“What one means one day, you know, one may not mean the next. Circumstances change, opinions alter.”
—JANE AUSTEN, NORTHANGER ABBEY
Malacca, formerly in the Dutch East Indies
“Glaring at it won’t make it any more legible.” Patrick Flynn sipped his rum punch and added, “Though mebbe you’re trying to make it burst into flames, in which case . . .” He gave his friend a sardonic look.
Max, Lord Davenham, took no notice. He scowled at the letter. He threw it down, glared at it again, then snatched it up and held it to the light, trying for the dozenth time to make out the words that had been washed away when some damned fool had let the letter fall into seawater, somewhere on the journey from London. Only half had been dunked, which meant that half the letter was legible and the other half had the words washed away, leaving only blurs of faint lilac, water stains and traces of salt. And because the letter had been folded, the legibility came in strips, with every third sentence petering out into a lilac wash for several lines before commencing again, usually on some new subject.
“It’s the first letter I’ve had in months, dammit! And I can’t read a blasted thing.”
“If it’s business—”
“It isn’t.”
“Ah.” Flynn leaned forward and pushed his friend’s glass, so far untouched, toward him.
“Damn, but it’s sticky today.” The third in the partnership of Flynn & Co. Oriental Trading, Blake Ashton, flopped loosely into a comfortable cane chair, turned it for better access to the sea breeze and signaled a servant to bring him a drink. “Roll on, wet season.”
His drink arrived. He drained the glass, ordered another and glanced at the pile of letters in front of Max. “Anything interesting?”
Max growled something unintelligible, picked up the water-stained letter again, held it to the light again and scowled at it for a long moment—again.
Blake Ashton glanced at Flynn and raised an eyebrow.
“From London,” Flynn said. “From a lady. But someone dropped it in water, and though it’s dry now, all the interesting bits have been washed away. Or so I gather.” He jerked his head at Max. “He hasn’t shared.”
Blake’s brows rose further. “A lady, eh? You dark horse, Max.”
Max tossed the letter on the table with an exclamation of disgust. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not that sort of letter.”
“How can you tell?” Flynn murmured provocatively. “Since you can’t read most of it.” He turned to Blake. “Definitely a lady’s hand, and in a beautiful shade of lilac.”
Blake chuckled. Max slanted Flynn a black look. “She’s not that sort of lady.”
Flynn’s green eyes glinted. He swirled his rum punch. “How do you know? You haven’t been home in years. She might be a widow now, and longing for the handsome youth who first captured her heart, or a young lady who’s been nursing a tendre for you since she was a tender wee thing in pigtails.”
“There’s nobody like that,” Max said brusquely.
Blake gave him a sharp look. “But I thought—”
Max cut him off. He’d let something slip once and Blake had probed about it ever since. But in nine years Max had told nobody the full tale of his devil’s bargain, and he didn’t intend to start now. “It’s from an old lady. Some friend of my aunt’s.”
“Oh.” Flynn immediately lost interest. He leaned forward and pushed the pile of business correspondence toward Max. “So, are we ready to start?”
Max nodded, though his mind was far from easy about that letter. Particularly the line, I fear they are taking shameless advantage of your . . .
Your who? His aunt? He couldn’t tell; it was all blurred. But he could read enough of it to recognize that it was from Lady Beddington, a longtime crony of his aunt’s, and who else would Lady Beddington be writing to him about, if not his aunt?
So who was taking shameless advantage of his aunt? And how?
He struggled through the water-stained missive. Other phrases stood out among the blurs: deeply concerned . . . withdrawn from all society . . .
Whatever the problem, it had worried Lady Beddington sufficiently to write to Max on the other side of the world.
“Max?” The others were waiting.
Max turned his mind to the business at hand. “First up is the report from our China office.”
Twice a year the three of them met in a prearranged location that only they three knew. Shifting the meeting place was a good way to keep an eye on their various bases of operation, scattered throughout East Asia. As always, Max chaired the meetings.
Flynn sprawled in his chair, his green eyes half closed, staring out to sea as if his thoughts were miles away, but Max wasn’t deceived. Patrick Flynn had a brain like a razor. It had taken him from the gutters of Dublin to being the owner of his first ship by the time he was twenty-three, but Flynn was no hand with paperwork.
