Page 16 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl (Seven Deadly Sins #4)

A fter Benedict took his leave and Cressida found herself alone, it took everything within her to keep from dashing off and setting out to rescue Trudy. But she’d learned firsthand what impulsivity cost her. None of it was ever good, and it almost always led to violence.

She shuddered, and a shiver snaked along her spine as the memory of past beatings came back to haunt her. She forcibly thrust them out. No, she resolved it was safest to wait. It was safest for her and Trudy for Cressida to wait until the cover of darkness. That was the hour in which she could always count on Stanley being outrageously drunk and invariably off at his clubs until the earliest hours of morning when the sun was beginning to pop her head out from the eastern horizon.

And so Cressida set out to investigate her new and very temporary home.

Except, if she was with child, in which case—

I’d have a home here…and she’d have Benedict. Granted, a Benedict who didn’t want her, but she’d take a resentful Benedict as a protector rather than an abusive, lecherous duke for a husband.

Cressida began her search at the main suites. The chambers for Benedict’s paramours were done with the same quality, elegance, and money had the woman been his actual wife.

Unlike The Devil’s Den, which had been garishly golden and blood-stained red throughout, Benedict’s color palette for his mistress’s abode was all elegant pale ivories and soft creams.

There were no salacious paintings and murals and mirrors affixed upon every wall to put people on display as had been the case at Lord Dynevor’s. Benedict’s townhouse contained pastoral scenes and floral arrangements the queen herself would have approved of.

Cressida visited every room, and then every parlor and the drawing rooms. She left no space unturned, no carpet uncharted, and as she went, she marveled at the vast wealth possessed by the Earl of Wakefield.

How casually he’d spoken of this being a secondary property. Why, the furnishings in just one quarter of her bedchambers alone would be enough to sustain Cressida and Trudy for the next two and a half years, and possibly then some.

For a shameful minute, she considered stealing from Benedict. She thought about availing herself of some of the most luxurious pieces, worth the highest value, and disappearing into the night, vanishing with Trudy, where they could live alone, untouched, and unafraid forever.

It’d be so easy. It’d be so…so…wrong.

Standing outside the kitchens, she closed her eyes.

Dammit, it was times such as these that she resented and hated that she didn’t have just a smidge of her brother’s evil in her. Maybe if she did, she’d be able to properly look after herself and her nursemaid.

“Is there something you need, miss?”

That question brought her eyes flying open.

A rosy-cheeked, pretty parlor maid, arms filled with linens, smiled back.

It was a cheer-filled smile that required its recipient to respond in kind, and Cressida found herself doing just that. “No. Thank you for asking. I thought I’d visit the kitchens.”

The girl nearly lost her hold on the burden in her arms.

Cressida rushed to help, but the kindly servant moved the lawn articles close to prevent her from handling them.

“Gor, whyever would you do that, miss? I’ll be happy to bring you a tray. Or, if you’d prefer, the dining room or the breakfast table?”

Cressida’s mind spun under all those many options for where to sit and eat. All this when she had but one room to choose from.

“I’m just as able to fetch my own,” Cressida gently declined.

The maid leaned in and whispered, “You’d be the first.”

The two women shared a commiserative smile as two social equals, which they, in fact, were, no matter that the maid thought she existed in Lord Wakefield’s household to serve Cressida.

Cressida expected to be served by no one. “I am Cressida. What is your name?”

Unlike the other maid, the dimple-cheeked, fairy-like woman tendered her name. “Nancy, miss. The name is Nancy. Should I fetch Cook so you can discuss the menu?”

“The menu?” Cressida repeated, and then promptly burst out laughing.

The maid gave her an odd look, one that was obviously well-deserved.

“I certainly will not be requiring a menu, Nancy,” she assured. “I’ll be more than happy to dine with the staff. I’ll eat whatever meal is prepared for the servants.

Had Cressida announced she’d bestow gold upon Wakefield’s entire staff, the maid couldn’t have been more awestricken. “Gor, miss,” Nancy breathed. “I’ve been employed here for some years now, and there have been lots of ladies who’ve come through here, and not a single one is like you.”

The smile froze on Cressida’s face. Nancy had just offered a reminder of all the women Benedict chose. They’d been favored and revered, and he’d wanted to bring them here. Unlike Cressida, whom he’d erased from his memory and was now eager to erase from his life, and she would, as soon as it was determined there wasn’t a babe anchoring him to his unwanted lover.

“I’m finding I like you the best,” Nancy whispered, a gentle understanding that Cressida couldn’t be more miserable at the thoughts of the earl’s last lovers.

