Page 10 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl (Seven Deadly Sins #4)

S eated at the kitchen table in London’s latest great gaming hell, with servants hurriedly seeing to their chores and tasks, it appeared to Cressida how utterly ridiculous she must look. Her drab skirts paled even in comparison to the high-quality livery donned by male and female servants alike. The ridiculously ornate mask she’d worn last night to accompany her luxuriant but outrageously decadent gown was now the only article of value that she wore, leaving Cressida feeling a lot like Cinderella after the ball.

A wry smile twisted her lips. How many women before her had sat in this very spot while a carriage was readied to take her away from the sinning she’d done here?

Certainly that accounted for why no one paid the strange sight she made any heed. They knew precisely what a woman here had been up to the night before.

Not for the first time since Mauley deposited her at the kitchen table, Cressida consulted the hideous gilt bronze wall clock. It portrayed a chilling rendering of Chronos holding up time as the hounds of hell crept towards the god, while those macabre pets of Lucifer bared their teeth. No doubt the young earl had installed that as a help to his servants, but also as a deterrent to keep a person from worrying their attention on the passing moments they spent here.

No, they were an efficient lot, all of them. Since she’d been abandoned by Mauley and forgotten by the staff, she’d had a full twenty minutes now to witness their efforts firsthand.

Failing to be seen was an all too familiar state for Cressida, and it wasn’t even a recent development.

As a child, when her mother fell ill, Cressida woke before the sun rose and spent hours upon hours wandering throughout the hills and meadows of Somerset. She’d scour the earth for patches of clovers, desperately—and tirelessly—searching for the coveted four-leaf ones. When her endless searches proved futile, she resorted to traipsing around during the rainstorms, on the odd chance the rain clouds lifted and the sun ushered a rainbow across the horizon.

On the rare occasions when the doleful English sky allowed the sun its fair turn to shine, Cressida went hiking. She’d just known if she could locate the start of that polychromatic masterpiece, she could follow all the way to the end to a treasure.

Oh, it hadn’t been that she cared, needed, or even wanted the resulting pot of gold. She’d merely needed the treasure to lure the leprechauns Trudy oft regaled Cressida with tales of. Because there’d been only one thing she cared about—her mother being cured of whatever sickness that’d stolen her vitality. More times than not, when Cressida fell asleep out in the wild, her father had been so consumed with grief that he’d not noticed his daughter missing. Trudy invariably came for Cressida.

Because the world was terrible and the worst things always happened, Cressida’s beloved mama went on to be with Jesus.

From there, Cressida’s ability to remain invisible became her superhuman strength.

Her beloved father never recovered from the loss of his wife, and Cressida became an afterthought for him.

Distractedly, Cressida picked up the silver fork and toyed with the untouched food on her plate.

Of course, she’d always been invisible to her brother. She grimaced. Not that she’d have it any other way. He’d always been a cruel, heartless wastrel.

Then there was Benedict. Benedict, whom she’d done her best to charm with discourse on the rare times they’d spoken, and whom she’d loved so long as to be an embarrassment. He hadn’t even been able to identify Cressida when she’d been the only woman on a stage.

Her shoulders hunched inward.

Now, it was the guard, Mauley, who’d clearly forgotten her. After all, just sitting in this one room in his clubs proved no driver in the Earl of Dynevor’s crew of efficacious servants would tarry, and certainly not this long.

Her sense of desperation building inside, Cressida looked again to that ominous clock. She’d been counting on the use of Lord Dynevor’s carriage. Cressida had but a handful of coins to her name, and though she’d acquired a fine dress and even finer mask, which she’d sell, having to use any money meant parting with the only funds she had to care for herself and Trudy.

Now, she’d unwittingly, with Benedict’s help , landed herself in very real danger of having another life to be responsible for.

That hated pounding started in her head and spread to her chest.

A babe? She couldn’t care for herself and Trudy. How in hell would she ever be of any help to a babe?

“…On my word, and on my honor, if you find yourself in the family way, I promise to look after you and the babe…”

Granted, Benedict promised Cressida and any child they might have conceived would receive financial support. A small sob gurgled in her throat, the sound of her misery lost to the din of activity around her.

To believe she’d actually thought he’d offer to marry her, when his offer had been anything but .

She pressed a fist against her mouth.