Blake made notes. They were all good with figures—you had to be to succeed in trade—but Blake was something special. Max watched his friend calculate percentages and odds and profit and loss without so much as pausing in the discussion. Amazing.
He’d been at school with Blake, and yet never suspected he had this skill. Of course, Blake had been wilder then. A gambler, even at school, and wildly successful at it too . . . for a time. Everyone thought it was luck. Nobody then had any idea that Blake Ashton had a gift for numbers.
Not until his luck had run out and, in the aftermath, Blake had come out east . . . where Max had found him, sobered him up and put him to work.
And Max? What did he contribute to the partnership? Nothing very special. Mainly connections to people back home with money to invest. And a habit of seeing the bigger picture, taking a long-term strategic view of things. You couldn’t help but develop that kind of attitude when your uncle and father had frittered away a fortune that generations of forebears had built.
And of course, Max had brought the three of them together—the four, if you counted their silent partner back in London. It was a winning combination.
In a little over four hours they completed their immediate business and Flynn yawned, stretched and said, “So, Ash, lad, what’s the current state of the company?”
Blake made a few notes, checked, then read out a figure that made them all blink. He grinned. “I triple-checked it. It’s correct. We’ve had a good year.”
“A bloody good year,” Flynn murmured thoughtfully.
They packed away the documents, and Max gave the signal for lunch to be brought out. Servants scurried around setting out platters of fresh, juicy prawns and crab—plain boiled with tangy dip for Blake and Flynn, grilled in their shells and fiery with chili for Max. As well there were skewers of spiced, nutty chicken, dumplings of various kinds, slivers of melt-in-your-mouth duck, a tangy salad of green mango and herbs, golden noodles in a luscious sauce and mounds of fragrant rice.
And champagne, because Max had expected a good result—though not such a spectacular one. And possibly a life-changing one.
They ate on the terrace overlooking the bay. Ignoring the view of the brilliant blue sea and the ships dancing at anchor, they ate more or less in silence, dividing their attention between the food and the extraordinary result of the meeting.
The company was more solidly grounded than ever, and there was profit to spare. Huge profit. Last year he’d paid off the last of the debts. All that was left to pay was the interest. And the pound of flesh.
He’d been given ten years. He’d done it in nine.
Time for major decisions.
But though he was elated at the company report, and was enjoying the food and champagne, Max’s mind kept drifting back to that letter and what it had said about his aunt. Or what he thought it might have said.
Deeply concerned . . .
She was his only close relative—he didn’t count the mother he hadn’t seen since he was ten. She was dead now anyway. His aunt had more or less brought him up, and she was getting on now. What was she? Seventy? Older? She never would tell him her age.
He could almost hear her say it: “If men have the impertinence to ask, serves them right if they get lies in return.”
Max had been gone a long time. Years. And if his only relative was his aunt, all his aunt had was Max.
And Lady Beddington was worried enough about her to write to him.
His aunt had had a fall last . . . Good Lord, was it almost a year ago already? She’d broken her wrist, and since then her letters had been dictated to a servant. That hadn’t worried him at the time. Accidents happened.
Recently, though . . . Her last few letters had been odd. A bit repetitious. More formal than usual. Nothing he could put his finger on. But now . . .
“Ah, that was a grand meal,” Flynn said, pushing away his plate. He burped and gave a sigh of contentment. “Too many of those little dumpling thingummies.”
Suddenly Max realized what had disturbed him about his aunt’s last few letters. They were too bland, too polite. His aunt was never polite. Not the burp-after-a-meal kind of impoliteness—her conversation was pithy and irreverent, full of entertaining gossip and scathing commentary.
Her last letter was so bland as to be dull, and she’d even finished with advice for him to take care of himself and to “wrap up warmly.”
Wrap up warmly? She never fussed like that. Even when he was a scrubby schoolboy.
The aunt he knew would die before writing that kind of drivel.
Deeply concerned . . .
“So,” Flynn said, “where do we go from here?”
