Page 9 of The Earl’s Gamble (The Lovers’ Arch: Later in Life)

9

Rose

T he moment her bedroom door closed behind her, Rose let the tears fall.

She had been attempting to avoid them the entire way up, fiercely controlling her breathing until she was finally alone. Only now could she free them in peace, knowing Griff wouldn’t follow.

The devastation on his face etched itself into her soul as tears streaked down her cheeks. Rose limped over to the bed and collapsed onto its pillowy depths. She buried her face into the luxurious covers, knowing her time with such comforts was undoubtedly limited.

Rose didn’t know what would happen now. If he truly cared for her as he claimed, he wouldn’t throw her onto the streets…would he?

What was the alternative? A…a job as his mistress?

The idea twisted her gut. She would have to watch as he married and had children with another woman.

She buried her sob into the pillow, soaking the fabric until it clung to her skin. Upper class men had mistresses all the time, and while the practice disgusted her…

Scruples were for the wealthy.

A job as his mistress was better than the workhouse. It was better than going hungry every night and having her fingers shredded by oakum during the day .

Rose jumped as a sharp knock on the door sounded. She wiped beneath her eyes and climbed to her feet, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin—even if her face was a blotchy mess beyond hope of fixing. Was it Griff? Had he changed his mind? “Come in.”

It wasn’t Griff.

She frowned as Walker stepped in, wearing his butler’s livery as proudly as if it was made of solid gold. “Good evening, Miss Finch.” He pressed the door closed behind him. “I’d like to have a word.”

Fear shivered through her. Had Griff sent him to throw her out? Surely he wouldn’t have. “What… what about?”

“As I understand it, you’re a talented seamstress.”

She recoiled in confusion. “Did you need something mended, Walker?”

“In a way, yes,” he said simply, pulling a string-and-washer envelope from a pocket inside his waistcoat. “I’d like to offer you these.”

Wearily, she accepted it. There was only a small stack of paper inside, but her bafflement quickly turned into a choke of astonishment when she realised what those papers were.

Bank notes.

I promise to pay the bearer on demand the sum of…

“Are these real?” Her fingers began to shake, as though terrified the paper was about to burst into flames. How many were there? The only bank notes she’d ever seen were ￡1 and 10 shilling ones—worlds away from the ￡50 notes in her hand.

“They’re real. There’s six of them in total. Three hundred pounds, and they can be yours on one condition.”

Rose had a feeling she wasn’t going to like what it was. “Namely?”

“You leave ,” he hissed with vicious vehemence. The words were a punch to her gut, but he wasn’t finished. “You don’t belong here, Miss Finch. You and I both know that. The guests at dinner tonight certainly knew that. His Lordship risked dragging down the family name even bringing you here—and to sit you next to a duke .” Walker’s face contorted into an ugly mask of derision. “A cab is waiting to take you back to London tonight. We’ll put you up at a hotel for the night, but after that you’ll be on your own. Do His Lordship the courtesy of letting him be happy with someone good enough for him and leave.”

The bank notes in her hand shook. “And…and Griff?”

“If you hold any affection for His Lordship, then you’ll want him to be happy.”

A tear splashed across a note. As much as she disliked Walker, he wasn’t wrong. Three hundred pounds was enough to set her up for life. It would afford her the kind of freedom she’d always dreamt of. It was enough to buy a small house.

I could set up shop on the ground floor and live on the first floor. Or perhaps I could take on a lodger instead.

Possibilities sat in her hand, three hundred of them. And for once, none of them involved the workhouse. She could live on her own terms, be the mistress of her own fortunes. Sort of.

Rose looked up at Walker. Even now, in the face of wealth and prosperity, her heart lay with the man downstairs. “Does Griff know you’re here? That you’re offering this to me?”

Walker’s head tilted. “No. His Lordship remains with his dinner guests—where he is supposed to be.”

“And I am not where I’m supposed to be?”

“No,” Walker sneered. “You are not.”

She wanted to roll her eyes, but caught herself at the last moment. “Tell me something,” she said, refusing to let him tread on her. Walker was no longer hiding how much she disgusted him, so she might as well ask. “That day when Griff came to fetch the laudanum.”

Walker scoffed, his eyes narrowing into hateful slits. “What about it?”

“Griff said the dose you recommended bordered on dangerous. Was that intentional?”

“It would have ended your pain,” he responded haughtily. “But then there’s every chance someone of your ilk would have developed a tolerance for the stuff. You might have got away scot-free.”

And I might not have. “Griff told me a bit about you,” she revealed, hating Walker every bit as much as he hated her. A dangerous, spiteful little man. “He said you were from Spitalfields. Like me.”

“I am nothing like you.” Walker’s savage voice rang through the air like a blade. “I have earned my place, Miss Finch. I am giving you the opportunity to earn yours—other than on your back. Make your choice.”