A Woman Made for Sin (19 page)

“I understand. I’ll avoid what I can, but I can defend myself if necessary.”

Sasha exhaled, knowing Millie was not boasting but speaking the truth. She also knew
that Millie had never had to defend herself against these kinds of men. They were
rough, strong, and all too often single-minded when it came to their more carnal desires.
“You will also have to lose some of the refinement that comes from being of Quality.”

Millie grimaced. “Evette hinted at the same thing. I tried, but it seems I cannot
erase years of habits just because I will it. I thought I would say I was a governess.
That would explain my speech and mannerisms, would it not?”

“Then why are you not
still
a governess?”

“Maybe I could say that I was accused of stealing or—”

Sasha raised her hand to keep Millie from continuing. “When asked, just tell them
you had no choice but to seek other employment.”

“But won’t people assume—”

“
Da
. Let them be curious and create tales about just why and how you came into their
world. It is the only way they might accept you despite that you are unmistakably
gentry,” Sasha replied. She was about to open the parlor doors when she stopped and
asked, “Are you sure?”

Millie outstretched her hand and placed it on Sasha’s arm, giving it a slight squeeze.
“I thought you believed in taking bold action, even if the risks were high.”

Sasha cupped Millie’s cheek in her hand. “This is no adventure you are planning, little
one. And I do believe in taking bold action, regardless of the risks, when the reason
is right.”

“Saving Aimee . . . saving my marriage . . . are these not the right reasons?”

Sasha shook her head. Her young friend had much to learn, just as she had. “I cannot
say. This is a path you alone must choose and follow. I once was in love. And like
you and your Charles, we had to do and learn things the hard way. I wonder, though,
if it was the best way. Now come, and let me introduce you to your housemates.”

Sasha opened the doors and walked down to the end of the dim hallway. To the left
was the back room, which housed a chaotic collection of materials. To the right, however,
was another hallway Millie had never been down. At the end, Sasha waved her hand for
Millie to push open the two old, dark, wooden doors that acted as the passageway to
the rest of the home.

Millie’s lavender eyes grew large as she crossed the threshold. On the other side
was another world, one she never would have guessed existed. The building’s true size
was masked from the street with its narrow front and single large red door. Unlike
the parlor and front hallways, which were lined in dark woods and deep maroons and
navy blues, this large gathering room was decorated in bright colors, welcoming all
who entered. The obviously well-used furniture was large and looked so comfortable
that it invited one to come in, sit down, and talk. Millie felt the urge to truly
smile for the first time since Aimee had left.

Touching Millie’s arm to regain her attention, Sasha said, “One last promise between
us, and this one is not just with me, but with all who live here. I want your solemn
vow that you will not speak of this house and those who dwell in it. Their lives are
private, as is yours. In return, I will guard your identity and your reasons for being
here. Agreed?”

Millie nodded and with tears in her eyes, she gave Sasha a hug. “Thank you so much.
This just has to work.”

Sasha patted her on the back, returning the embrace. “It will be up to you, my young
friend, to build goodwill with those in the house. Their friendship is not mine to
give. It has to be earned.”

Millie nodded. “I understand.”

Sasha released her and with a wink said, “
Het
, I do not think you do, but neither did I when I was young.”

Not understanding, Millie was about to ask for clarification when Sasha stared at
a foot dangling off the end of a settee. “Stuart, is that you?”

A quick but grumbled reply came from the back of the room as a brown-haired figure
pushed himself up to peer over the edge of the divan. “Who else would it be?”

Ignoring the saucy attitude, Sasha replied, “I believe you know . . .”

“Ellie,” Millie filled in.

“That’s right. Ellie. She’s an old friend who will be staying in the upstairs spare
bedroom across from Susan.”

Stuart crinkled his brow and his hazel eyes took a long look at Millie. “
Bloody hell
, that banbury youse told me about her livin’ ’ere now was true?”

“Indeed,” Sasha answered crisply. “And from now on, you will know her only as Ellie.
Understand?” Seeing him roll his eyes but give an affirmative nod, she added, “Please
show her to her room.”

Stuart scowled, but Sasha was unfazed. “Since you seem to be in the mood to help,
why don’t you show her the way to Clive’s tomorrow morning as well.”

Afraid of what else he would be asked to do, Stuart rolled off the couch and onto
his feet. Grabbing a book off the cushion, he came around, ready to guide Millie but
not hiding any of his displeasure in having to do so. Long-limbed and tall, his body
looked older than his face, which only now hinted at the ability to grow whiskers.
“She going to work at Six Belles? You must be cork-brained.” Sasha issued him an icy
stare. Stuart recoiled slightly before recovering, puffing his chest out. “I’m not
wantin’ to pull caps with you. I’m just voicin’ me opinion is all. I mean, it’s rather
saucy to think of gentry workin’ for Clive.”