He meant we-the-company, but, “I’m going to London,” Max said abruptly. It was a full year before he’d promised to return—a year less of the freedom he’d cherished in the last nine years—but it couldn’t be helped.
Flynn’s eyes gleamed with interest, but he said nothing.
“London,” Blake exclaimed. “Whatever for?”
“I’m worried about my aunt.”
“Why, what’s the matter?”
“Her letters are too polite.” Max scanned the ships in the bay. Five of the eight currently at anchor belonged to them. “Any of them bound for London?”
Blake nodded. “Devon Lass is. And Dublin Lass too, but she’s slower.”
“A grand little lady all the same,” Flynn said. Dublin Lass was his first ship and he was very fond of her.
“Devon Lass it is, then,” Max said. “Sailing on tonight’s tide?”
Blake nodded, his expression bemused. “Yes, but . . . you’re sailing tonight? Because your aunt’s letter is too polite?” He glanced at the empty bottle of champagne. ”Are you sure that wine isn’t tainted?” Blake hadn’t touched alcohol in years.
Max gave him a dry look. “You’ve met my aunt, Blake. Would you describe her as polite?”
“Hardly.” He glanced at Flynn. “Full of piss and vinegar, Lady Beatrice. Burn your ears with some of the things she comes out with. Marvelous old bird.”
Max said, ”So, her last letter was full of polite nothings and ended with the advice to wrap up warm! Wrap up warm?”
Blake frowned. “Don’t she realize it’s the tropics?”
“She didn’t dictate that letter. Something’s wrong! So I’m going to London to find out what it is. And fix it.”
“I’m of a mind to come with you,” Flynn said.
“You?” Max stared at him in amazement. “Good God, why?”
“I’ve been thinking for some time that once the company was doing all right, I’d like to settle down before I was thirty.” He spread his hands. “The company is doing grand. And I’ll be thirty next July.”
Blake’s mouth dropped open. “You mean marriage?”
Flynn gave him a tranquil smile. “I do.”
Max asked casually, “To an English girl?”
Flynn gave him a sidelong glance. “And why not?”
Max shrugged. “I just thought . . . you being Irish . . .”
“There’s nothing in Ireland for me any longer,” Flynn said softly. His whole family had been wiped out by cholera when he was eleven, the others knew. “An English lady will do fine for me. A proper fine lady.”
“You might find it difficult,” Max said bluntly. “A lot of English aren’t fond of the Irish.”
“Well, I’ll not be marrying any of them, then,” Flynn said, unperturbed. “I’ve got where I am by always goin’ for the finest available, and I don’t see why I should change my ways in finding a bride. I want the finest lady available. An English lass. A blue blood. With a title—or a daddy with a title.”
He glanced at the others. “You don’t think I can afford it? Didn’t young Ashton just tell us all we’re rich?”
Max shrugged. “You have the blunt, I know. But English aristocrats don’t take kindly to rich men of no particular background sniffing around their delicately raised daughters—let alone rich Irishmen.”
“You don’t think I’m good enough, is that what you’re saying?” An edge of belligerence entered the conversation.
Max snorted. “Don’t be stupid. If I had a sister I’d give her to you gladly. You’d make any woman—any lady—a fine husband, I know. But I know what kind of man you are. Nobody in England does. How do you imagine you’re going to meet any fine ladies?”
Flynn chuckled. “I’m thinking I’d get my good friend Lord Davenham to introduce me around. And then there’s our silent partner—what’s his name?—the Honorable Freddy Hyphen-Hyphen?”
“Monkton-Coombes.” Another friend of Max’s from school.
“Aye, a fine gentleman of ancient family, you said. So that’s two of you. Of course, you might need to give me the odd tip on how to go on like a gentleman—dress and such.”
Max regarded his friend with what he hoped was a grave expression. Flynn was a quite good-looking fellow when he was cleaned up. Currently, however, he looked more like a pirate than a gentleman, even down to the gold ring in his ear. His thick black hair hung down over his eyes, and black bristles covered his chin, making his admittedly good teeth gleam when he smiled, a crooked slash of white.
