Page 3 of The Rum and The Fox

"Jimmy, miss,” the boy replied, grinning at her now as she mentally placed him at about eight or nine years of age. "Jimmy Light-Fingers, they call me," he said with obvious pride.

"Is that so?" she said, folding her arms and giving him a stern look that he’d do well to heed. "Well then, Jimmy. Providing you promise to keep those fingers, light or otherwise, to yourself, I might be induced to offer you some bread and jam. How's that?"

Jimmy grinned at her, his eyes alight with pleasure. "Reckon that'd be grand, miss ..." he queried, repeating her earlier manner with one eyebrow quirked.

She smiled at him and began to walk back to their front door. "Lady Todd is how you ought to address me, but …" Keziah glanced down at her faded dress and sighed with chagrin as she turned back to him. "But Miss Keziah will do for you, Jimmy."

***

The next morning, on the rare occurrence of finding her father at breakfast, she was given good news.

It appeared that Lord Todd, rather than break the habit of a lifetime and rise early, had just come in, and was in high spirits.

"Aha, Keziah," he said, his dark eyes glittering with satisfaction as Keziah took her place at the table. "Our troubles are over."

"Are they, my lord?" Keziah replied, her tone placid as she reached for a slice of bread. She’d grown tired of her father’s mood swings; more often than not, they were fuelled by brandy, and she could smell the fumes of a night’s dissipation even now, swirling around his large frame in decadent waves. Tobacco and alcohol, perfume and debauchery: it was an all too familiar stench, and one she wished she need never breathe in again.

"Yes, and you might trouble yourself to look a little more pleased at the prospect," he said, the dark words rolling over the table and filling the space between them with anger.

Keziah paused with her hand over the bread and returned it to her lap. She focused her attention on her father instead, looking him in the eyes. "Forgive me, my lord," she replied, keeping her tone even and wishing she wasn't so compelled to rile him. If only she were a sweeter-natured soul, they all might have an easier time of it. "In what manner have our troubles been alleviated?"

Lord Todd snorted, well aware that she was mocking him but apparently too well-satisfied to allow her to prick at his good mood.

"In the manner of the recently widowed Lady Ashwicke, that's how," he said, grinning and showing too many teeth.

Keziah looked away, reminded too strongly of predators that tore at raw flesh to hold his gaze. Instead, she sifted through her memories of long abandoned scandal sheets to find to whom the name belonged.

"Lady Anne Ashwicke?" she replied at last, feeling really rather startled at his audacity. "The Duchess of Chartley?"

"Well, I don't mean the dowager," her father said, gesturing impatiently to Martin, who had just come in with a pot of coffee. "And the daughter is a mere chit of eighteen, won't get a penny until she's twenty one, so no point dallying with her."

Keziah swallowed down her revulsion at the fact that this was the only reason her father would not try his luck in that direction. Instead, she tried to look pleased for him, though it strained her features to even make the attempt.

"Then I must congratulate you," she said, though she could only feel a shiver of regret for the poor Lady Anne. If only she were brave enough to stop him, but they were so close to utter ruin, and Keziah had to admit that her sense of self-preservation made her long for a full belly and a soft bed and a home where bailiffs weren’t forever at the door. Reaching for the bread again in the hopes that it might settle her stomach, she tried once more to sound positive. "I believe Lady Ashwicke is a vastly wealthy woman,” she said, rewarded by a self-satisfied smirk from her father that turned the bread to dust in her mouth.

There came a discreet cough and Lord Todd looked around at his valet with a scowl.

"What?" he demanded, glaring at the him. Martin Snyder was almost as bad as her father, in Keziah’s view, but at least he didn’t hit her. Not that he wouldn’t, given the chance, but only her father reserved that pleasure for his own fists. "If you've got something to say, Martin, damn well spit it out."

Martin gave Lord Todd a thin smile, his eyes glittering with malice. "It is only, my lord, that you may have overlooked one small detail. She has a son, I understand, the new Duke of Chartley. It is he who holds the purse strings, I believe."

Keziah watched with misgiving as her father's face darkened and he got to his feet. Cursing Martin for not holding his blasted tongue until she'd finished her breakfast at least, she leapt from her seat. Keziah watched with contempt as her father swept his arm over the table, sending coffee and bread they could ill afford to the ground and smashing what little remained of their china.

He stood straight, then, his eyes shadowed and his face bearing an expression that made Keziah fear for what he might do next.

"Perhaps a duchess is a little above our touch, in any case, Father," she said, trying to keep her tone light as she bent to retrieve the bread. She didn't see the foot that caught at her side and sent her sprawling across the ground. Even Martin stepped forward in shock, though he checked himself and stood unmoving, staring into space as Keziah fought to regain her breath as pain bloomed in her stomach and ribs.

She looked up at her father, furious to discover that she was trembling, and saw only a monster reflected in his eyes. Hatred boiled in her gut alongside the pain, not only for the fact that he hurt her, but that he was able to make her afraid. He was a vile, despicable man but she must live in terror of him, for she had no other option. Not unless she fancied a career on her back to keep a roof over her head.

Her pride revolted at the idea.

"A duchess might be beyond your touch, girl,” he said, sneering at her, his voice laced with menace. “But I am Viscount Rennard, and she'd be lucky to get me, by God."

With that, he stalked out of the room with Martin following his steps, without so much as a glance in her direction.