Forget his love. She knew now that’d always been a castle in the air. Benedict didn’t want her. Based on the horror with which he’d fled the bedchamber, he didn’t even like or care about her.

All the many servants’ swift movements suddenly became too much, and her head spun.

It was too much. Cressida needed to get away from this place.

She jumped to her feet. Cressida managed to take but a single step when pitchy voice called over the noise in the kitchens. “Ye can’t go, my lady.”

Half-crazed, Cressida looked at the woman who’d shouted that directive. The old woman, maybe somewhere in her fortieth year, possessed a mouth more capable of a scowl than a smile. “Ye hear me, gel?”

If that wasn’t the way. Everyone made it a point to bully Cressida about, but this from a stranger? That was a step too far.

Annoyance brought Cressida firmly back from the precipice she’d been about to topple over. She pulled her shoulders back. “Are you speaking to me?” she asked quietly, infusing a warning there.

Which the servant apparently had little experience with. The woman snorted. “Who else would I be talking to?”

Cressida took another step to leave, but the dogged woman matched her movements.

Too exhausted emotionally and physically to be brought low, Cressida flattened her lips into a tense line. “I was assured I’m permitted to leave at any point,” she informed, coolly self-possessed.

The older woman snorted. “You were also assured you’d be given a carriage to see you on your way, and that hasn’t happened yet.”

“That is a fair point,” Cressida muttered.

Wonder of wonder, the gruff redhead cracked a smile. That expression of mirth proved short-lived.

The servant looked down at Cressida’s untouched plate, and frowned. “You got a problem with the meal?” Before Cressida could protest, the woman gave her a once-over and grunted. “You could benefit from the healthy-sized portions you’ve got there. You’re all skin and bone.”

Cressida glanced at the untouched plate. “No! It looks wonderful.” Her stomach growled loud enough to make the next words from her mouth the clear lie they were. “I’m not…” I’m not of a place where I am able to eat. Not without her stomach revolting, and then her humiliation would be complete.

The astute kitchen maid worked a suspicious gaze over Cressida. “You aren’t what ?”

“I’m not hungry at the moment.” Which was ironic because Cressida lived in a constant state of hunger.

She curled her fingers, waiting for the woman to go see to her responsibilities that weren’t Cressida.

Her wait proved a long one.

The other woman finally pointed at her. “Sit.”

Surprisingly, Cressida found herself doing just that. Something in the woman’s tone didn’t leave room to be disobeyed.

The moment she sat, the older woman claimed the bench across from Cressida.

“I’m not certain the proprietors would want me to be taking up your time,” Cressida demurred.

“You don’t know the men who own this place,” her tablemate said without rancor. “They’re good, the lot of them are. They allow us rest and breaks, and I’m choosing to take one now with you.”

Apparently, she was to be the servant’s latest responsibility after all. Perhaps it was a mark of just how pitifully lonely Cressida was; even in her need to be alone, the fact that someone actually saw her left a lump in her throat.

The servant introduced herself in the same no-nonsense tones of before. “My name is Constance.”

Cressida stretched her fingers out. “I am Cressida.”

A look of stunned surprise filled the woman’s sun-bronzed cheeks as she studied Cressida’s palm as if it were the first of its kind she’d ever seen. In the end, the maid quickly slipped her fingers into Cressida’s and then pulled them back even more quickly. Upon closer inspection, Cressida determined the servant to be nearer in age to Cressida.

Constance gave a little grunt. “No, you’re not.”

Cressida blinked slowly. “I’m…sorry?”

“You’re a lady.” The maid shoved a damp red curl that’d escaped her plait back behind her ear. “Ladies don’t have first names.”

Ah, now I began to make sense. “Rest assured, I have a first name.” For a second time, Cressida began to play with her silverware. Funny. The servants in the kitchen were permitted silver. She caught herself with that distracted movement and instantly stopped. She set it back down. “Maybe I have a first name on account I’m not a lady,” she confided.

Expressionless, Constance stared at Cressida. The gruff but surprisingly kindly servant burst out laughing until tears coursed down her narrow cheeks. “Gor,” she said between her bouts of hilarity. “I ain’t heard one like that in a long time,” she said, wiping the moisture from her face. “Not a lady.” She gave her head a rueful shake. “Gel, you were born with lady stamped all over your fine person.”