Flynn’s dress would never be described as restrained elegance; he favored the flamboyant over . . . well, over anything, Max reflected. Today Flynn wore tight black breeches, a red muslin shirt with flowing sleeves and an emerald green waist-coat embroidered with striking red-and-black designs. Somewhere in his sea trunk Flynn even kept a purple coat, which he produced for special occasions.
“Freddy will be delighted to introduce you to his tailor, I’m sure,” Max agreed smoothly.
Blake choked, and tried to turn it into a cough. Blake had gone to school with Freddy too.
“Excellent.” Flynn turned to Blake. “And what about you, Ash? Want to make a threesome of it? Come to England with us, find out why Max’s aunt has turned all polite on him—apparently ’tis a terrible affliction, politeness in aunts—and help find me a fine lady bride?”
“Thank you, but I won’t ever return to England,” Ash said, turning abruptly away. “There’s nothing for me there.”
Max frowned. “But your mother and sist—”
Blake cut him off with a freezing look. “There’s nothing for me in England.”
Flynn said, as if changing the subject, “Right, then, all we need to do now is decide where we’re meeting next and when. So since you and I will be in England, Max, not to mention our fourth partner, the Honorable Hyphen-Hyphen, let’s make it London in October.”
“Dammit, I just said—”
Max cut Blake off. “The motion on the table is that we meet in London next October. All in favor?”
“Aye,” Flynn said.
“Aye,” Max said. He glanced at Blake, who hadn’t voted. “Carried by a majority of two. London in October it is.”
“Daisy, do you have a veil I could borrow?” Abby asked later the next afternoon. She’d worked all morning at a nearby tavern, scrubbing in the scullery, and was due back again in the evening, but in the meantime she had an hour or two to herself.
Daisy picked through her collection and pulled out a length of charcoal gray gauze from her bundle of bits. “Will this do?”
“Perfect. It’s even better than black, for it matches my dress.” Abby had changed out of the clothes she wore at the tavern and donned a simple gray woolen dress with a three-quarter-length darker gray coat. It was very plain and governessy, but it was the best she had.
She swathed the gray gauze lightly around her hat, allowing it to drape down at the front, and, once she was satisfied, pinned it in place. She put the hat on and turned to Daisy. “Does it look all right?”
Daisy nodded. “Where you going?”
“I’m going to pay a call on that old lady I met the other night.”
Daisy gave her a narrow look. “Going in through the front door, I hope.”
Abby laughed. “Yes, all perfectly respectable, I promise.” She picked up a note she’d written earlier and tucked it into her reticule.
On her way back from the tavern she’d detoured to stroll past Lady Beatrice’s house. She’d bent down beside the railings separating the property from the footpath, near the steps leading down to the servants’ region, and fiddled with her shoe as if something were wrong with it.
She couldn’t quite see into the house, but it was a pleasant day and a window had been opened to let in fresh air. She heard people talking—a burst of laughter—and there was something cooking, something delicious—roast beef, if she wasn’t mistaken. She blissfully inhaled the aroma. How long since she’d eaten roast beef? Any kind of beef. Her stomach rumbled. Too long.
Footsteps sounded behind her and Abby walked on. The old lady wasn’t alone in that house; there were servants—at least three from the voices she’d heard—and if they were cooking roast beef in the middle of a weekday, they weren’t short of money.
Now, dressed in her respectable best, and veiled like a widow in mourning, Abby made a second reconnaissance.
She marched up the front steps of Lady Beatrice’s house and rang the doorbell. She could hear it jangling in the hall. A moment later the door opened.
A butler scrutinized her with languid indifference. His formal black coat strained across a well-rounded stomach. Flesh bulged over his tight, slightly grubby white collar. His hair was oily and combed over a thinning scalp. His face was flushed, his eyes were red rimmed and his large-pored nose glowed.
A drinker, Abby thought, and going steadily to seed. She lifted her chin and waited.
“Yes, madam? How can I help you?” He addressed a point above her head and slightly to the right, giving Abby the impression that she was perhaps three levels above a cockroach in importance.
“I am here to see Lady Beatrice,” she announced crisply.
Her accent was better than her clothes. His beady, bloodshot eyes tried to pierce the veil. He bowed halfheartedly. “Lady Beatrice is not available.”