“Clive is not to know she’s a noble,” Sasha instructed.

Stuart looked Millie up and down and rolled his eyes again. “He’s no flat. He’ll know
she’s somethin’.” Then with a huff he told her to come on.

Millie followed his back into the passageway and up a narrow set of stairs. In his
hand, she spied the book he was carrying and finally made out the title.
An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations
by Adam Smith
.
Millie was surprised. Chase had the same book. She had looked at it once and it had
given her a headache. Economics was a difficult concept, and she would not have thought
Stuart educated enough to understand it.

“’Ere’s the room. I’ll meet youse in the kitchens in the mornin’ to take you to Clive’s.”

He was about to leave when Millie asked, “Stuart, do the others know who I am?”

“Evette. Doubt anyone else cares much who ya are.”

“Then please don’t tell them or anyone.”

For a young man, Stuart looked genuinely affronted. “Cry rope?” He sneered. “Nobles
talk about honor, but we workin’ poor live by it, ’cause it is all we ’ave. We don’t
’ave titles, lots of blunt, and own more than one place to ’ide in when things go
bad.” He stopped in a huff and was about to walk away when he gave her an odd look.
“Guess they must ’ave gone pretty bad to be willin’ to work in a lushery.”

Millie fought to hide the fear his words instilled in her and recapture her courage.

She had been chased by evil, survived nearly being drowned, and looked malevolence
in the eye. Just how bad could a few dockworkers be?

October 21, 1816

Millie grasped the doorknob to her bedroom and hesitated before leaving. Resting her
forehead against the painted wood, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and once
more suppressed the urge to go and see Chase. Her body longed for his touch and his
comfort, but her heart suffered the most. If she looked at him and saw any pain, anguish,
or proof that he was not sleeping or eating as he should, Millie doubted if she had
the strength to keep from running into his arms. But would he welcome her?

“You know he would,” Millie whispered aloud. Despite what had transpired that awful
night, Chase loved her and she loved him. But she also knew he would just try to sequester
her again using different means. No, she had to stay away, at least for now.

Millie took another deep breath, straightened, and opened the door. Pasting what she
hoped to be a sincere-looking smile on her face, she began to make her way to the
kitchen, unaware that she was nervously swinging her plainest bonnet by its wine-colored
ties. She felt apprehensive about the day and asked herself what Mother Wentworth
would do.

Though her mother-in-law had divulged only snippets of her own adventurous past, it
was enough to know she had emerged from some rather scandalous schemes unscathed.
But Millie wondered if she would approve of her plan. Any objection would concern
the potential danger, but Millie deep down believed that Mother Wentworth would have
supported her.

Deep in thought, Millie rounded the bottom stair and almost collided with Evette,
who was headed in the opposite direction, carrying several yards of material. “Good
morning.”

Startled, Evette mumbled “Good morning” as she took a step back and cast an eye over
Millie’s appearance.

Millie arched a curious brow. “Is there something wrong with the way I look?”

Evette had no idea how to answer the question. Millie had fluffed and woven her dark
brown hair into a large, broad chignon at the base of her neck, with one twisted lock
wrapped around her head. While the design was significantly more modest than the styles
she normally wore, it was far from a basic, secured knot. Her dress had similar problems.
Though Millie probably thought it quite plain, Evette was at a loss for words to explain
why it was not. The gold-tone, long-sleeved cambric day dress was plain—for a noble.
However, the woolen, pleated, eggplant-colored pelisse that was hanging over Millie’s
arm made the outfit quite stunning. All together, it provided unmistakable evidence
of her affluent background.

Evette sighed and shook her head, glad Millie was at least not wearing even the simplest
of jewelry. She was about to continue walking, when she realized Millie had been coming
from the stairs, not the kitchens. “Are you just
now
coming down to break your fast?”

Millie nodded, and with a smile proceeded toward the kitchens. Evette watched in awe.
Then, with a roll of her eyes, she shook her head and continued on her way, wondering
if all noblewomen were as clueless. Evette predicted there would be one less for dinner
tonight, for if Millie survived the morning, it would be a miracle.

Surprised she felt so hungry so early in the morning, Millie made her way down the
hallway to the kitchen area. Like the gathering room, it was surprisingly large. The
majority of the space was dedicated to cooking, but near the far wall was an enormous
square table. It was surrounded by wooden benches, which provided enough seats for
all those living in the house to sit and eat.

