A Woman Made for Sin (21 page)

Clive stared at her in shock. If he had not already been annoyed and squeezing his
jaw, it might have fallen open hearing her little speech. No one he knew spoke like
that, and certainly not to him in
his
place. He knew he needed to say something, anything, that conveyed those sentiments,
but all that would come out was, “Not
mister,
just Clive.”

Millie nodded her head and offered him a smile. “Clive then. And my name is Ellie
. . . Alwick,” she lied, laying the pelisse over the back of the chair that was near
the hearth.

Clive grunted, repeating “Alwick” under his breath skeptically. The woman was a horrible
liar and he was about to say as much when he realized the woman had taken her coat
off and was starting to straighten up the chairs. Damn little thing believed he had
actually agreed with her little speech. He needed to regain control and fast.

Straightening his shoulders, he said, “Fine. Don’t tell me yer real name, as it don’t
matter. Ye can put yer coat thing right back on because, as I said before, you are
not
working here.”

Millie used her foot to shove a bench out of the way and then began to organize the
tables so that they were evenly spaced from each other. “Yes, Clive, I am.”

Clive strolled around the counter to where Millie was working and stood right in front
of her, preventing her from going to the next table. “Look, announcing stuff may have
worked in whatever fancy house ye used tae live in, but
nobody
tells me how tae run my place.”

Millie jutted her chin out, praying she looked more confident than she felt. “I am
certainly not telling you how to run your place.
You
did when you promised Madame Sasha.”

“Madame
Sasha,” Clive huffed, amazed that the old bird still got people to call her that.
“I don’t owe that convict nothing. All I promised was tae look at ye, and I’ve done
that. The answer’s
no
,” Clive stated unequivocally. Thinking he had finally made his point, he went back
to the bar and his crate of liquor.

“But with Clarice gone, you need someone who is willing to work hard . . . and not
on their backs.” Millie paused upon seeing Clive’s darkening gaze.

“Aye, maybe I do, but
not
the likes of ye,” he said, refusing to relent. He pointed his finger at her and then
the door. “So now take yer pretty arse out of here before someone sees ye in here.”

Millie was undaunted. “Is that the basis of your refusal to hire me? You think I’m
pretty?” When Clive refused to look at her, Millie moved forward to the bar. “But,
Clive, that is a reason
to
hire me, for it will bring more business to your establishment. And if you are worried
about someone becoming . . . let’s say, friendly . . .” She waited until he looked
her directly in the eye to finish her thought. “I can take care of myself.”

Clive suppressed a smile. For a tiny female, the lass showed spirit, and that was
a quality he had always admired, especially in women. Too often the females who came
to work in drinking dens were either timid and full of fear, or so jaded that they
could no longer express feelings of any kind. But the idea of this petite beauty fighting
off even the weakest of seamen was more than a little amusing.

Seeing his smirk, Millie leaned in closer and added, “
Without
it costing you any customers.”

Clive stood bewitched by the sparkling deep purple hue of her eyes. The lass was serious
in her claim. She truly believed that she could keep men away
and
keep them happy. It was almost worth giving her a chance just to see how she intended
to do that. “What do ye know of serving ale and whiskey?”

Millie forced herself to remain calm. “Absolutely nothing. I am just as ignorant as
you believe me to be when it comes to working in a public house. However, that does
not mean that I am incapable of learning or hard work. I intend to earn my wages.”

Clive let out a huge gust of air and folded his arms across his massive chest. Hard
work, the woman said. She was as familiar with hard work as he was the waltz—and he
couldn’t dance to save his soul. So if this pretty little chit knew nothing about
earning wages through hard physical labor, why would Sasha send her to work in a dockworkers’
tavern? Why not one with gentlemen clientele?

Clive took another look at Ellie and tried to discern her background. A widow? He
did not think so. She was unhappy, stressed, but lacked the telltale signs of grief.
Governess? Perhaps, but doubtful. There were other, much easier forms of employment
for someone like her. So if she lost one cully, why not just get another? Clive narrowed
his eyes as he answered his own question. Ellie was here because she did not want
to be found. “Why do ye want tae work near the docks?”