“Please check with Lady Beatrice before you make such a statement. She will want to see me.”
“Lady Beatrice is not at home.” He made to shut the door.
Abby put her foot in the doorway. “Then when she returns will you please give her this note?” The butler made no move to take it. He smelled of unwashed linen. And unwashed butler.
Abby changed her approach, adding in a confiding manner, “I am an old friend, in London for only a day or two, and I would so like to catch up with her. She hasn’t written in ages, and I’m sorry to say, after my late husband fell ill, I didn’t do as much as I should have in keeping in touch with all my friends. But Lady Beatrice will be glad to know I am thinking of her.” She handed him the note.
He took it disdainfully between a gloved thumb and finger, a soiled glove that had once been white. “When her ladyship returns, I shall see that she gets it. Though I cannot say when that might be.” He bowed again, then shut the door.
“I’m going back to that house over the back,” Abby said, donning the breeches she’d worn two nights before.
“No! You mustn’t! It’s too dangerous!” Jane exclaimed.
“I have to, Jane. I’m sure that old lady is in desperate trouble.”
Abby explained how she’d tried to pay a call on Lady Beatrice but the butler had denied she was home. “And she might not want callers while she’s ill, that’s true, but I cannot feel easy about it. There are three or four servants there, possibly more, eating their heads off at her expense and leaving her in the most dreadful state.”
“But what can you do about it?”
“I left a note with the butler to give her.”
“Why?”
“Just to see if she gets it. She told me all her friends had forgotten her, and that nobody calls, but after the way that horrid butler behaved, I don’t believe nobody calls. I think he sends everyone away. So I’m going over there now to check whether she received my note.” Abby picked up a jar. “And since there is some of Damaris’s delicious soup left over, I thought I’d take some. Even cold, it has to be better than that horrid gruel.”
“I’ll heat it,” Damaris said quietly. Thanks to her ingenuity, the girls had a small fire, quite illegal in the run-down tenement house. It was just an old ceramic plant pot, cracked and discarded, that she’d brought home one day. As the others watched, she’d built a tiny fire in it, using a few chips of wood and some paper. It was a tiny, portable fireplace, and the way Damaris cooked—rapidly, in one pot with everything shredded—it was enough to keep them fed, if not warm.
Jane clutched Abby’s arm with worried fingers. “What if you get caught this time?”
“There’s no danger, truly. I did it the other night without any problem, and the second time will be easier.” Abby squeezed her sister’s hand. “Don’t be angry, Jane, dear. If you’d only seen what a desperate plight Lady Beatrice is in . . .”
“But what can you do about it?” Daisy said. “You can’t go carrying soup over the rooftops every night.”
“I know,” Abby agreed. “But once I’m certain of the situation, I can report—”
“No!” Daisy, Damaris and Jane exclaimed in unison. “Not Bow Street!”
“No, not Bow Street, I already promised you I wouldn’t go there.” She took the jar of newly warmed soup that Damaris handed her. “But I have to do something, so I’ll take her this soup tonight and see whether she received my note or not.”
“And if she didn’t? What can you do about it?”
Abby shrugged. “I don’t know, but there must be someone—some friend or distant relative we can contact on her behalf. She says she has a nephew in India or somewhere, but there must be someone less distant and more useful.”
Jane gave her an unhappy look.
Abby shrugged. “Do you have any better idea?”
“No, but you will take care, Abby, won’t you?”
“Of course I will.” She gave Jane a quick hug. “And I’ll be back in a trice.”
“Back again, Miss Burglar, are you?” the voice rasped from the dusty shadows of the bed. “Bring a bullet for me this time?”
“No, soup,” Abby said.
“Soup?”
“I thought it might make a nice change from gruel.”
Lady Beatrice snorted. “Wouldn’t be hard.”
The supper tray sat in the same place on the dresser. The bowl of gruel, as before, was untouched, congealed and unappetizing. Its surface was crusted and dry. A spoon and cup sat beside the bowl of gruel, unused.
Did nobody care whether the old lady ate or not?
Abby unwrapped the jar of soup and set it on the bedside table. “It’s not very hot, I’m afraid, but it’s quite tasty. We had it for supper.”