Cressida’s small smile faded. “Well, you would be the first to think so,” she murmured.

“If you’re not a lady born, as you say, it certainly explains your need for food, and the reason you should be eating when you’re able.” The woman spoke with a surprising gentleness, and then Constance pushed the plate nearer Cressida’s fingers.

If those weren’t the truest words spoken about Cressida’s life. This sudden and unexpected kindred connection with another person managed to penetrate her misery and soften her defenses.

She wanted to take a bite, for Constance’s benefit, but Cressida’s stomach churned so great, she feared she’d not keep even a bite down.

“Come now, Cressida,” Constance said in that kindly way she’d already revealed. “I’ve gone ahead and made my first meal for Lord Dynevor. Try some for me. Let me know how it is.”

That was when Cressida truly had no choice.

The sparkle in the servant’s pretty hazel eyes said she knew it too.

She’d never been able to hurt a person’s feelings. It was a great irony, considering her loathsome brother excelled in that endeavor, but not Cressida. As such, she found herself collecting the silver knife and carving the smallest piece out of her eggs. Hesitant, Cressida took a bite.

The minute the food touched her tongue, all the worry she’d get sick in front of Lord Dynevor’s staff vanished.

Her eyes slid shut on a wave of glory. “Bloody hell,” Cressida whispered, her mouth full. “This is exquisite, and not just because I’ve forgotten how good food can be.” As soon as Cressida let that revelation slip, her entire face burned hot.

Cressida’s eyes went flying open. “Not that I don’t eat. Despite your earlier concern, I d—”

Constance reached over and, with an even more callused palm than Cressida’s, patted the top of Cressida’s hand.

“I know,” Constance said quietly. “I know.”

They shared a look as two women who’d experienced similar troubled existences that bound them.

Constance didn’t say anything more than that, and while Cressida ate, neither of them exchanged any further words. With every piece of the delectable breakfast meal she consumed, Cressida’s strength—and resolve—grew.

Last night happened, but last night had also come and gone. She’d never been one to wallow in her miseries, on account of the fact she’d never had the luxury to do so.

Once she’d polished off every last crumb from her plate, she pushed it away.

Constance gave another one of her increasingly familiar little grunts—this one, the approving sort. “Good. You ate all your food.” Despite the similarity in their ages, Constance spoke the way she might to a small child.

“How could I not?” Cressida scoffed. “You were correct. I needed but one taste, and there’d have been no other course for me but to devour your fare. Lord Dynevor is going to have you cooking for him and his customers every night,” she predicted.

“Yes, well, that is certainly the hope,” Constance confided on a whisper.

Funny she’d been so eager to leave, and now she found herself lingering. It felt so very good talking with another woman. For a moment, Cressida had forgotten about Benedict’s horror and— “Trudy,” she whispered.

Cressida shot to her feet.

Constance looked up in startlement.

“I am truly grateful for the meal, but I really must go.”

The skilled cook stood. “Where are you off to?”

“His Lordship allowed me the use of a carriage, but it appears to not be coming. I have to return.” And she did. There was Trudy waiting. And for the first time since she’d devoured the grandest breakfast she’d had in her entire life, guilt assailed her. Here she’d been dining and conversing quite contentedly while Trudy was left alone with the baron and baroness and their hired goon.

There was also a certainty that Trudy would have been worrying this entire time.

“Constance,” she said, holding a hand out. “Thank you for the meal. You will do great things in his lordship’s kitchen.”

Unlike before, Constance accepted her palm, but the same frown she’d first worn when meeting Cressida was firmly in place.

“His Lordship made a promise. He keeps his promises. Him and the other gents who own this place are good men, the only ones of their kind. His lordship, however, is a busy man. He’ll eventually look after you, and then you can take one of his fine carriages.”

Cressida was glad for Constance’s benefit that she felt a sense of safety and security here.

Cressida had a whole lot less faith in men, however. She’d been sold for a bag of silver by her brother. Was she to believe Lord Dynevor cared about Cressida, a random stranger to him? And now she could add Benedict to her list of men who’d failed her.

There came a flash remembrance of the horror when he’d realized he’d bedded a virgin. She should have known better. A respectable gentleman such as the Earl of Wakefield wasn’t one to take a woman’s virtue, even if she had been all too willing and eager to hand it over to him, as Cressida had done.

