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“Oh, come now, it would be so much fun!” Angelique continued. “Can you imagine? The men would be lined up on the street outside the dress shop just waiting to leave those silly calling cards. We could go to a ball or the theater every night, and during the day there would be horse races, picnics—”
“It sounds so outrageous!”
“So outrageous, it just might work.” Lucia winked. “I heard at the cook shop down the street that the dowager’s middle girl—what is her name? Polly, Porridge, Petunia?”
Sapphire couldn’t help but laugh. “Portia.”
“Yes, that’s it.” Lucia reached for another cake. “I understand her mother is expecting a particular gentleman caller to ask for her hand any day now.”
“Lord Carter?” Angelique asked, turning back to Lucia. “You mustn’t be serious.”
“You know him?” Sapphire asked.
She smiled. “I would think so. He was the one who took me riding this morning, with his brother and a cousin.”
“You were riding in a carriage with three men, unescorted?”
Angelique rolled her eyes. “One of them brought a little sister along. Of course, I’m not sure how that would matter if we’re talking about setting ourselves up as courtesans.”
“Women in need of protection,” Lucia corrected.
“You know,” Sapphire said, looking to her godmother, “I couldn’t really—”
“I could.” Angelique grinned.
Lucia met Sapphire’s gaze. “I don’t expect you to sacrifice your virtue, sweet. What kind of woman do you think I am? I’m only suggesting that you allow others to think you might consider it, under the right circumstances. First we let it be known that you ladies are both in need of protectors because Lady Carlisle has put you out and I’m too old and feeble to care for you.” She drew the back of her hand dramatically across her forehead. “And then—” she popped up “—once you are the toast of London, people will hear the tragic truth—that you are a Thixton, forced to set yourself up as a kept woman because your family is unwilling to take you into their loving bosom…”
“Lady Wessex wouldn’t want that hanging over her head. It could prevent her daughters from making proper alliances.” Angelique smiled. “It’s a perfect plan!”
“A perfectly outrageous plan,” Sapphire agreed, sitting back. “Just outrageous enough to work.”
“Here, driver,” Lucia called, tapping the seat of the open hackney with the new walnut and copper walking stick she’d purchased at the ’Change. The late spring sun shone warm on her face and she resisted the notion that she should turn the brim of her hat down to prevent freckling. What did she care at her age? The sun felt divinely good; it made her feel alive and full of hope. “Down this street, closer to the wharves.”
“Missus.” The tiny man perched high on the driver’s seat glanced over a hunched shoulder. “Ye sure, missus? Rough lot down Water Street.”
“I know,” she said merrily. “I was once employed there.” She rapped on the seat with the cane again. “Onward, man. Look at these wrinkles! Can you not see I grow older by the minute?”
“Aye, missus.” The driver clucked between his teeth and urged the two-seater carriage down a narrow street.
The stench of fish and brackish water filled Lucia’s nostrils and she breathed deeply, letting memories return to her. Never for a moment had she missed this place, but she’d always thought it was good for the soul to revisit old haunts. It made a woman who had come as far as she had better appreciate her good fortune.
The street narrowed even further and antiquated frame buildings rose up on both sides, partially blocking the sunlight. Sewage ran in an open gutter along the rutted street, adding to the stench of the Thames. This portion of London that ran along the public docks was like its own city, swarming with the noonday crowd of black-toothed women bar
tering their wares. “Cream, fresh cream,” someone called. Tarred pigtailed sailors wound their way around fish carts, wagons and a herd of goats being driven down the center of the street. Lucia realized she hadn’t been here in twenty-five years, yet nothing seemed different.
“Here, missus?” the driver called.
“A little farther,” Lucia encouraged, waving the walking stick. Ahead were the taverns and alehouses of the working class, filled with patrons, even at midday. Spotting a decrepit wooden sign marked with a hare wearing a top hat, she rapped the stick excitedly. “Here,” she called. “Let me off here.”
“Missus?”
Lucia rose and grabbed the side of the carriage, even before it rolled to a halt. “I want to get off here.”
The driver pulled the brake, wrapped the leather reins and scrambled down from his seat to offer his hand to assist her.
“I won’t be but a minute,” she said, dropping a coin into his dirty palm. “Wait for me and there’ll be two more like it.”
“Aye, missus.” He tugged on the torn brim of his wool hat. “’Course, missus.”