Millie took a nervous step toward the table and told herself to calm down. It was
not as if she had never eaten in a kitchen. She had snuck down as a child and asked
to eat there many times, thinking it must be special as she was not supposed to do
so. Just earlier that year, Chase had returned to England and found her scavenging
for something to eat in the middle of the night. At home, the kitchen was one of the
few servant places where she actually felt welcome. But this was not home, and she
was definitely not feeling welcome.

One portly man, who looked to be not much taller than she, was standing by the stove,
looking hot, sweaty, and very uncomfortable. The rest of the party was scattered around
the table and, like the cook, they were intentionally ignoring her.

Determined to start the day on a positive note, Millie donned her most winning smile
and straightened her shoulders. “Good morning, everyone. I’m usually not very hungry
in the mornings, but I must say that today I am ravenous and really looking forward
to whatever delicious food that is being prepared.”

The man at the stove swung around and looked at her, his wide hazel eyes moving up
and down. With a snort, he thrust the large spoon that was in his hand toward her
and said, “Ye think I am tae cook for ye?”

Millie stopped in midstride. She opened and closed her mouth, somewhat stunned. In
her experience, flattery was the fastest way to gain the support of a cook. “I . .
. I . . . assumed . . . I . . .” Then after a pause, finally blurted out, “Are you
not the cook?” wishing she could remember his name.

The man let go another loud snort and turned his back to her. Plunging the spoon into
the large pan, he vigorously stirred the contents. “I
was
till about an hour ago. Now I’m the man who is about tae leave an’ go cook for others.
Then I’ll be the man who will come home and cook again
for them who show up on time
.”

Millie glanced at Stuart, who immediately looked away and hunched farther over his
food. Like most of the other plates around the square table, Stuart’s was almost empty.
“I . . . I didn’t know,” she said in an apologetic tone.

Millie had stayed up late into the night, and had thought she
had
risen early. At home, people would have thought it a miracle for her to be moving,
let alone dressed, at this hour. She quite firmly believed morning was best suited
for sleeping. However, Millie was determined to appear to all as part of England’s
hardworking class and was prepared to lose many habits and adopt new ones. She just
wished getting up at dawn was not one of them.

Spying some bread on the table, Millie sighed and slid into one of the empty spots
on the bench beside Stuart. “I understand,” she said. “This bread will be just fine.”

She then counted heads; including herself, there were seven in the room. Millie smiled
inwardly. Evette had said nine were living in the house, ten if they included Millie.
And as Evette was not there, nor Sasha, that left one person who was even later to
breakfast than she.

“Good morning, Bernard,” Millie offered the familiar face.

The driver paused to look up at her, his dark eyes assessing her before stabbing a
piece of sausage with his fork and popping it into his mouth.
Well, at least he looked at me
, Millie said to herself. Pulling off a piece of the loaf, she took a bite and tried
to remember what Evette had said on their way into Town about the personalities of
those who lived with Madame Sasha.

Bernard was the age of most grandfathers, and though a fairly handsome man, he had
never been married. He rarely spoke to anyone he was so shy, but somehow he could
converse with Sasha, which resulted in a special arrangement. He still had to contribute
money for food and drink, but his room was free. All it cost him was intermittent
access to his carriage—the one thing he had of value. He drove it as a hack around
Town for hire and had to rent a team to pull it so he did not have to worry about
the cost or burden of stabling horses.

“There ye go, lad. Take this tae ye papa afore it gets cold,” the cook said to Stuart,
sliding a heaping plate of meat and potatoes on the table.

“All right,” Stuart groaned.

Millie closed her eyes and stifled a sigh. Stuart’s father was the one who was missing
from the table, and unlike her, he was
not
late. He just wasn’t coming to the kitchens to eat. She wished Stuart had said the
cook’s name, for she could not think of it. Strange, as Millie could remember quite
a bit of what Evette told her about him—most of which Millie found hard to believe
seeing the food the man had just prepared.

Supposedly he had been a chef at Palais-Royal in Paris and Grimod himself had praised
his ability. The only reason Millie even recognized the name was that Jennelle had
read about him and his achievements. Grimod had deformed hands and had learned how
to write and dine using metal prostheses, eventually becoming well-known for his theater
reviews and then as a restaurant critic.

Seeing the ill-prepared dish in front of Stuart, Millie suspected the man had spent
most of his life in Scotland, never having set foot in France. But then neither had
she, so if the small claim was his way of being important among these people, who
was she to take it from him. Millie was just glad someone in the house was willing
to cook for the rest of the group living there.