“We? Who are ‘we’?”
“My sisters and I.”
“Sisters? Tell me about them.”
“Let me help you to sit up.” Abby slid an arm under the old lady’s shoulders and slipped a couple of pillows behind her back. “There, that’s better.”
“Matter of opinion,” Lady Beatrice grumbled.
“How long have you been here—in bed, I mean?”
“Weeks. Months. I don’t know; what does it matter?” the old lady said pettishly.
Abby unstoppered the jar and poured some soup into the cup. Lady Beatrice looked at it with suspicion. “What’s in it?”
“Vegetables, mainly.” They couldn’t afford meat. “Damaris made it. It’s delicious and nourishing and it will do you good.”
“Damaris? Is she your cook?” The old lady’s hand was shaking violently.
“No, my sister.” Abby held the cup to the woman’s mouth. “She’s a friend really, but we’ve sworn to be sisters.”
“I don’t like vegetables.” Lady Beatrice pressed her lips together like a child.
Abby drew the cup back thoughtfully. “Perhaps Jane was right.”
“Jane? Jane who?”
“My sister—my real sister. She said I shouldn’t risk my neck to bring soup to a stranger.”
“Stranger? I’m not a stranger—we were introduced last night. At least I was,” the old lady added pointedly. “And I’m not the one who has pretend sisters.”
“Then drink the soup and I’ll tell you my name—my real name—and how Damaris became Jane’s and my sister.” Not for nothing had Abby been a governess for the last six years.
The old lady gave her a sour look and, with every evidence of reluctance, took a mouthful. She rolled it cautiously around in her mouth, then swallowed. “Hmph. Not bad for vegetables. Now, your name, miss?”
“It’s Abigail Chantry.” Abby fed the old lady another mouthful.
“Of the Hertfordshire Chantrys?”
“I don’t know much about Papa’s side of the family,” Abby said evasively, and continued feeding the old lady.
“Where is your father? Does he know his daughter gads about in men’s breeches at night and breaks into houses?”
“Papa’s dead. He died when I was twelve. Mama died the following year,” she added, anticipating the next question. “Jane and I are alone in the world.”
“Except for this Damaris person who makes soup. The pretend sister.”
“Yes, except for Damaris and Daisy, who are both our sisters now. They are orphans too.”
As she fed the old lady the soup, Abby answered her questions, telling her a little bit about each of them—though not how they all met. “There, that’s the last of the soup. Don’t you feel better for it?”
“I do, thank you, my dear, but the company was as much a tonic as the soup. I like the sound of those gels. Wouldn’t mind meetin’ them.”
“That brings me to the other reason for my visit. Did you have any callers this afternoon?”
Lady Beatrice said wearily, “I told you: Nobody comes to call anymore.”
“Did you not even receive a note?”
“A note? No, of course not. Who would send me a note?”
“I would,” Abby said. “I did.”
The old lady frowned. “When?”
“This afternoon. I gave it to your butler.”
The old lady stared. “To Caudle? My butler, Caudle?”
“Large, self-important fellow with a glowing red nose?”
Lady Beatrice gave a choke of rusty laughter. “That’s Caudle.” The laughter died from her eyes. “But he didn’t give me anything, didn’t even mention anyone had called. No one ever calls.”
“Does he have instructions to refuse all callers?”
“No, of course not.” Lady Beatrice glanced down at herself, seeming to take in the grubby nightgown, the rumpled bed-clothes. “I couldn’t receive callers in this condition—but with a little warning, I could make myself presentable. . . . And as for a note, I could always accept a note.”
“I thought as much,” Abby murmured. “That’s why I made the call this afternoon, to check. Your butler is the reason you haven’t had any visitors. He turns them all away, says you are not at home. And he doesn’t deliver your mail to you.”
“But why would he do such a thing?”
Abby didn’t know why; nor did she care. As far as she was concerned, all of Lady Beatrice’s servants gave atrocious service, and it clearly started with the butler. A butler set the tone for a house.
“Who supervises your servants while you are ill?”
Lady Beatrice shook her head.
“Who pays them?”
