Page 15

Glancing back at her coachman, he and her grooms being the only men remaining in her employ, she was relieved to see he had stepped down and taken up the position of a sentry, his stout figure looming beside the carriage with an air of quiet authority.

Jonas Fletcher had been with Harriet’s household for several years—long enough to have seen her at both the pinnacle of her social triumphs and through her most recent trials.

A man of perhaps five and forty, he bore the rugged features of someone who had spent his life exposed to the elements.

His weathered skin hinted at years on the box, driving through both the misty mornings of the countryside and the crowded streets of London.

His dark hair, streaked with silver at the temples, was tied neatly at the nape of his neck in the fashion of an earlier era, a quiet rebellion against more modern styles.

A faint scar curved along his left cheekbone, though he never spoke of how he came by it.

His blue eyes were sharp—ever watchful—and Harriet took comfort in the steady gaze that missed nothing.

Fletcher wore his livery with easy confidence; the deep navy coat, though a few years old, was immaculately kept, brass buttons gleaming in the fading light. The faint scent of leather and horses clung to him, along with a quiet competence that set him apart.

Like many coachmen of his age, Fletcher had grown stout from long hours on the box, but he had yet an air of discipline.

He carried himself with the posture of a soldier, which some whispered he might have once been.

Harriet had never pressed him on the matter.

His loyalty had been proved when most of her household had scattered, and that was all that mattered.

For all his quiet reserve, her retainer had a way of putting the grooms in their place with a single look, and the horses responded to his steady hands like obedient children.

He rarely spoke unless spoken to, but when he did, his voice was low and steady, with the faintest trace of a rural accent—Devonshire, perhaps.

Now, he stood watch, arms folded behind his back, scanning the street with a narrowed focus.

No gambler, hawker, or street urchin would dare approach the carriage under his watchful gaze.

Fletcher might not speak much, but his presence said everything: I am here.

I am watching. And I will protect what is mine.

And knowing Fletcher kept a pistol in the box beneath the seat certainly eased her worries. St. James’s Market could be a dangerous place, and despite the early hour, darkness had fallen to usher in a chilly evening.

Harriet gave a subtle nod of appreciation before turning back toward the staircase that led to the rooms above the shop. With Jonas Fletcher standing guard below, she could face whatever waited for her within.

She took a steadying breath and climbed the narrow steps. The faded door at the top creaked as she rapped sharply. For a moment, there was only silence. Harriet raised her hand again, but the door opened abruptly.

Belinda Cooper stood framed in the doorway, dressed immaculately in a deep plum gown that accentuated her average height and slender frame.

Her hazel eyes, sharp and intelligent, widened slightly at the sight of Harriet, though she masked her surprise with admirable speed.

Her dark brown hair was styled flawlessly, and despite her surroundings, she looked as elegant as ever.

But Harriet noticed it immediately. The redness on Belinda’s right cheek. As if someone—Lord Lowe, no doubt—had struck her. What a despicable toad he was, frequently soused and always inappropriate.

“Miss Cooper,” Harriet said softly, stepping forward. “May I come in?”

Belinda hesitated, her shoulders stiffening. “Of course, my lady.”

The room was small but tidy, with two armchairs positioned around a threadbare rug covering the floor, and the scent of lavender soap lingered in the air.

Belinda had arranged the limited furnishings with care, though Harriet’s gaze kept returning to the flush of red on her cheek, recalling the rumor that had helped her find Belinda.

That Lowe had lost his temper and manhandled her in the presence of others.

“You should not be here, Lady Slight,” Belinda said, her tone anxious. “This is hardly a neighborhood for someone of your standing.”

“And yet here I am,” Harriet replied, removing her gloves. “Because you should not be here either.”

Belinda’s lips tightened. “Not all of us have a choice.”

Harriet’s gaze sharpened. “Lowe? He did that?” She gestured subtly to Belinda’s cheek.

Belinda turned away. “It is nothing.”

“Nothing?” Harriet’s voice rose. “A man lays his hands on you, and you call it nothing? You, of all people, Miss Cooper. You are too proud to suffer fools like Lowe.”

The other woman turned back, her expression hard. “Pride? Pride will not keep me fed, my lady. Or would you prefer I take a position in a bawdy house? Because that was the other option.”

