Fourteen
The next morning Modesty made her way down the stairs, valise in hand. She paused when Mr. Mostyn opened the door for a man in a black coat then closed it again behind him. Her steps, which had been rapid and full of excitement and trepidation, slowed. Something about the way Mr. Mostyn held himself concerned her. He was usually loose-limbed, moving like a prowling lion. This morning he was stiff and almost wooden.
“Is something amiss?” she asked. It was probably the first time she had spoken to him directly. He still made her nervous.
He looked up at her, and she saw his eyes were red-rimmed. Modesty’s belly tightened and she imagined the feeling akin to a blow.
“No,” he said, though she could see that plainly he had been crying. And then to her shock, he sat hard on the marble floor of the entryway. Modesty didn’t think. She went to him and put her hand on his shoulder. She had done this thousands of times over the years with parishioners in her father’s church. She had mourned with them as often as she had rejoiced with them, perhaps even more.
“What is it?” she asked, kneeling beside him. “Is it Lady Lorraine?” She swallowed hard, not wanting to say more but forcing herself. “Is it the baby?”
He nodded.
Modesty felt cold all over, and her skin prickled as though icicles trailed over it. “Shall we pray?” she asked.
Mostyn gave her a helpless look. “Yes.”
And so she prayed. She said the prayer she had heard her father say so often in times of trouble, and she tried very hard to believe God heard her prayer. In this last week she had begun to feel there was no God, or if there was, he did not care about her. It scared her to think that for years she might have devoted herself to a God who either did not exist or was, at best, indifferent to her. But then she’d believed her father a different man than he was, and she’d believed her mother a different woman than she was. And maybe she’d been wrong about God too.
After the prayer, they sat in silence for a long time. Most people wanted to talk about their fears and sadness, but Mostyn seemed to be comfortable in the silence. Modesty didn’t want to pry, but she also knew the carriage taking her to Hungerford would arrive soon, and she did not know if she should stay to be with Lady Lorraine.
“May I see Lady Lorraine?”
Mostyn nodded slightly. “She’s in the bedchamber.”
Modesty rose and went in the direction she had seen Lady Lorraine go when retiring. She found her lady’s maid, Nell, outside the door, handkerchief patting her eyes. Modesty stopped and put a hand on Nell’s arm. “You must be strong now,” she said. “She needs you.”
Nell nodded. “I know. I’m trying.”
“I find having a task to do sometimes helps in hard times. Would you make tea for Lady Lorraine and bring a tray?”
Nell nodded. “Yes. Yes, I can do that.” She left and Modesty opened the door.
The day was gray, but the curtains were open to allow what little light there was to penetrate the room. It was a warm room, the walls papered in blue and the large mahogany bed draped in white. Lady Lorraine looked small under the white bedsheets, but Modesty found her. She was sitting, one hand on the back of her dog who had snuggled in beside her.
“Oh, Miss Brown,” Lady Lorraine said. “I am so sorry. I will not be able to go to Hungerford.”
Modesty waved a hand. “Don’t trouble yourself with that. Tell me what’s happened. Is the baby...” She did not know how to finish. Obviously, the baby was not well or the doctor would not have been there.
“The doctor says he thinks the baby is fine. I’ve had some bleeding, and he says I must rest and be quiet and still for a few days. If I can do that, then the child might be saved.”
Modesty went to her knees and grasped Lady Lorraine’s hand. “Oh, my lady. I blame myself.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s no one’s fault. And goodness, after the confidence I have just shared, would you call me Lorrie?”
Modesty nodded. “I should not have asked you to come to Hungerford with me. You have been doing too much.”
Lorrie shook her head. “You did not ask me. I invited myself, and I always do too much. I don’t like to be idle. Besides, the doctor said no one is to blame. Not you. Not Ewan, though he blames himself, of course.”
Modesty frowned. “Why would Mr. Mostyn be to blame.”
“He thinks because we...” She paused and she did not need to finish for Modesty’s cheeks to heat. Lorrie smiled. “Yes, that. Because of that he caused the baby harm. You think it’s because I was readying to travel to Hungerford. Nell thinks it is because...well, I don’t know why she blames herself, but she does. But the doctor says if I rest for a few days, I should be fine.” She bit her lip. “But no traveling. He doesn’t want me bounced about.”
“Of course. I will tell Mr. Payne I cannot go. May I use your parlor to write him a letter?”