Millie licked her lips, somewhat unnerved that he had discerned that the locality
of the job was essential to her. “I have my reasons.”

Clive shook his head upon hearing his suspicion confirmed. She did not need
a
job. She wanted
this
job. “Now that makes me curious, and a man like me doesn’t like tae be curious. Makes
me think ye might not only
be
trouble, but might be bringing it here.”

“M . . . Clive,” Millie began, “I can assure you that—”

“No, it’ll be me doing the assuring. Ye may be seeking a way tae make some money while
avoiding those looking for ye, but I don’t need a bailiff poking his head in me business.”

Millie’s eyes popped wide and her stance suddenly became hostile. “A
bailiff
? Why, I have never done anything illegal in my life! And I am offended you could
think so when you know nothing about me!”

Clive flinched at her violent reaction to the accusation. Ellie might be beautiful
and a mite small, but she was also fiery. He liked that but quickly scowled at her
to hide his appreciation. “Hell, lass, how was I supposed tae know? Ye claim ye can
take on a brawlin’ bunch of seamen, when anyone can tell ye’ve only been around gentry.
Don’t deny it,” he said, waving a finger in the air, drawing an imaginary circle around
her. “It’s written all over ye. Yer hair, yer walk, yer damn posture, and those hands
. . .”

Millie looked down. “What about my hands?”

Clive reached out and grabbed one, touching the smooth, velvety palms. It was a mistake
and he flung it back. “Just like I thought. Soft as a new bairn.”

Millie’s heart lurched. She clenched and unclenched her fist. It was strange, but
only Chase had ever touched her in such a familiar way. She suddenly wondered if she
could really endure this job.

Millie licked her lips and pushed the thought aside. She was about to lose this opportunity
unless she gave Clive a compelling story about why she needed to work for him. She
opted for something closer to the truth. “I admit I am having some difficulties disentangling
myself from my previous life. It is possible—though very tenuous—that someone may
make some inquiries about me. But I give you my word that I have done nothing dishonest.
I only made a mistake, and it cost me . . . my life in a way. I am just trying to
correct it and I
need
this job in order to do so. Give me one night, and if you still think I cannot do
the job, I will leave and give you no more trouble.”

Clive’s deep blue eyes stared long and hard at the small, captivating woman standing
in front of him asking for a job. He must be out of his mind to agree, but he knew
that was exactly what he was going to do. “Be here at six. And don’t dress up like
ye’re going to a party in Mayfair. Wear working clothes. That one’s tae distracting.”

Millie bit her bottom lip and Clive rolled his eyes as he realized that she was already
wearing her plainest garment.

Millie returned on time, wearing the same gown. The place was empty. “Clive?” she
called out.

A bald head poked up from behind the bar. A second later he stood up to his full height
and tossed a cloth onto the counter. “Ye’re back,” he huffed.

Millie could not figure out if he sounded surprised or disappointed. “You did not
think I would be?”

“A man’s allowed tae hope,” Clive groused. “But since ye are here, ye can prove tae
me how good ye are at hard work.”

Millie looked around. “But . . . no one has yet to arrive.”

An unfriendly smile overtook Clive’s face as he pointed to the dingy cloth on the
counter and then at the bucket of water near the hearth. “But there is plenty tae
clean.”

Millie inhaled deeply as she picked up the cloth and went over to grab the bucket.
It was half full and its contents were not just water. She wondered just how often
Clive emptied and refilled it and decided that she probably did not want to know the
answer to the question. Plunging the cloth in the filthy water, she wrung it out and
began to work her way around the room, wiping off tables and setting the chairs and
benches back to their rightful positions.

Clive grimaced as she began to work. He had half hoped the prospect of cleaning this
place would send Ellie running out the door. He had been serious about her hands.
Based on his brief touch, the woman had not done a hard day of labor in her life.
But Ellie surprised him as she continued to straighten up the room, not uttering a
single complaint. Realizing she was not going to, Clive busied himself in the bar
area, counting mugs and making sure that the used bottles were stacked in front of
the unused ones.

