Prue’s two rooms at Mrs. Moffat’s were cold and musty. She began the usual routine she followed when she took repossession after an assignment: lighting fires in both fireplaces, opening the windows to the cold spring air, dusting, sweeping, and mopping the floors, placing her bedsheets to air over a couple of chairs, in the few rays of sunlight that managed to slip between the buildings at this time of the day.
She had sent a message to David to tell him she was back in London. Would he send for her? Would he come? She could not imagine what he was thinking. He had known about Antonia and said nothing, had seemed pleased to find her at his house, had made love to her so sweetly that she almost told him her secrets. And all the time he had known.
What did it mean?
A knock on the door was the landlady, who had trudged up from her basement apartment with a handful of letters. Prue thanked her.
“’Ow long’re ye gonna be ’ere this time?” the landlady wanted to know.
Not long, Prue hoped. She would need to see Tolliver, and find out if he had another job for her. If he did not, Prue would have to approach some of her other patrons. Charity and the girls were safely settled for the moment, but Charity was still set on her millinery shop and Prue needed money to support her and the girls. If Tolliver had no commissions for her, the Duchess of Haverford might know of a place—even one that did not need her investigative talents. Prue had been a housekeeper, a companion, a nurse, even a secretary. She could be again.
She made a noncommittal answer to Mrs. Moffat and closed the door.
Two bills and three letters, two from her sisters, Hope and Faith. Exhortations to repentance, undoubtedly. The other, from a client she had helped last year, announced the safe arrival of her baby. “We will never forget what we owe you,” the letter said. “If ever we can help you in return, you have only to ask.”
Hope’s letter was, as expected, a series of Bible verses, interspersed with Hope’s interpretations. The monthly missives always exhorted Prue to repentance, leaving her feeling depressed and lonely. Why on earth she read them, she did not know.
This time, though, the selections and connecting text were aimed at Hope herself. She accused herself of allowing self-righteousness to overcome honesty: of being like the Pharisees, like the priest comparing himself to the publican. Prue skimmed the self-absorbed recriminations to the end of the page to find Hope regretted saying nothing of Gren and David’s visit.
Prue snorted. That would have been useful information a fortnight ago.
Faith’s letter was thicker than usual, and when Prue unsealed and unfolded it, another letter fell out. She did not recognise the neat hand that addressed it: ‘Miss P. Virtue, by way of Miss F. Virtue…’ and the rest of Faith’s address.
Faith, as usual, was terse and to the point.
“Prudence. I enclose a letter that arrived for you. I acquit you of using me as a mailing address, since you have never done so before. I trust you do not plan to start now. I should not have to tell you that I have not opened it, nor shall I open letters addressed to you. However, if letters addressed in a male hand continue to arrive, I shall burn them.
Hope has told me the dreadful news about Charity. I am sorry for the children.
I pray every day for the reform of you both, and shall continue to do so.
Your sister,
Faith.”
The seal on the other letter was a plain one, but when she opened the paper, the signature at the bottom was ‘Aldridge’. Why was Aldridge writing to her?
Dear Prue,
As I write this, you and my daughter are somewhere on the way to safety. My daughter. Writing these words, my chest seizes with wonder. She is truly beautiful, Prue. How I wish I had known of her earlier. I want to have seen her first smile, heard her first words, watched her take her first steps.
In an hour or two, Gren will fetch the local magistrate, and we shall hand over the villains who threaten you and your sister, but for now, all is quiet, and all I can think about is you and Antonia.
I want to make you an offer. I can see how much you love our little girl, and can only imagine how hard it must be for you to leave her each time you have to work to earn enough to keep her.
And the work you do is not without risk. I do not like to think of Antonia being orphaned.
You don’t need to do it, Prue. I would be more than happy to set you up in a house, anywhere you want. Your sister and her children, too, if you like. I will pay for everything. I will give you an allowance suitable to the mother of my child, and I will make sure that Antonia wants for nothing.
I make no conditions, though I would like to be part of her life, and of yours. I have never forgotten you, Prue.
A letter addressed to me at Haverford House will always find me.
With affection and gratitude,
Aldridge.
She refolded the letter. ‘I make no conditions,’ indeed! If she put herself—and Antonia—under his protection, he would turn on his full seductive charm, confident she would fall into his bed with as little resistance as she had shown last time. She was proof against him, though. Perhaps she might not have been before David, but Aldridge was not the man she loved. He was only a poorly executed copy of his older brother. She had fallen in love with parts of Aldridge’s personality—his kindness, his charm, his sense of humour and intelligence—and that love had remained after their separation, waiting for the original.