“Cressida?”

“I have to go, Constance,” she said with a greater resolve. Cressida sank into a curtsy.

The maid stared bemusedly a moment, and this time, Cressida didn’t allow her to put up a protest.

Cressida grabbed her parting gift and hurried for the exit. As the young earl promised, the scarred guard there didn’t bar her from leaving, but instead drew the door open.

A bright flash of a spring sun blinded her, and she lifted her forearm up to block that light. She squinted until her eyes grew accustomed to the day sky. Pulling her hood into place, she drew deeper into the tattered article and made a straightaway towards the gravel and down the cobblestone path that led to the East London streets.

Soon enough, she found herself outside the gates of The Devil’s Den, and everything that’d transpired, she left behind.

Or pledged to.

Cressida put all her focus on getting to a carriage. In these violent streets of London, the scourge of England leered at Cressida, following her with their eyes…and then following her. Unfortunately for them, Cressida knew a thing or two about surviving.

She looked about, scanning the streets. There was a row of hired coaches all stationed along the front entrance of The Devil’s Den. Obviously, the drivers knew they had wealthy clientele inside who’d stumble out at some point, drunk and tired and in need of a conveyance to bring them back to their sparkling abodes. Cressida considered the drivers and opted for the oldest fellow soundly sleeping atop his box, with his hat pulled low over his brow.

When she reached the side, his loud snores reached her. She had been that tired many times. She almost felt bad about waking him, but she also knew he’d feel far worse if he’d known he lost out on good coin. “Sir?” When another bleating snore met her question, she raised her voice to reach him. “Sir?”

The old fellow started so badly, he knocked his too-small-for-his-big-head cap free and revealed a shocking patch of orange hair. “What now?” he groused, searching about for his hat.

Cressida recovered the article and handed it over. “My apologies,” she said.

The sleepy confusion faded from the man’s eyes. His mouth formed a circle of surprise. “You’re not a nob.”

“No.” Cressida smiled wryly. “And thank goodness for that.”

The old man grinned, revealing a completely toothless smile. He started to climb down.

“Oh, you needn’t!” she called up. “I’m more than capable of—”

“None of that now,” he said gruffly. Lumbering slowly down from the coach, he joined her on the grime-slicked cobblestones and drew the door open. “I wouldn’t hear of it. All I usually get are drunk, miserable, selfish sorts.” He winked. “Never a fine lady like yourself.”

Sensing the driver was a proud man, she refrained from further protest and let him do the work he was clearly proud to do.

She placed her fingers inside his and allowed him to hand her inside the coach. The minute she was inside and seated, her driver closed the door shut behind Cressida.

At last alone, with no one there to witness her misery, she collapsed against the surprisingly comfortable squabs.

It was done.

All of it: the requirements her brother had placed upon her. The foolish dreams she’d entertained about the Earl of Wakefield. There’d be no salvation. There was no one coming. There was no hero. There was no true love. There was nothing and no one, except she and Trudy.

Cressida hugged herself tight as tears again threatened. It was like a vise had been clamped around her lungs and heart. She fought back the building pressure and pain that sent her chest curling into itself.

Bone weary, she let her head fall back as the carriage rattled as slowly into motion.

No, there was no hero coming. There was no—

The carriage came to such a jarring stop, Cressida cried out and pitched face forward against the opposite wall. The force of that collision stole the breath from her lungs and left her dazed. Through that fog, she registered shouting.

She fought to get herself right. Her driver’s angry bellows managed to trickle through her muddied head. An instant later, Cressida understood the reason for his fury.

The door was yanked open. She gasped and stumbled into motion, reaching for her dagger and then remembering she hadn’t been permitted to bring it with her to the club. Prepared to meet her assailant with her fists, Cressida brought her arms up—and stopped.

Her gaze collided with the angry stare of her would-be kidnapper.

Her tongue thick, her lips barely moved for her to properly form the name. “ Benedict?”

The Earl of Wakefield narrowed his eyes. Without uttering a single word, he climbed inside and drew the door shut behind them. He rapped once on the ceiling. That slight knock sent the hackney into motion.

Cressida frowned.

Loyal driver or not, the coachmen clearly recognized who was in a position of power—and it was definitely not Cressida.