Harriet flinched. “No. Of course not.”

The tension between them crackled. Harriet studied Belinda carefully. The woman’s appearance remained flawless, despite her circumstances. Her hair gleamed, her gown was pressed, and her posture impeccable.

“You look as though you have not suffered a day in your life,” Harriet murmured. “Who is doing for you? Did Lowe hire you a lady’s maid?”

Belinda laughed bitterly. “Lowe? Ha! The man is too cheap to provide more than a maid and an old woman who comes in to cook. He only does that to keep my hands soft. I do for myself. Lowe has no interest in keeping me comfortable. Only convenient.”

Harriet’s fingers curled around her gloves. “Belinda, you cannot live like this.”

Belinda’s expression softened, and for the first time, Harriet saw the exhaustion there. “Do you think I don’t know that? But what choice do I have? I am nearly forty years of age, my lady. Forty! My beauty fading, my reputation tarnished.”

Seething, Harriet clenched her fists and turned away. “My father is such a bastard!”

There was no response. When she turned back, she found Belinda dabbing at her damp lashes with a lace handkerchief, and her heart broke all over again.

“Not to me. Not until … now.”

“You cared for him?”

Belinda’s face contorted with grief, and she quickly turned away in a bid to salvage her dignity. “Aren’t I ridiculous? The oldest story in the book. A respectable woman in service seduced by a viscount. So foolish as to believe it was love until I grew too old for his tastes.”

Harriet stared at her back—how on earth had Belinda done up the buttons on the back of the bodice alone?—and tried to think what to say. What would help. It was still a novel experience trying to find the words to lift the spirits of another person, not being a skill she had developed.

“Perhaps it was.”

The other woman turned back in surprise, her face carefully dabbed but shocked.

“Perhaps … he did once care. The thing is, some men do not take aging well. It is possible that as he saw you age, the young woman he seduced so many years ago, perhaps it made him aware of his mortality. Perhaps that is why he felt the need for … a younger paramour. So he could pretend he was younger, too.”

Belinda tilted her head, musing this notion with a flutter of eyelashes.

“That does sound like Bertram,” she eventually remarked.

Harriet nodded. “My father does not have well-matured morals. He is rather single-minded about maintaining his vanities. A more desirable paramour reflects better on him.”

“It is just that … taking back the gifts and refusing to pay the settlement—” Belinda lifted a trembling hand to fidget with her hair. “Never mind that. Can I offer you some tea?”

“I shall not stay that long.”

Harriet tried to think what to do next. She had assured Evaline that when she met with Belinda, she would know what to say, but she found her mind a blank at this crucial time. “How is it? Here?”

Belinda sighed sadly. “Dull. I used to maintain a household for your father. He visited often, and we went frequently to social events together. Lowe mostly drinks and gambles, while I spend most of my time in these two rooms. Venturing out into the neighborhood is … daunting. I find myself regretting my choices that led me here.”

Harriet thought about how reassuring it was to have Fletcher waiting for her downstairs and nodded in understanding.

“You mentioned you were in service when Father—” Harriet hesitated, trying to find a kinder word than seduced. “—met you. What did you do?”

Belinda smiled. “I was a lady’s maid for two young ladies making their debut. I sometimes accompanied them as a second chaperon.”

“So that is how you met my father.” Then she experienced a flash of inspiration. Harriet was still awestruck how the woman had dressed herself. Even with Evaline’s help, she dreaded dressing in the mornings, or changing her clothes. This was … serendipitous!

“You should take a position as a lady’s maid. Your skills are exemplary.”

Belinda’s eyebrows flew up to meet her hairline in utter amazement at Harriet’s bold declaration. “That is a lovely idea. It would certainly solve my current predicament. The only thing is … who would hire me?”

Harriet lifted her chin, casting her fears aside to reach a decision. It would certainly send a message to her father. She was rejecting his corruption. She was standing on her own two feet. His reign of influence was over. “I would.”

Belinda blinked. “You?”

“Yes. You could be my lady’s maid.”

A brittle laugh escaped Belinda. “Do not mock me.”