He did what he always did preparing for the night crowd, but he also found himself
spying every once in a while on his new help, watching her tend to tables and chairs
that had not been cleaned for days. She had changed her hair to a simple braided bun,
but it had done nothing to hide her beauty. Clive doubted anything would.

He also doubted she was recently let go of a paying position. No, whoever Ellie was,
she had been forced out, and based on her desire to stay away from the better parts
of Town, most likely it had been by some titled gent with considerable power. That
explained how she came to be with Sasha. The old woman made a habit of taking in strays,
but it still did not explain why Ellie wanted a job interacting with the most undisciplined
and roughest clientele London had to offer. Not when she had the figure and the face
to find another man.

The only thing he did know about Ellie was that she had secrets, and oddly enough,
that was the one thing that
did
make her fit in at Six Belles. Everyone had secrets. And when they drove someone
to the docks, it created an intangible bond, where certain rules of privacy were considered
sacred.

Every soul Clive knew, including himself, had a past that was nobody’s business. And
that included Ellie.

Bessie strode into Six Belles and threw Clive an apologetic look. “Sorry ’bout bein’
late. Had somethin’ I had to finish.”

Clive arched a brow and shrugged his shoulders. Bessie was relieved he was not mad.
With him being short-handed, she was expecting him to at least issue her an empty
threat about making her stay late to clean up. Turning around, she was not surprised
to find the place almost half full, customers shouting for someone to bring them a
drink. She was about to holler back that she was coming, when she realized they were
not just calling for anyone to serve them, but for one person in particular—and it
was not her.

All eyes were on a dark-haired brunette. She was facing the other way, but Bessie
could tell the woman was too small, too fragile, and based on her fancy gold dress,
too pampered to be in a place like this. “Just who is
that
?” she asked Clive in a more shrewlike manner than she had intended.

“Ellie,” Clive answered, unfazed by Bessie’s glare. “Hired her this morning tae help
out.”

Bessie turned back around to assess her new competition, who was making her way around
the tables and men. The woman was striking and young—the two things Bessie used to
be, but was no longer. Ten years ago, her fiery red mane would have easily competed
with the raven-haired beauty. Bessie’s ample bosom could still turn a man’s eye and
she took satisfaction in knowing she was one of the better-looking women who worked
around this part of London. Her figure was slim, she had all her teeth, and her eyes
were the color of the sea. But none of those features could compete with the youthful
curves of the petite woman standing across from her.

“What were you thinkin’ hirin’ her?” Bessie hissed, only caring slightly how jealous
it made her sound.

Clive started filling a mug with ale and said, “Well, Bess, I was thinking I needed
the help and that the men would like her. It looks tae me that I was right.”

Bessie saw Millie’s shoulders straighten, and when her purple eyes drilled into Bessie’s
blue ones, something inside her snapped. The little chit should have acted at least
a little
intimidated, but instead the missy actually thought to stare her down. Bessie fumed.
“
Her?
That little girl ain’t never served a drink before in her life,” she said loud enough
for Millie and everyone else to hear.

Millie finished taking the table’s orders and began to walk toward Clive, stopping
right in front of Bessie. “I’m actually quite well versed in serving an assortment
of drinks in a variety of settings because, as you know, the rules of etiquette take
into account minor details such as where, what, and who is being served. But I am
sure that you possess similar knowledge or . . . oh my. My mistake. I did not realize
you were only skilled in delivering mugs of ale and spirits to men whose only intent
is getting drunk.”

Millie did not wait for an answer but went over to Clive and said, “Five more of the
same.”

Bessie inhaled sharply. The saucy green chit might think she had won, but her flowery
words had tipped her hand. Whoever the interloper was, she clearly did not belong
here. Dockworkers and seamen might enjoy spying on a pretty, genteel face from afar,
but not in their taverns and especially not when it belonged to the gentry and their
judgmental ways. She was just about to say as much, but when the men eagerly hollered
for Ellie’s quick return, Bessie became so furious she could hardly speak.