Another knock at the door. What did the landlady want this time? But when she opened the door, David stood waiting on the other side. She walked into his arms without a second thought.
For a long moment, she thought of nothing except his closeness, his lips moulded to hers, his tongue sliding across her own, his hands pinning her to his torso, though no harder than her own clutched him. He was here, and he still wanted her, and it was good.
Finally, when a clatter on the stairs announced the approach of Mrs. Moffat, she pulled back, but only far enough to take his hand and tug him inside.
“How did you get the dragon downstairs to let you up?” Part of the reason she kept these rooms was the landlady’s policy that no callers could ascend above the ground floor, though in this case she was not complaining.
“I crept in through the kitchen while she was answering the front door,” David told her. “A mistaken identity, I’m afraid. Someone looking for a Miss Bronson.”
Prue laughed. Suddenly, her whole day was brighter.
“I came as soon as I got your note,” David said. “Prue, we have to talk.”
Prue nodded. “Yes, I have things to tell you, too. I saw Talbot with Little Joy.”
David’s eyes widened, but he said, “That, too, but later. We need to talk about Antonia, and Aldridge, and us.” His gaze caught hers and held. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Yes. He was right.
“Sit down then, David.” The living room had two small chairs, one on either side of the fireplace. “They are not terribly comfortable, I fear,” she said, and he waved the remark off with one hand.
“It doesn’t matter.” The room was so small he could reach her hands simply by leaning forward, and he took both of them in his.
“Prue, I need to apologise. I should have told you I had met your daughter, and guessed the identity of her father.” He examined the hearth rug rather than meet her eyes. “I hoped you would tell me yourself.”
“I thought you would be angry,” Prue said in wonder. “And yet here you are, apologising. Whatever did I do to deserve you?”
Now he looked confused. “Angry? That you have a child?”
“That I kept information from you: Antonia, Aldridge.”
“I was—I am—a little hurt, Prue. I thought you trusted me. But I understand how hard it can be to trust when you have been betrayed.”
She was shaking her head before he was halfway finished, and his voice trailed off.
“What then?’’ he asked.
“I do trust you, David. You know I do. I have trusted you with my life on more than one occasion. I trusted you with my story—most of it. But I was afraid…”
He winced, and she hastened to add, “Not of you. Of course not. But you and Aldridge… I have heard you speak of him, David. You love him, and the rift between you causes you grief. I did not want to make it larger. I certainly don’t want you to have to choose between us.”
He pulled her forward then, and she left her own chair to sit in his lap. “I have made that choice, Prue. I chose you. I will always choose you.” He kissed her neck, and up to her ear. “I have talked to Aldridge. The rift is smaller, I think. A lot smaller. He won’t insult you in my hearing again, though.” The last was said with considerable satisfaction, which Prue thought it judicious to ignore, though she wondered exactly what had happened between the brothers.
“Is he back in Town? Did you find out whether he had been at the masquerade, and when he left?”
“I saw him in Tidbury End. Pack your bag, my Prue, and I’ll tell you all about it on the way home. You are coming home with me, are you not?”
Prue nodded. There was more they needed to say, but the biggest hurdle was over. “Yes, I would like to.”
“She is a lovely little girl, your Antonia,” David said. “I can only imagine how hard it must be for you to leave her each time you have to work to earn enough to keep her. And when I think of the risks you take!”
Hmmm. Were the brothers working from the same script?
“I can take care of Antonia,” she said, “and Charity and her children, too.”
“I know you can, Prue, and I admire you for it. But you do not need to. I will help, if you will let me.”
On impulse, Prue kissed his cheek. She could depend on David, she was sure. He would keep his promises. If he swore to look after her and Antonia, even the end of their affair would not end his care for them.
“Will you, Prue?” David asked.
“May I think about it, David?”
“Take as long as you wish. But you will come home with me?”
Prue nodded and began to repack her bag, but David came up behind her and turned her for a long, passionate kiss.
She wanted to throw propriety to the wind and say yes, but she had to think of Antonia. This was only ever meant to be an interlude: substance to build dreams on in the long lonely years ahead. She had never intended to become his kept woman. The daughters of acknowledged mistresses had only one career open to them, and it was not one either Prue or Charity would countenance for their offspring.