“No.” Lorrie’s hand tightened on hers. “You will go to Hungerford. You said yourself you do not need me as a chaperone. Besides, you will stay with Lord Nicholas and his sister, Lady Florentia. They live a few miles outside of Hungerford, and I have heard their estate is beautiful. It’s all arranged.”
“I don’t want to leave you alone.”
“And I won’t be the reason you don’t find your father. If he is in Hungerford, you need to find him. Besides, I won’t be alone. Ewan will hover over me until he drives me mad, and if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like you to write to my mother, the Duchess of Ridlington. Ask her to come for a few days.”
Modesty took a breath. “You wish me to write to a duchess?”
“I promise you she reads left to right like anyone else. Funny how in times like these we want our mothers at our sides.”
Modesty nodded. She understood that sentiment. She had wanted her mother this past week quite often.
“Then give me a kiss and start writing. Lord Rowden and Mr. Sterling will be here within the hour, and you don’t want to make them wait.”
Modesty kissed Lorrie’s cheek and went out of the room. Mostyn was waiting on the other side of the door. “She’s fine,” Modesty said because she knew he wondered but wouldn’t ask. “She wanted me to write to her mother and ask her to stay for a few days.”
Mostyn gave her a pained look, and she patted his arm then went to the parlor to write the letter. She was still sitting there, looking over the letter and hoping she’d addressed it properly when Mr. Payne arrived. She heard his voice in the entryway and went to meet him, letter in hand. “Mr. Payne, Lorrie—Lady Lorraine—is not feeling well. She won’t be traveling with us, and she asked me to write to her mother. I’ve never written to a duchess. Have I done it correctly?”
He seemed to absorb all of this information quickly and held his hand out to take the sheet of paper. He read it quickly then handed it back and nodded. “It’s perfect.”
“How do I address it?”
“The duke and duchess are at their country home?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ll do it.”
She followed him into the parlor, where he folded the paper into another and wrote on the outside, Her Grace The Duchess of Ridlington then scribbled the name of their country home and the other particulars. “Does she have a seal?” he asked.
“There.” Modesty pointed to the heavy gold item.
Payne melted a bit of wax, swirled it on the back of the paper, and pressed the seal into it. Then he carried it to the entryway, flicked a finger at a footman, and handed the letter to the man. “Have this sent immediately.” He handed the servant a few coins. “For the post,” he said.
Modesty watched him, impressed. If she had harbored any doubts he was the son of a duke, she did not now. He had an authority that did not brook argument. He’d obviously grown up in a world of privilege and knew how to navigate it.
“How’s Mostyn?” he asked.
“He’s with her now,” she said, deciding it would be best not to point out he’d been crying earlier. She was no gossip.
“I gather from the letter she hasn’t lost the baby, but it’s tenuous?”
Modesty did not know how to answer without saying something that would make her cheeks flame. “She says the doctor thinks all will be well with rest.”
Mr. Payne let out a breath. “Rest isn’t in her nature, but Ewan will strap her down if he has to. I suppose it’s just the two of us then.”
Modesty looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”
“Mr. Sterling, who has given us the use of his carriage, has business in Town and can’t get away until tomorrow. He has another carriage and will meet us at Battle’s Peak.”
“Battle’s Peak?”
“That’s the name of Lord Nicholas’s estate—well, his brother’s estate, but his brother is...I don’t know where the hell his brother is. In any case, we will be lodging there.”
“And Mr. Okoro?”
Mr. Payne ran a hand through his hair, tousling it in a way she found very attractive and very tempting to smooth back into order. “He will come separately this evening or tomorrow. He sent a letter very early this morning to say he was unavoidably detained.”
“I see.” She straightened her shoulders. “Well, as I said, I do not need a chaperone.”
“Lady Florentia is at Battle’s Peak, and Sterling has equipped us with two outriders and a coachman. I think you’ll be well protected.”
But those men would be outside the carriage, and she would be alone inside. With him.
* * *
ROWDEN WATCHED MISS Brown’s eyes widen as she settled into Aidan’s carriage. Rowden thought the interior looked more like a drawing room than a carriage. There was room for both of them to stretch their feet out or a footrest could be supplied with the pull of a lever. The interior was covered in the same plush fabric as the squabs, and the ceiling had been painted with a mural in the Greek style. A panel in the wall opened to supply wine and water on her side, and something a bit stronger on his. Aidan knew his drink of choice was brandy and soda and had made sure both were stocked. Another panel revealed wrapped sandwiches. On her side, that same panel held a pillow and slippers. A velvet blanket in cream had already been tucked about her and a warm brick was at her feet.
