Page 31 of Their Master

If she’d not been in such incredible pain, she might have dragged herself from Bernina’s to the Thames and flung herself in.

Instead, she’d come back to Pigeon Court—the ridiculous name some wag had given the falling down collection of shacks—and immediately reported to Marie, just as she’d always done. She was pathetic, like a trained animal that couldn’t think for itself.

Pigeon Court was cheap, familiar, and had seemed like as good a place to die as any other. Now, ten days later, it appeared she would remain among the living. It also appeared that her mother was taking her time to respond and Moira was almost out of money. She needed to look for work or she would soon be homeless, freezing, and starving like so many others she’d seen in London.

She’d considered going to Robert’s lodgings and seeing if there was anything of his she might sell to raise money, but she was terrified of going anywhere Brown might see her.

She could always write herself references from fictitious employers back in Paris, if need be, and take a job cleaning fireplaces or scrubbing toilets. It would be hard work, but it would be honest.

Moira snorted as she brushed out her greasy, tangled hair. What did it say about her that she believed sucking cock and spreading her legs for men she disliked was easier work than being a scullery maid?

You don’t have to go back.In Paris you will be an aging, scarred whore. How much will you be worth? Wouldn’t it be better to stay here and find work? You are as well educated as any lady—you could easily forge letters of recommendation and become a governess. You could—

What sort of traitor do you take me for?Moira demanded, putting a stop to the far-too-appealing thoughts.The sort who would leave behind the only family I have left?

The voice scoffed.Family?You mean your mother, the Comte, and Etienne? If you don’t bring Smith back to Paris with you, none of them will want you to return.

Moira had no quick retort for that claim because it was true.

And all those other thoughts—traitorous or not—were almost painfully appealing.

In Paris she would always be the daughter of Marie Bardot. In England, she was Moira Dunsmuir, a nobody.

Shehadreceived the education of a lady and spoke fluent English, French, Italian, and Spanish. She could play the piano and harp well enough to acquit herself without embarrassment. She could paint watercolors and was a fair hand at embroidery. Why couldn’t she use all that knowledge to teach children instead of entertaining wealthy men who—

“No.”

Moira startled herself with the low word.

Her parents might have lied to her but she had given them her word—something that had value for her—and she was no deserter. While she might not be able to get into Smith’s house via his bed there had to be another way to get to him when his guard was down.

And Moira would find it.

But she couldn’t think about all that right now. Just surviving the next few weeks would take all her attention.

Moira lifted a chunk of her hair and sniffed it, wincing away from the stench. She’d sweated for days without a wash. That was one of the perks of whoring in a fine house: frequent bathing. If a person wanted to bathe at Pigeon Court, then she needed to haul water up the rickety steps and heat it herself.

Since Moira could barely lift her own feet and had only a miniscule hearth in her room, she would have to go without.

She sighed and quickly plaited her greasy hair and then glanced into the basin of filthy water that Mrs. Dauntry had brought up to her—for a price, of course—which was her only mirror.

The image reflected at her was even worse than she’d imagined. She looked gaunt-eyed, ill, and twice her age. With greasy hair.

The surface of the water rippled and Moira felt the footsteps through her bare feet before she heard them.

The tread wasn’t heavy and labored like Mrs. Dauntry’s, it belonged to somebody who moved quickly and easily up the rickety, makeshift stairs that led to her room.

Brown! He’d found her!

The thought galvanized her and every muscle in her body tightened, as if poised for flight. Her eyes flickered around her small room even though she knew there was only one way out; she was on the third floor and the only window was no bigger than a loaf of bread.

There was a tin plate beside the basin of water and Mora grabbed it. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it would have to do.

The feet stopped outside the door and there was a light knock.

“Moira?”

Moira’s jaw sagged. No. She must have imagined the voice. I couldn’t be—

---