A scrape caught Millie’s attention. Beside Bernard, a tall, very thin young man rose
to his feet and was immediately followed by his twin sister. “Thank you, Henry,” they
said as they placed their plates on a small table for washing.
Henry!
Millie repeated the name to herself several times, hoping next time she would remember
it.

“So, who do ye have today, Paulie?” Henry asked as he piled up another plate of food.

“Van Rangels,” Paulie replied as he began to button up the worn jacket that also served
as a coat.

“Och,” Henry replied with a shake of his head. Then he put down a heaping plate of
food and a full mug where Paulie had been sitting. Just before he sat down, he said,
“Ye take care, and Susie, do nae mind her highness any.”

Susie smiled and waved as she disappeared out the door after her brother.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Henry said gruffly, “The Van Rangels pay weel
but nae weel enough tae put up with their insults. It’s loondry!” Then, looking right
at Millie, he pointed his finger and growled, “They should know that when they have
a fight and throw their bottles of wine, things weel get stained. No’ them. They think
Susie should be able tae work a miracle just because they deem it so.”

Millie swallowed, wondering if she were the only one to realize how sweet Henry was
on Susie. Then she mentally chided herself. If it was so obvious to her after only
a few minutes, it had to be apparent to all.

A very tired young man sitting across from her yawned. “Henry, just be glad their
other house is nicer.”

Henry snorted. “With nine wee ones, Tommy?” he asked and then pushed another overloaded
spoonful into his mouth.

“At least it’s more reliable income than being an entertainer at Vauxhall,” Tommy
groused. “I made only a sixpence last night and had to spend nearly half of it getting
back here.”

Henry took another bite of his food. “Can’t imagine all the washing, nursing, cooking,
cleaning . . . they get paid tae little for that amount of work,” he said between
chews, still focused on Susie and her plight. Then, without any warning or cause,
Henry looked again at Millie and said, “I suspect ye can’t imagine it either.”

Millie was not sure why she’d earned the man’s hostility and was unsure how to react.
Stuart, probably acting out of guilt for not telling her about when breakfast was,
came to her defense. “Insult the Toffkens all you like, ’enry, but Ellie ’ere won’t
deserve ’em after today.”

Henry’s eyes popped open at the rebuke for Stuart usually joined in when anyone disparaged
the upper class. Yet the lad had just defended the presumptuous interloper. Henry’s
mouth stopped chewing and he stared openly at Millie, trying to decide how to respond.
But before he could, the kitchen door opened and Evette entered. “Stuart, your father
is asking for you.”

Stuart rolled his eyes but swung his leg over the bench and grabbed the plate that
Henry had fixed. Evette then looked at Millie, the bread in her hand, and the vacant
spot where her plate should have been. “Henry, you’re going to send . . . Ellie off
to Clive’s with nothing but bread to eat?”

Henry swallowed and avoided all contact by reaching out for his mug. “Didn’t ken she
was working for Clive,” he muttered after downing a swig.

Evette came up beside him and gave him a soft peck on the cheek. “Cook her some eggs,
Henry, while Stuart takes care of his father and the pan is still hot.”

Henry set the mug back down on the table with a thump. “If the lass is touched enough
tae work for Clive, I suppose I’m touched enough tae feed her despite how she’s dressed.”

Millie fought the inclination to ask just what he meant. She was in her plainest,
most modest day dress. Made of dark gold cambric, it was long-sleeved and high-necked,
covering her throat and wrists. It had no elaborate trim and was practically devoid
of decoration. Even her deep purple pelisse lacked the usual fastenings and braided
hem. In her circles, many would have thought her a servant, dressed so plainly.

She was still puzzling over her dress when minutes later, Henry plopped a pewter plate
holding two burned, barely edible eggs and a thick slice of beef down in front of
her. Millie gave him one of her best smiles, and after saying some words of appreciation,
she took a mouthful. Henry huffed something unintelligible and sat down to finish
his own plate. It took a concerted effort to chew and swallow the badly cooked eggs,
but Millie forced herself to finish every bite. From the remnants of what she had
seen on the other plates, all of the eggs Henry had prepared had been burned, not
just hers.

Millie glanced over at Evette, who had stayed to make sure Henry did not change his
mind. Trying to use the same sweet tone Evette had used, Millie tried to start a conversation.
“I once knew a cook who told me the secret to good eggs is that after you flip them,
you turn off the heat. This way they don’t become tough.”