“Man of affairs. Forgotten his name.” She gave a vague wave of her hand. “Little fat fellow with pince-nez. It used to be his father, but his father died.”
“Think,” Abby urged her. “I cannot keep coming to visit you at night, and you cannot go on much longer as you are.”
“Why can’t you come back?”
“Because it’s dangerous. And because the place we are living in—the house over the back from you—is going to be demolished in a few weeks and we have to move. So think—there must be someone I can contact to let them know that your servants are neglectful and you need better care.”
There was a long silence.
“Why do you care?”
“I just do, that’s all. So think. An address is all I need. Can you remember where he lives, this man of affairs?”
Lady Beatrice prodded her gently. “Seems to me you have plenty to be worried about on your own account without fretting about a stranger.”
“You’re not a stranger,” Abby corrected her with a smile. “We’ve been introduced, remember?”
Lady Beatrice gave another rusty laugh. “Minx.”
“Your man of affairs, the fat fellow with the pince-nez,” Abby prompted after another long silence. “Have you thought of his name yet? Or where his office is?”
“No.” The old lady gave her a long, thoughtful look. “You could always come and live with me—you and your sister and those two others. Plenty of rooms here.”
Abby blinked. “Live with you?” She struggled to take it in.
Lady Beatrice nodded. “Why not? This house is empty.”
“But .. .”
Lady Beatrice waved a bony hand. “Pish-tush to your buts, silly gel. Demmed good idea. You need a home. I’ve always wanted daughters.” She sighed. “Never was blessed with children . . .”
“But you don’t know anything about us.”
The old lady snorted. “Aiming to take advantage of me, are you?”
Abby gave the old lady a troubled look. “Well, yes, if we are to come and live here, it would indeed be taking advantage.”
Lady Beatrice snorted. “Aiming to do me harm, I should have said.”
“No, of course not.” Abby gave the dirty room a scornful glance. “We’d take a lot better care of you than those servants, for a start.”
“I know it. And this arrangement will suit both our needs. So will you come?”
“Do you really mean it?” It was the answer to all her prayers.
“Never say anything I don’t mean,” said Lady Beatrice.
Abby took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She wrestled with her conscience for a moment, but it was no good; she couldn’t possibly accept this miraculous offer under false pretenses. She sat back down on the bed. “I can’t accept your offer—”
“Nonsense!”
“—without explaining exactly how I met Damaris and Daisy—and where they and Jane were before I was reunited with my sister.”
“Pshaw! D’you think it makes any difference to me where they were?”
“I think it will,” Abby said.
Lady Beatrice regarded her thoughtfully. “Then if you must, Miss Burglar, go ahead. Tell me your tale.”
The old lady listened carefully as Abby told her the whole story, from her mother’s death onward. Abby left nothing out: Pillbury Home for the Daughters of Distressed Gentlewomen, becoming a governess, meeting Daisy in the street, the escape from the brothel, the plan to go to Bath, the struggle to make ends meet, and Jane’s illness, which had prompted her desperate attempt at burglary.
The old lady peppered her with questions as she went, and at the end said, “So you and your sister don’t have a penny between you, but even so, you took in the cooking girl with the outlandish name—”
“Damaris.”
“—and a servant from a brothel?”
“Yes, of course, for without them, Jane would have been lost forever. And we help one another as a real family would. But you see, we’re not quite as respectable as you might have imagined—”
Lady Beatrice threw back her head and laughed. “Good gad, how respectable do you think I imagined a gel who climbed in my window to rob me was?” She chuckled again. “Never had much time for respectability anyway. I don’t blame you for your situation, and it seems to me you’ve shown a great deal of courage and loyalty in the face of adversity, and that’s far more important to me than any notion of respectability. I’m more than ever convinced you should come and live with me. All of you.”
Such generosity. Abby’s throat filled with emotion. “Are you sure?”
“Very sure. Now, off you go, Miss Burglar. I’m tired. Come tomorrow. And come as a proper young lady. Don’t wear breeches. Use the front door. Bring your sister and those other two gels.”
“But your butler—”
Lady Beatrice gave a sleepy chuckle. “If you can’t deal with Caudle, you’re not the resourceful young lady I think you are.”