“I am not.” Harriet stepped closer. “You would have a respectable position. A roof over your head. Safety. And I will advance you a loan to put legal pressure on my father. You should hold him accountable.”

Belinda’s mouth parted in disbelief. “You are serious.”

“Entirely.”

Belinda shook her head. “I will not take your money.”

“What is this? Pride?” Harriet’s voice sharpened. “Pride did not stop Lowe’s hand, Belinda. Pride will not protect you when you are destitute.”

Belinda turned away, silent.

“We both know my father’s promises were worth less than the paper they were written on,” Harriet pressed. “But you do not have to let him desert you like this. You deserve more than this.”

Belinda’s shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath. “A lady’s maid,” she repeated softly. “After everything.”

“Would it be so terrible?” Harriet asked gently.

“You were a lady’s maid before Bertram Hargreaves noticed you.

Before he seduced you with his false promises.

I am offering you a chance to step back into that role, with dignity.

It is just me and Lady Wood, and we are far less demanding than two silly chits coming out for their first Season. ”

Belinda turned slowly, searching Harriet’s face. “And you think society would accept it? That I could simply become your maid after all these years?”

Harriet smiled, a flash of the impudent woman she had been when she still ruled London’s ballrooms before eschewing such.

But this time for something that mattered.

This time to do good. “I am very pleased with my new lady’s maid, Miss Bélise Coupier.

Elegant. Discreet. A woman of impeccable taste. ”

Belinda stared at her.

“I shall tell them you are French. Parisian, perhaps. Newly arrived in England. Who will question it? Society turns a blind eye when it chooses. Why, Lord Fenwick has his mistress living openly as his children’s governess. Everyone knows it, yet no one speaks of it.”

Belinda’s lips twitched, despite herself. “Bélise Coupier?”

Harriet gave a little shrug of nonchalance. “A touch dramatic? Perhaps. But French names are all the rage, and high society is far more forgiving when scandal hides behind a fashionable accent. Besides, it suits you.”

Belinda gazed around the small room. The faint redness on her cheek, though partially concealed with careful powder, remained a silent testament to Lord Lowe’s temper. She drew her shoulders back with practiced poise, though Harriet noted how tightly her fingers clasped together.

“And what of Bertram?” Belinda asked at last, voice even, but Harriet could detect the worried undertone.

Harriet smiled—cool, confident. “Knowing his only daughter has hired his former mistress will keep him silent. It would be far too embarrassing for him to point it out. No, it is likely he will stifle any whispers, lest his own credibility suffer. He would not want his peers to think he cannot control his own kin.” Harriet stepped forward, lowering her voice.

“Belinda, take this chance. Let us both turn the page.”

Silence stretched between them. The sounds of the street below—vendors calling out wares, the distant clatter of carriage wheels—filtered through the windows that faced a busy street.

At Harriet’s home, Belinda would have her own room in a prestigious house.

Peace. Quiet. Prospects. Perhaps even squeeze her settlement from Bertram’s icy fingers.

Harriet resisted the urge to press her case further, knowing the nature of human desires well enough to let her sit with the offer. Finally, Belinda’s lips twitched in the faintest ghost of a smile, and Harriet perceived the woman relax as if she had put down a great burden.

“Very well, Lady Slight. Let us see if society will believe in Miss Bélise Coupier.”

Harriet exhaled, the tightness in her chest easing. For the first time in a long while, she felt as though she had done something right. This was another secret, yes, but one that might lead to redemption rather than regret.

She smiled, genuine this time. “Excellent. How long will it take to pack your trunks?”

Belinda gave a short, dry laugh.

“Trunks? You flatter me. What little your father allowed me to keep fits in two modest valises. It is mostly just my clothes.”

Harriet paused. She had wondered at how perfectly put together Belinda appeared despite her circumstances—her hair styled elegantly, her gown simple but perfectly fitted.

It appeared she had found an eminently competent addition to their eclectic household.

Now all Harriet needed was a couple of footmen so she could take a proper bath.

And, perhaps if she kept this do-gooding up, she herself would one day be worthy of love. And find a gentleman like Sebastian to give it to her. While she was still young enough to consider having children.

Her own hopes for the future notwithstanding, it certainly eased her mind in the present to know Belinda would be taken care of.