She looked a bit like a princess wrapped in velvet. But instead of a crown, she wore a simple bonnet, her hair gathered at the nape of her neck in a fiery coil.
He’d been annoyed at Chibale and Aidan for abandoning him, for leaving him solely responsible for Miss Brown. But he’d decided to make the best of it. He could keep their relationship shallow and platonic. He did not have to invite any intimacy.
“Mr. Sterling must be very wealthy,” she said as they started away. Rowden smiled. Speaking of money was extremely gauche, but it didn’t bother him. He liked that she was without pretense.
“Some say he’s the richest man in England.”
“What about the king?” she asked.
“Definitely richer than the king,” he answered. And then because he wanted to see her cheeks pinken again, he said, “It’s my understanding that your seat pulls out into a bed.”
Her cheeks did turn rosy. “I suppose that is in case the traveler is forced to shelter in the carriage due to a storm.”
He grinned at her. “I imagine that’s a good reason for a bed too.” Rowden opened the panel with the wrapped sandwiches. “Refreshment?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I’ve only broken my fast a couple of hours ago.”
“Then you must be hungry again.” He handed her a sandwich and opened his own. She laid hers down and peered out the window.
“Have you been out of London before?” he asked.
She nodded. “Once. When I was young, my father took us to Bath. It was lovely.”
“Did you try the water at the Pump Room?” he asked. Speaking of drinks, he was thirsty. He opened the other panel and fixed a brandy with soda. He could definitely become used to this.
“I did, but the water was horrible,” she said. “Are you drinking before noon?”
He raised his glass. “Want one?”
She shook her head. “I don’t drink spirits. They—” Then she seemed to reconsider. “I would like one.”
Rowden hadn’t thought she would agree, but he poured her a drink anyway and passed it over. She tasted it and cocked her head. “This isn’t bad.”
Rowden sipped again. “You’re drinking.” He gestured to her dress. “Wearing colors. Attending mills. Whatever was in those letters must have been momentous.”
She pursed her lips and drank again. Rowden mentally slapped his head. Why had he said that? It was the sort of comment that invited intimate revelations.
“I no longer see the point in standing on street corners yelling at people. To tell the truth, I never saw the point of that. Or the point of dressing as though I’m in mourning. I did it because I wanted to obey my parents.”
“And you don’t want to obey them anymore?”
“No, I don’t,” she said, finishing her drink and handing the glass back to him. He was about to replace it in the cabinet, when she said, “Another, please.”
Rowden narrowed his eyes. “That’s probably not a good idea.”
“I’m tired of always being good. It’s all a lie, you know. It’s all pretense.”
“I didn’t know that, no,” Rowden said, pouring her a splash of brandy and a great deal more of soda.
She took the glass back. “All of these years while he was pretending to be a man of God, he was lying and going against his own teachings.”
Careful here, he told himself. Step lightly. “I suppose your father is human, just like everyone else. He made a mistake. Or mistakes.”
“For twenty years? That’s not a mistake.” She set her glass down, and Rowden was relieved she seemed to be drinking this one slower. “And my mother.” Tears were gathering in her eyes now and Rowden groaned silently.
“She knew, and she just looked the other way.”
Rowden did not consider himself a particularly intelligent man, but neither was he a fool. Quite clearly, she’d discovered her father had a mistress and her mother had known about it. She swiped at a tear trailing down her cheek, and Rowden swore under his breath. If there was one thing he could not stomach, it was tears. They made him nervous and uncomfortable. Already he could feel the back of his neck growing warm and had the urge to get away.
But he couldn’t get away unless he wanted to jump from a moving coach. That being an attractive but also unpalatable option, he crossed to sit beside her. She immediately threw herself into his arms, and the feel of her body pressed against his made him forget that he didn’t relish tear stains on his coat.
He patted her back and shushed her and murmured soothing words. When she’d finally quieted, he found himself thinking back to his relationship with his own parents. His father had always been rather a remote figure. Rowden and his siblings had seen the duke in passing as he returned from Parliament and left for his club or when they chanced to pass by his study and his solicitor was leaving and they caught a glimpse of him from the crack in the door.
Their mother had been kind but always flitting here and there. She’d had balls and soirees and dinners to attend. Rowden remembered her in a cloud of perfume and silk. As he’d gotten older and been home from school on holidays, he had come to see them a bit more. Those were formal evenings in the drawing room or at dinner. They took an interest in him, but they had several children, and all of them vied for their parents’ attention. Rowden felt he hardly knew his parents or they him.