“You’d be the first,” Cressida said wryly.

The young women spoke a short while more, then Nancy left to finish her tasks.

When they’d parted ways, Cressida let herself inside the kitchen.

Less busy than that of the fully housed Devil’s Den, with its servants rushing about to see to the needs and wants of both the proprietors and patrons, Lord Wakefield’s townhouse kitchen possessed a welcome, calm, and quiet energy that Cressida deeply appreciated and welcomed, particularly now. Though it was welcome in her life in general, which was so very chaotic and uncertain.

The minute Cressida stepped inside, everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at her. How strange to go from being completely unnoticed to an object of extreme scrutiny. From last night’s auction to this morning’s meeting with Benedict and Lord Rothesby, and then the kitchens, and now this kitchen.

Cressida smiled into the quiet. “Good morning.”

The cook and chef exchanged looks, both of them clearly in a silent argument as to which one should come see the temporary lady of the house.

Cook, a fellow nearing his thirtieth year or so, tossed down his dough, wiped his hands along the front of his apron and, with a sigh, headed for Cressida. With his size, strength, and slightly bent nose, the servant looked better suited as a guard at The Devil’s Den than a man who spent his days in the heat of a kitchen.

“Miss, if there’s something you require,” he said, “I can have one of the servants come meet you. There’s absolutely no reason for you to enter the kitchen.” By the strained quality of his low baritone, he far preferred it that way.

Ah, unwanted. Now, this was a familiar feeling. “I wondered if I might be able to join you.”

He gawked at her. “Join me for what?” He directed that at Cressida but looked around at his fellow staff members for some kind of clarification.

Everybody just lifted their shoulders in a shrug.

When her question went unanswered, Cressida cleared her throat. “I am a proficient baker.”

He glanced down his hooked Roman nose. “You want to bake?”

She might as well have just said she intended to overthrow the monarchy and claim the crown for herself.

“I won’t be any trouble,” she vowed. Baking had always soothed her. She’d always loved to bake. It had also proven a costly endeavor and been one of the first luxuries to go when all the money started to go too.

Cook grinned slowly. “So you want to bake?” This time, he turned back to the other fellow near an age to his own.

He flicked a thumb in his direction. “This one’s for you, Hankley.”

The dessert chef sputtered and squawked. “I don’t have time to give a lesson now, miss.” He grunted. “I’ve got to prepare the evening meal and the bread for the staff and his lordship.”

She beamed at him. “Oh, his lordship won’t be coming back this evening.”

The kitchen gave her another collective look.

She blushed. Yes, she could see how that was confusing, given the fact that this was Benedict’s holding for his mistress, and, as such, they’d expected he would be spending the night with his new mistress.

“If I told you I don’t need a lesson, that I am perfectly capable of baking myself and that I’ll stay out of your way and…”

At the tightening of his mouth, she let her request trail off. And could see there was nothing he wanted less.

“Perhaps another time, Miss.” Hankley said.

The finality in his tone left no doubt that there wouldn’t actually be a time in the future, and so to save what little face she had left this day, Cressida walked out with her head held high. The minute she closed the door behind her with a soft click, she heard the activity come alive in the kitchen. There also came whispers and words uttered, no doubt the servants commiserating in like horror at the lady who’d been underfoot and attempting to distract them from their responsibilities.

Cressida made her way abovestairs and returned to her rooms, closing the door behind her. She leaned against the panel and looked about her new quarters. She wasn’t accustomed to being purposeless. Every part of her existence required she do something. She wasn’t one of those ladies who sat about and waited for callers. She didn’t embroider. She didn’t sit about and play the pianoforte or make floral arrangements, though she dearly would have loved to do so. She did love flowers; they reminded her ever so much of Somerset. And being here where she had no role, no purpose, left her confused and not elated as she expected it should. She was used to darning socks and tending linens to try and earn funds. She helped prepare the meals. She wasn’t a kept lady. She wasn’t any sort of lady.

Cressida remained there, watching the pretty ormolu clock atop the marble fireplace mantel tick away the passing seconds, then minutes, and eventual hours. And then, when the sun faded from the sky and night crept in, only then did Cressida head over to the fully stocked armoire and collect a black satin evening dress with a scandalously low neckline.

Wrinkling her nose, she considered it a long while.

What woman had worn this before—Cressida thrust the thoughts aside.

It would have to do. After changing into the garment and fetching a cloak, she drew her hood up and then waited for her moment to leave.