Page 245 of Ten Lords for the Holidays

“Take whatever time you need. Call me when you’re done and I’ll see to your wounds.” He nodded toward her bare hands.

“That has the ring of a man inconveniencing himself.” A half-hearted smile tilted her lips. “You no longer think me a bedlamite in need of immediate rousting?”

“That has yet to be decided. But I no longer think you a nightbird here to peck at my pockets and bring your unwashed wares where they were not invited.”

No destitute mutton cat, this.

Nay, for now that he’d evaluated her, ’twas obvious whatever had made her flee, it had brought about true fear. Her manner, her elocution, it all bespoke refinement. Some sort of education.

Most of all, she wasn’t leering at him through bleary, street-toughened eyes or granting him come-hither smiles through broken or blackened teeth, trying to work her wiles on his susceptible self. Although, even if she had been, at this point, after realizing whatever “monster” her imagination had figmented had scraped more than her palms raw, Brier suspected he’d grant asylum.

For how long, though?

That was the question.

A CHRISTMAS CONVENIENT?

Lucinda watchedher reluctant rescuer draw the curtain, giving her what privacy was to be had. Once she heard the solid thump of his footsteps retreat, the wary clench of every muscle released at once. Left her sagging into the chair, against the wall. Made it an effort to lift her head.

Food.

Though chilled from the outside in, the scent of bread and beef roused an appreciative rumble from her middle. “So unladylike,” she chided.

Reaching over the kitty in her lap and skipping the cloth, she plunged her hands into the wash-pot to a loud sigh of relief. She’d worry about finding clean water to rinse the rest of the filth later, but for now, just being able to scrub beneath each of her jagged fingernails and gently wipe the dried dirt from the abrasions at the base of her palms helped sooth the ragged edges of her exhausted soul.

Little tags of skin pebbled beneath her fingertips. Made her stomach give a queasy lurch.

Had she fallen? Landed on her hands? She didn’t recall.

Barnabas stood and stretched, his back arching, his tail flicking against her chin just before he hopped up to the desk. His gaze flickered, head turned toward the oil lamp—

“Oh no you don’t, young man.” Dodging the cloth and towels once more, she picked up the mischievous tabby, wet hands and all, and placed him on the floor. “Go along with you. No more knocking things off, not tonight.”

He gave her a baleful glare and contorted, immediately set to licking every drop she had dared to transfer to his pristine person.

A short while later, after tending to the worst of her nails, making use of the chamber pot and tucking it out of sight, again washing her hands—this time thankful for the clean cloth—and using the topmost towel to blot her face, arms and neck dry, she applied herself to the meal. Plain but hearty fare that satisfied far more than the dainties her previous employer served in the guise of “elegance” that Lucinda always suspected were more to hide how extravagantly cheap the cantankerous, contradictory woman had been.

Startling how quickly both alertness to her limbs and clarity to her mind returned midway through the repast. In between tearing off tiny bites for the feline who had reclaimed his perch upon the desk—on the opposite side of the lamp, she noted—Luce found herself sitting up straighter, the fatigue and fear receding as though to make room for worry to come marching in.

To distract herself more than anything, she swallowed and called out, “Mr.… Chapman? Or perhaps his son? You may return now.”

The curtain slid open mere seconds later, alluding to his nearby presence. He nodded at the half-empty plate. “Good. Keep eating. I thought you might skip nourishment and fall upon the cot straightaway, spend the night in Nod. But you need to revigour and strengthen every bit as much as rest and slumber. When is the last time you ate?”

“This…” It hadn’t been that morning. Her remaining funds being hoarded so she could pay for lodgings upon her arrival and refresh herself before her upcoming interview. “Nay, last…”

He took a seat on the cot, at ease—as though he were not counting the moments until he could be rid of her—his knees spread, hands clasped between them as he leaned forward. He frowned at her. “Do not tell me you have not eaten since yesterday.”

She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. What else could she say? The last two weeks, since her employer’s death, had been fraught.

“You aren’t a tart.” He said that as though it had been in question. And ’twas the second reference he’d made toward such. Was it still in doubt?

“You sincerely think me aconvenient?” A gentleman’s amorous plaything? She surged to her feet. “I should say not!”

“Mrrrr-O-W!”

The man’s strong face softened in a smile. “Seems Barnabas agrees. Your name, then?”

“Miss Thomalin.” She came round the desk, to give him a polite curtsy—whether he deserved one or not. “Luce—”

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