He did not argue when his father told him he should become a soldier. Rowden was just glad he would not have to become a clergyman or join the Navy. He was given a commission in the militia and quartered in the countryside, where he was able to attend balls and invited to dinners by the mamas of pretty girls. It was at one of those dinners that he’d met Mary.
He didn’t want to think about Mary, and he didn’t want to hold Modesty Brown. It seemed that every time he tried to escape Miss Brown, he ended up thrown together with her anyway. But that didn’t mean he had to give in to temptation. He’d made that mistake when he’d met Mary at the tender age of eighteen. He was a man now, and he knew his own mind much better. And he did not intend to ever marry, to ever fall in love again.
“It’s a hard lesson when we realize our parents are not the paragons of perfection we’ve made them to be in our heads,” he said. She lifted her face and looked up at him. He was pleased to see she’d stopped crying.
“I hadn’t thought of it that way. I suppose I did think of my father and mother as perfect, but of course, no one is without sin.”
He pushed a strand of auburn hair off her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. “That’s what I hear,” he said. But he was having a hard time finding any fault with her. Those beautiful hazel eyes were looking into his, and he could lose himself in them.
“I think the brandy has gone to my head,” she said. “I feel like I’m floating.”
“I’ll keep you tethered to earth.”
“I like it when you hold me,” she said.
Rowden raised his brows. “I think the drink has done more than create the sensation of floating.”
“Everyone says spirits loosen the tongue and the morals. I suppose it’s true because I can’t stop thinking that I wish you would kiss me again.”
Rowden carefully set her back and tried to move away. “That’s not a good idea.”
“I trust you,” she said.
He laughed. “That’s one of us.”
She frowned at him. “I don’t understand.”
“Then let me make it clear.” He moved closer again because he wanted to scare her a little, let her understand that he was not someone to play with. “I want you, Modesty. I’ve wanted you since I first saw you in that ugly dress and hat. I wanted to strip it off you and see what lay beneath.”
Her eyes, so expressive already, widened.
“And every time I see you, I want you a little bit more.”
She bit her lip, and he wanted to groan at the ache that caused. He wanted to take that mouth with his, feel her small white teeth nip at him.
“I want to kiss you again, but I don’t want to stop at kissing you. And I have to stop there because I don’t intend to marry you. That’s not a slight. I don’t intend to marry any woman, and you’re not the kind of woman I can have without marrying. Do you understand?”
She nodded. He thought that would be the end of it. He even began to move back across the seat, but she grabbed his hand. “I don’t intend to marry either.”
Rowden shook his head, slowly. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re young. You’ll change your mind.”
“I won’t,” she said, releasing him.
He moved back to his seat and lifted his brandy, suddenly thirsty. “Why is that?”
“Because it’s a lie. I used to think it was a sacred covenant. Of course, I knew some men and women broke their vows, but not the men or women I knew. Not men like my father. I was a fool. My poor mother was made to look like a fool. I won’t take that same path, accept that same fate.”
He understood now that the contents of the letters had changed everything for her. Rowden wanted to tell her there was little her mother could have done, but he didn’t think that was the point. She’d looked up to her mother and her father, emulated them, and then realized she’d been emulating a lie.
“What’s in Hungerford?” he asked.
“My father’s other wife. Well, he calls her wife. I don’t know if he married her after my mother...” She made a gesture with her hand, and Rowden held his breath, hoping she did not begin to cry again.
She didn’t.
“If you don’t intend to marry, what do you intend? Most women marry out of necessity, not love.”
She straightened—or at least tried to straighten. She was a bit disheveled in a way he found reminded him of a woman just rising from bed. “I have been thinking about that. I would make a good lady’s companion, don’t you think?”
He didn’t want to mention that lady’s companions were usually the impoverished daughters of gentry. “Lady Lorraine would no doubt give you a reference,” he said. And this was true and might be enough to secure her a position that, while it might not be in the upper classes, could mean a placement with a respectable lady of modest means.
“Do you think it would be presumptuous to ask her?”
“No,” Rowden said. “You should ask when you return to Town.”
She nodded then looked at him from under lowered lashes. “Did you mean what you said a few moments ago?”
Rowden knew exactly what she was referring to, but he would rather not bring it up again. “I don’t remember what I said a few moments ago. And you should probably forget it as well.”
