One
London, 1884
BEING A LADY and wearing fancy clothes was overrated. At least it was when a lady had lost her family, money, and fortune in the span of a few weeks.
Pearl tugged at her fine silk gloves. They were the last pair she had, and a small hole had started to work its way under the thumb. Her leather boots weren’t in better condition, so worn London rain soaked her leggings. Even her blue dress that matched her eyes was frayed at the hem. Not to mention that her reticule had barely enough pounds to sustain her for another two weeks, maybe three if she were careful and renounced to eat meat.
She paced on the pavement of Ox Street on a particularly sunny day of summer. Number twelve was only a few steps farther. If she wanted to change her life, or to earn some money, that is, knocking on the door of number twelve Ox Street was all she had to do.
The message a friend had given her about a job opportunity didn’t contain much information. In fact, it contained none, just: Miss Cherrywood’s Agency for Wayward Women—a place where women in need can always find help.
Well, Pearl was a woman in need, and since finding a decently paid job in London that didn’t require her to remove her clothes was as difficult as finding a hot, sunny day in Wales, she was desperate. She’d sent a request for an appointment to Miss Cherrywood, who had replied promptly. So here Pearl was.
Folding the letter, she gazed up at the three-storey white townhouse, squashed between two imposing buildings. With its coral rose bushes growing along the short driveway and the blue front door, number twelve looked like a fairy tale house. Hard to believe that Miss Cherrywood ran a supposedly respectable agency in there.
The rattling of a brougham rushing past startled Pearl, tearing a gasp from her. Lord, she was jittery, wasn’t she? She blamed her anxiety, the lack of sleep, and the lack of decent meals of the past weeks. And the fact that the police were searching for her.
Even though she’d told them she had nothing to do with Father’s bankruptcy—a crime punishable by prison—they had issued a formal arrest for her, and she’d fled.
Yes, she’d helped with the accounting of his company, but if something had been wrong, Father had never told her anything.
A ray of sun glinted off Miss Cherrywood’s blue door, beckoning her closer. She had to make a decision. The disappearance of her father, the loss of her money, stability, and house flashed in front of her in a whirlwind of days spent crying and friends who suddenly wouldn’t receive her anymore. She stuck out her chin. Her choice was between Miss Cherrywood’s dubious agency or earning money on her back in a brothel of Whitechapel.
Pearl strode to the blue door and knocked before she changed her mind.
Miss Cherrywood was a stranger, and Pearl had no idea if what she did was legal, but loitering on the pavement wouldn’t bring any enlightenment.
A woman opened the door and swept into view. “Good morning.”
Her auburn locks bounced on cheeks reddened by the lightest touch of rouge. Not too much to be vulgar, and not too little to look unfashionably pale. The dark-red dress enhanced her slim waist and showed the right amount of cleavage.
“You must be Miss Pearl Marianne Blackmoore-Smith,” the woman said.
“How do you—” Dread pressed on Pearl’s chest. She hadn’t used her real name since the whole bankruptcy affair had started, and she’d signed the letter to Miss Cherrywood simply with Pearl Smith, not very original, but she hadn’t had the time to come up with something better.
“I’m not going to call the police, Pearl. You can trust me.” Honesty rang in the woman’s voice.
For a few moments, Pearl shifted her weight, thinking about a quick escape, but there was something in the woman’s fierce stare that reassured her.
“Well? Are you Pearl Blackmoore-Smith?” the woman prompted.
Oh, dash it. She had to trust someone. “I am she.” Pearl dropped a curtsy. “Miss Cherrywood?”
“Yes. Nice to meet you.” Miss Cherrywood held the door open. “Please, come in.”
For some reason, Pearl had expected someone older. Miss Cherrywood had to be a few years older than she was, thirty perhaps, and her toned arms and elegant neck suggested she enjoyed horse riding.
On wobbly legs, Pearl stepped onto the cream-coloured carpet of the foyer. The door closing behind her cast the room in darkness.
“You don’t mind if I call you Pearl, do you?” Miss Cherrywood touched Pearl’s elbow lightly and regarded her from hooded eyes. “By Jove, you’re exactly the woman I was searching for.”
“Excuse me?” Pearl withdrew her arm.
“I don’t stand on ceremony here, especially with my clients. You can call me Fiona.”
“I don’t understand. Why am I the right woman? And right for what?”
Miss Cherrywood led her to a sitting room where a blazing log fire sparkled in the hearth. The air was thick with the scent of cinnamon cake and black tea. Pearl’s stomach let out an unladylike rumble. That was what happened when a person didn’t eat anything for dinner and breakfast. If Miss Cherrywood noticed the noise though, she didn’t give any sign.
