Oh God, Mavreen thought wildly, he wasn’t a customer. He must be one of her spies. “Oh, my lord, she is really a very kind mistress. She most kindly took me in when I would have starved in the streets.”
“I doubt that. You’re terrified of her. You may trust me, you know.”
“I don’t know what you mean, my lord.” She saw a gleam of anger narrow Lord Monteith’s dark blue eyes. “I’m being stupid. Let me undress you, my lord. Shall I take you in my mouth? Shall I fondle you with my hands?”
“No,” Hetty said. “You may tell me if you’re a trollop.”
“Oh God, I’m not, I swear it. I was a virgin, my lord. It is true that she pulled me from the street, but it wasn’t my fault that I was there. After word came that my Uncle Bob was dead, the creditors came to our milliner shop and all but threw me out. I had no money and no family I could go to. She told me that I was very lucky, that I would be deflowered by a handsome lord. It was Sir William Filey.” She gazed helplessly up at Lord Monteith. “It was awful. He hurt me horribly. He was worse than the others. Some of them were even nice to me, petting me like I was a dog or something if I managed to please them.”
Through a haze of unshed tears, Mavreen realized that she had disgraced herself. Lady Buxtell would be informed that she was unworthy of her protection. She would starve in the streets, alone, friendless. She jerked her hand free of Lord Monteith’s and covered her face. She sank to her knees and began to sob. “I don’t want to starve in the street, I don’t. I’m too young to starve.”
Hetty stared down at the crumpled girl at her feet. Sudden anger exploded through her. That this girl no more than a child should be forced to be a whore just to survive. It wasn’t right.
Hetty became suddenly brisk. “Come, Mavreen, no more tears. We have work to do.” She pulled a handkerchief from her waistcoat pocket. “Dry your tears. I believe that you and I have much to talk about.”
“You’re not going to tell Lady Buxtell that I wasn’t what you wanted?”
“Oh no,” Hetty said. “As a matter of fact, I’m going to save you.”
Chapter Seven
Gray streaks of dawn lit the black sky when Pottson at last delivered Miss Hetty through the servants’ entrance into Millie’s hands. He’d argued with her only briefly, for her soul-deep anger had stilled his tongue.
He sighed and shook his head as he turned from Sir Archibald’s town house in Grosvenor Square to make his way back to Thompson Street. This latest exploit of Miss Hetty’s was making his gray hair frizzle even more than the last time she’d teased him about it. Imagine Miss Hetty a young, gently reared lady in a brothel. He lowered his head into the howling February wind, so tired from his long night of waiting for Miss Hetty that his legs trembled with fatigue. He wondered what Millie was going to say when she heard about Miss Hetty’s surprise.
“You’ve not got long to sleep, Miss Hetty,” Millie was saying in her matter-of-fact voice, still ignorant of what had happened during the night. “Sir Archibald and his holy schedule, you know. I’ll awaken you just before luncheon.”
By the time Millie had quietly closed the bedchamber door, Hetty was already asleep.
To Millie’s surprise and relief, near to eleven o’clock that morning, Sir Archibald informed the housekeeper, who then informed Millie, that he would be lunching with Sir Mortimer Melberry. Such an unheard of change in Sir Archibald’s schedule left the servants stunned. “But you can set every clock in the house by Sir Archibald,” Grimpston said, throwing his hands into the air.
“It’s not what I’m used to,” Mrs. Miller, the housekeeper, told Millie over a cup of hot tea in the kitchen.
Millie said, “I, for one, would never think of talking against the master, but it’s a sad thing that Sir Archibald doesn’t even think to send a message to Miss Hetty. I tell you, Florence, if the master cared as much for his own flesh and blood as he did for those dratted Tories, then perhaps Miss Hetty would not but that’s neither here nor there.”