* * *
CHIBALE SHOULD BE ON the way to Hungerford. He should be with his fighter. He should be enjoying the comforts of Mr. Aidan Sterling’s coach. Instead, he was still in London, still at home, trying to decide how he could change Thérèse’s mind.
His mother always said once a woman’s mind was made up, there was no changing it. She liked to say she’d made up her mind to marry Gamba Okoro just hours after she’d met him, and once she’d set her cap for him, he didn’t have a chance.
Chibale’s father, for his part, had taken a bit longer to realize his future was inextricably linked to Charlotte’s, but he’d given in at the end. Chibale had been pursuing Thérèse with this same precept in mind. She would realize they were meant for each other in the end. But since her declaration she would never marry, he had begun to doubt. She was not simply giving him a merry chase. She meant it. And as Chibale did want to marry, he wondered if he should simply let her go her way while he went his own.
He put his head in his hands and groaned. Rowden would tell him not to give up so easily. But Chibale’s father would tell him that when a woman says no, she means it. Still, she hadn’t exactly told him no. She still wanted him in her bed. She just didn’t want him as her husband. Might he persuade her at some point that she did want him as her husband?
Not if he didn’t know what her objection was. Did she hate marriage in general or was there something about Chibale in particular?
A rapid tapping came at the door, and someone called out. “Mr. Okoro? Mr. Okoro! Answer if yer home.”
Chibale checked the clock on his mantel, noted the early hour, and called. “Who is it?”
“Twig, sir.”
Chibale frowned. Did he know a Twig?
“From Madame Renauld’s.”
Chibale took the distance in two large strides and pulled the door open. “What’s happened?” he demanded, staring down at the boy.
“It’s ‘er shop, sir. It’s been turned topsy turvy. All ransacked, like.”
“Ransacked?” Chibale grabbed his hat and overcoat and pulled them on, closing the door of his flat and following the boy. “Was anyone hurt? Weren’t you there?”
“No, sir. Me ma was home last night. She works at a factory, and I don’t see ‘er much. She came by to fetch me before dinner. I stayed with me ma last night.”
Chibale walked briskly through the cold drizzle falling over the city. “Does she come to fetch you often?”
“Nah. Only on Christmas and Easter, like.”
“I see.”
Twig ran to keep pace with Chibale’s long strides. “Why’d you say it like that?”
“Because yesterday was neither Christmas nor Easter.”
Twig stopped then ran to catch up again. “Ye think me ma turned the shop all topsy turvy?”
“No, but I think it convenient she was given a half day yesterday and the one night you’re away, the shop is vandalized.”
“I still don’t...”
But Chibale saw the shop in the distance now. The sign was hanging askew and the front window was broken. He all but ran to the door and pushed it open. Several overturned tables impeded his progress. The parrot was not on her perch, but he spotted Thérèse standing in the center, directing her employees to this task or that.
“Thérèse,” he said. She looked up, her face wearing the mask she wore when greeting customers, but as soon as she saw him, it dropped. Chibale jumped over the broken dress forms and bolts of silks to reach her and take her in his arms. She allowed him to embrace her but remained stiff. He realized she had to appear strong in front of her employees. “Let’s go to the back for a few moments.”
She looked as though she might object, but Chibale put a hand on her back and guided her. “Your women have things well in hand. You can step away for a few minutes.”
The back room, where the seamstresses worked, looked just as bad as the front. Worktables were smashed, cloth had been strewn everywhere, and a dress on a female form had been slashed, the scissors still hanging from where they’d done the damage.
Thérèse opened the door to her office, and Chibale was relieved to see it had not been damaged. The parrot was there as well, preening at her feathers. She looked up at his entrance and said, “Merde!”
Chibale raised his brows at the French curse, and Thérèse let out a sigh. “Silence, Bleuette.” She looked at Chibale. “Some days one does not want to hear the words repeated back, no?”
“What happened?” he asked.
“You see.” She waved a hand expansively, making the lace sleeves of her dark blue dress flutter. She looked as elegant and beautiful as ever. “Someone broke down the door and did thees.”
“Not this door.” He indicated the door to her office, which he examined. The wood had been dented, as though kicked, but it was a thick, sturdy door with a good lock and had withstood the battering. Still, if the people who had done this wanted to break it down, they could have. But perhaps they were in too much of a hurry.
