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"The guardian I spoke of—a trusted servant and family friend. My brother appointed him to watch over me ... at least for the duration of the Season."
"Where is your brother?"
"In Berkshire. His wife is about to deliver their second child."
"And this Smitty won't approve of me?"
"Smitty won't even approve of me
if I tell him where you and I met. He is terribly conventional. . . but he has the most loving heart. I'll tell him as much of the truth as I dare." Sammy tapped her chin thoughtfully. "He knows I attended the opera tonight. Therefore, I came upon you in Covent Garden, weeping. We spoke. You told me that your employer had made improper advances, forcing you to flee. Smitty's protective instincts would never permit me to turn you away."
"Samantha . . ." Cynthia fingered her plain frock. "What will I do at your Town house? I detest being idle. And I refuse to accept your kindness as charity. Is there no position open? A laundress, or a chambermaid?"
"That's it!" Sammy sat bolt upright.
"What's it?"
"Millie—my lady's maid!" Impulsively, Sammy hugged Cynthia. "Just tonight she begged me to allow her to return to her customary position in Hampshire. She loathes her job in Town. But Aunt Gertie would never permit her to leave unless I had a suitable replacement. Well, now I do!"
"You want me to be your lady's maid?"
"In name only," Sammy assured her. Rushing on, she added, "Would you mind very much? I don't really need a maid, but I do need a friend. You were right—I have been sheltered. There's so much I don't understand, so many questions I have about men. Alexandria would answer them, but she's at Allonshire birthing a child. And there's no other woman I can talk to." Sammy paused only to inhale. "Anyway, since my lady's maid spends so much time with me ... well, it would give us a chance to get to know each other, to share confidences."
A soft smile touched Cynthia's lips. "Samantha—pardon me—my lady," she corrected herself, this time with a twinkle. "I would be honored to accept the position."
9
The fog clung to Petticoat Lane, making the already menacing alley appear even more daunting, especially at the ungodly hour of 3 a.m.
Rem turned his collar up higher, ignoring the disreputable characters who stared at him from concealed corners, sizing him up as cohort or prey. Keeping his step purposeful, Rem's fingers slid into his pocket, closing around the pistol that was securely secreted there, ready to be extracted in a flash.
Reaching the designated area, he stopped.
"Lookin' fer someone, are ye?" An unsavory boy of no more than ten approached Rem, an ugly blade in his hand.
"Perhaps." Rem stared the urchin down.
"'Ave ye got money?"
"None."
"A watch, then?"
"No."
"Ah, come on"—the blade glinted—"surely ye must 'ave something in those pockets. Maybe I should 'ave a look ... ?"
"I'll save you the trouble. The only thing I have in my pockets is this." In a heartbeat the pistol was leveled at the boy's chest. "Now, are there any other questions?"
His eyes wide, the boy backed off, shaking his head. "No. No questions. I meant no 'arm. J'st lookin' for a shillin' to feed myself, is all."
"Fine." Rem groped at his coat with his free hand and tossed a shilling at the boy's feet. "Go get yourself a meal... honestly, for a change."
Before Rem's words were out, the boy had snatched up the coin and bolted.
"Gresham?"
The gravelly voice came from beside Rem's elbow.
