows-deep inside the delayed shipment of holiday decor; the next, the thud-crash blasting through the door—along with the chill—had him scrambling to his tired feet.

Chaos erupted into his shop on the frozen heels of the tart rubbing her bum—and showing off an unseemly amount of “lower limb” (no man worth his weight would ever so much as thinklegin the presence of a lady; even if he doubted this one could claim such status).

“My gracious garters.” Shaking what he could see of her sodden, bare head as though stunned, she slowly placed her hands beneath her and pushed her torso upright. “That smarts.”

“Here now.” He rounded the corner of the long counter and rushed toward her, ready to rush her soggy, no doubt sordid, self straight back out the door and into the freezing night—despite the reluctance that weighed his shoulders at the thought. No one should be abandoned on such a dismal eve so close to Christmas. “I should have locked the door and pulled the curtains. We are no longer open. You must leave.”Now. Before my good sense goes the way of the sun and I let you stay the night.

The lasttime sorrow for one in a similar plight on a stormy night gained the upper hand and overrode his common sense, he’d come downstairs the next morn to find the cot not mussed by slumber. And a significant amount of carriable inventory pilfered. Gone. Goods stolen into the night along with the skinning strummer.

It had taken weeks to regain equilibrium in the account books, far longer to recover his pride.

Damn doxies.

Ever since winter had set in, with its stout chill, bobtails had been banging their way inside many an afternoon, trying to get warm before—and during—the hours they plied their dubious trade. Three-penny uprights, with their hollow gazes and nose-wrinkling stench, invading the interior of the shop his family had minded for decades.

Why, just last week he’d had to chase away a “miss”andher prig who had attempted to make merry on the rug right in front of his latest display… The one he’d set up with painstaking care, despite the help from his laze-about “assistant”, Barns.

And if it also made him lonely, seeing the two bodies intertwined in a shocking array of limbs (and yes, nearly bare legs), then what of it? At eight and thirty, Brier Chapman had known the love of a good woman for a wondrous but far too brief time, his dear Alice perishing along with their scrawny infant shortly after his birth. Though nine years had passed since Brier saw them both laid to rest and his heart had mended best it could, he couldn’t stop his body from—on occasion—yearning.

But not for a tart, he reminded himself, gaining a better look at the offal the street had coughed up: long, straggly hair strewn over dirty shoulders of a dress that had seen betteryears—not just days; skirts splattered and ripped, one stocking drooped clear to her ankle, the limb above besmattered with filth. And was that blood?

He hardened his heart against the tempting array of sprawled limbs and ice-crusted dress. A streetwalker should know to attire herself better. He knelt, fingering the fine fabric, weighing its texture, assessing its weave and composition as only a buyer would, despite the sludge that spoiled it now. Nothing like what he’d seen on the others. Not the most expensive fabric, by any means, but certainly something a nightbird wouldn’t bother with, not during winter.Withouta cloak.

Doubts began creeping—

Nay. Thoughts of the last time he gave in to weakness and sheltered a stranger firmed his resolve—that and the chaffing he’d suffered from his brothers. He’d not be disadvantaged again. “You must go. Leave, madam.”

Quickly, please. Before I inquire as to your disheveled state and lack of overclothing.

She ignored him. Scrambling even now, reaching toward the door with a flurry of panic out of proportion to the mild ire he’d exhibited.

“Quick, douse the lights!”

What?“Come now.” He roughened his voice. “Be off with you.”

She lunged for the doorknob, fought the latch that tended to stick in wet weather. “Bolt the doors! Rapidly now.”

“Miss? You must be off.”

“N-nay!” she panted. Fear or exhaustion? “Heed me, please. Keep it out!”

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