“I have a good lock on thees. I keep my designs in here.” She reached for a bottle of wine on the marquetry cabinet behind her, but her hands shook, so Chibale rose and took it from her.
“Allow me.”
“It ees early to drink, but I am shaking with rage.”
With a bit of fear, too, he thought, though he didn’t say it. “Have you sent for the magistrate?”
“Oui. He will come at his own pace. I have dealt with him before when I have caught thieves. He ees very helpful to the white shop owners. He does nothing for me.”
Chibale could do little about magistrates who treated Black merchants differently than white. His own parents had faced similar problems, but they were at least citizens of England, whereas Thérèse did not have even that advantage.
“Do you have any idea who would do this?” He handed her the glass of wine he had poured.
“No,” she said flatly. “I have thought about it. Madame LeMonde and I are rivals, but she would not do something like thees.”
Chibale made a note to call on Madame LeMonde anyway. “Where were your bully boys last night? Your protection?”
She sipped the wine. “I pay them to be here when we are open. To...what ees the word? Deter?”
“Yes.”
“To deter the thieves. They are not here at night. The boy who calls himself tree or branch—”
“Twig.”
“Oui. He is usually here. But yesterday his maman came to fetch him. Perhaps it ees good he was not here.”
Chibale sat on the couch. “Perhaps so. But I wonder.”
“Merde!” the parrot screeched.
“Silence!” Thérèse said and put her head in her hands. “She will have to stay in the back or curse at the customers. If we ever have customers again.”
“You will. You will clean this up in no time. But you will have to cancel your appointments for today.”
She nodded. “I have already sent Phaedra to call on the ladies personally with our regrets. What ees it you wonder?” she asked.
“Ah, yes. How often does the boy Twig’s mother come to fetch him?”
“Not often. She works in a factory and has lodgings there. She offered to pay me for his board and food here, but I told her no. To keep her money, and he can watch over the shop. She makes so little, how can I take it from her?”
“And yet she came yesterday. Unexpectedly.”
Thérèse narrowed her eyes. “Thees ees true, but she would not do thees.” Thérèse rose, went to the door and called, “Boy! Come here!”
“Merde!” Bleuette called. This time it was Chibale who told him to keep quiet. The bird looked at him. “Shall we have dessert?” the bird asked in a voice that sounded very much like Thérèse’s.
Thérèse gasped and turned to glare at the bird. She sputtered something at the animal in French, which was too rapid for Chibale to understand. Apparently, the bird had been listening the other night at dinner—or, rather, after dinner.
Twig trudged into the workroom and then slouched through the door of Thérèse’s office, where she had taken a seat behind her desk again. “Why did your mother come for you yesterday?” she asked. “It ees not usual.”
Twig shook his head. “I’ve been thinking about that too,” he said.
Chibale waited, but the boy said nothing more. “And,” Chibale prompted. “What is your conclusion?”
He shrugged.
Chibale tried a different approach. “We don’t blame your mother for this”—he gestured to the workroom—“but it is more than coincidence that she came to fetch you the night the shop was ransacked. Was she with you all night?”
“Course. We slept at me aunt’s house. I got eleven cousins there, so we slept on the floor, but she were beside me all night.”
“Did she say why she was given a half day?” Thérèse asked.
Twig shook his head. “She just said the forewoman came to her and told her she could take a half day.”
Thérèse looked at Chibale, and he looked at Twig. “You may go help clean up now.”
“Shall we have dessert?” Bleuette asked.
Twig paused. “There’s dessert?” he asked, eyes widening.
“No,” Chibale said, pushing the boy out the door. “Not that kind of dessert.” He shut the door. Looking back at Thérèse he raised his brows. “Are you sure you have no enemies? I am not certain, but I think someone paid the factory manager or the forewoman to give that boy’s mother the night off so the shop would be empty. A few coins would do the trick.”
“I think you are right, but I can think of no one who would do thees to me.”
“I’ll help with putting things to rights,” Chibale said. “And I’ll stay with you tonight.”
“Shall we have dessert?” Bleuette said.
Chibale glared at the bird. “To keep you safe. Not for...dessert.”
“Perhaps we can do both.” She glanced at him from under her lashes. “But I realized after I sent for you that I am imposing. You do not need to go to Hungerford?”
“I do, but I can go tomorrow. I sent Rowden early so he can rest before the fight.”
“Then come to me tonight. But you must have other things to do besides sweep glass and right tables.”
Chibale shook his head. “If you need me to sweep glass and right tables, then I’ll be here all day.”