“Why?” she demanded. Why should his life’s goal have been to see her sacked?
He eyed her like she’d begun speaking gibberish. “Because there’s no place for your sort here, Miss Lovelace. This isn’t women’s work,” he said bluntly. “No matter how much you wish it to be.”
Women’s work? What was truly women’s work? Marriage to a man? Mistress to a gentleman? Whore to a sailor? Servant in a fine lord’s house? The options were few, and each no less vile than the other.
Pushing back the black rage creeping over her eyes, she took a step toward him.
Fairpoint hunched over.
The damned hypocrite. He’d mock a woman, and yet, feared one still. But then, perhaps that was what it was ultimately all about: men of every station truly feared women and what they might do to their ordered world. “Go to hell, Fairpoint.”
And before she lost control as they all anticipated, Verity stormed out of The Londoner’s office . . . and the only employment she’d known almost all her life.
The moment she closed the door behind her, she stood there on the stoop.
All around, East London carried on as East London did: every side of the pavement overflowed with passersby and vendors hawking their wares. Their shouts and enticements deafening, a dissonance that wreaked havoc on her already jumbled mind.
The sting of London’s stink slapped at her face; the fragrant odors of horse urine and dust burnt her nose.
Street sweepers hurried to clear manure from the uneven cobblestones, and she walked along those just-cleaned paths, her legs moving through the rote motions of a walk she’d made so many times before.
And as she reached the front of the bakery, only one thought sharpened into clarity: I’ve no work.
Gone. The security she needed to care for her family. The funds that paid for the rent of their modest apartments above the bakery.
Oh, God.
Her legs went weak under her, and she shot a hand out, catching the rail to keep herself upright. Unable to muster the strength to move, she sank onto the bottom stoop. Had she failed, had she not done her assignment to the utmost, there would have been frustration at being dismissed. But to have written the piece requested of her and garnered the sales she had for The Londoner, only to find herself with this ignoble fate?
The wind rustled her skirts, a soft breeze that wafted the rotted scents of St. Giles and could never be a true balm.
And yet, it was warm. But spring and summer faded, and would give way to autumn and winter . . . and as rotted as London was in the summer months, there wasn’t the gripping cold.
Just as there was no cloak. Her cloak had been cut from her, and she’d left it behind at Malcom’s. And it wouldn’t be replaced because there’d be no funds for garments for herself—or her sister or Bertha. A sob caught in her throat, and she buried her head in her hands in a bid to hide that weakness from the folks about her.
Only they didn’t care.
She straightened, and sure enough, the world continued to spin with fancily dressed strangers walking briskly, hurrying about whatever business brought them to these parts of London so they could ultimately escape and make for Mayfair or Grosvenor Square as they were wont to do. Everyone went about their way, and their day, without worry for the plight of others.
They were the fortunate, free of those worries.
Men and women like her late father’s legitimate family.
And Lord Maxwell.
Her chest heaved, and little flecks danced behind her eyes from the sudden, sharp intakes of her breathing.
Lord Maxwell, who had a future and a fortune but was content to live a life of pretend in the most lethal corner of England. Concealing his secrets at the cost of her and Livvie’s security.
But he’s also the man who saved you . . . when he could have easily left you for dead in those tunnels. He’d cared for her injury and seen her bathed and clothed, and yes, he’d sent her running in terror, but he’d not proven himself so wholly without compassion.
Verity bit the inside of her cheek and forced herself to enter and face Livvie and Bertha.
At her arrival the women, darning a pair of stockings each, looked over.
Verity attempted to force a smile . . . that would not come. Instead, she pushed the door softly closed behind her.
“What is it?” Livvie whispered.
Only, Verity saw in her sister’s eyes that she already knew. Despite the ways in which she’d maintained her innocence, Livvie wasn’t wholly immune to the precariousness that was life for those outside the comfortable ranks their father had been born to.
“He sacked me,” she said quietly, and hung her satchel from the same hook it had resided on these past years.
There was silence, and then—
“Miserable bastard,” Bertha hissed.
Another time Verity would have chided her for speaking so crassly. In this moment, she couldn’t muster sufficient concern for proper talk.
“He cannot do that,” Livvie cried. “Surely he cannot do that?” She turned to Bertha when Verity failed to provide the reassurance that her sister desperately craved.
“He can do anything. Men can do anything they want,” Bertha spat.
And through the cacophony of that back-and-forth, Verity remained motionless. Her gaze went to the stack of luggage used as makeshift furniture about their equally makeshift parlor. Soon, they’d have to put that small collection of mismatched articles—two embroidered valises, the once vibrant flowers long since faded by time—to use. To use once more, that was. For the first time in eighteen years. The lone trunk with its rusted latches.
Only . . . Verity tipped her head, eyeing the luggage. What did one do with trunks and valises when there was no place for them? An image danced behind her eyes: of her and Livvie and Bertha balancing the pieces between them as they wandered the streets, homeless. It conjured thoughts of the wandering Roma her romantic mother had once told her of. Except East London could hardly ever be considered the lush lands the Rom traversed. A nervous little giggle bubbled in her throat.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the concerned look that passed between Livvie and Bertha. And Verity, who’d served in the role of older sister, de facto mother, and caregiver for their trio, couldn’t bring herself to find a suitable word of assurance.
Because she had none.
There was nothing.
And what was worse . . . there was nowhere. Nowhere for them.
A humming filled Verity’s ears. The rush of blood pumping from the panic threatening to pull her under.
Her life had been upended before. After her mother’s passing, Verity had been forced to leave behind her small cottage. She’d moved to London and settled into a new home—those sorry apartments.
There’d always been a roof. There’d always been walls. There’d been a loss of the comforts once enjoyed, but still, security.
This? This was—
There was a light tug on her sleeve, and Verity jumped.
Livvie drew her hand away. “Perhaps you might . . . speak to the Lost Earl again?” her eternal optimist of a sister ventured.
“The Lost Earl,” she echoed dumbly.
I’m not the gentleman you take me for . . .
The ragged retort still echoed in her mind, his voice husked by desire, his callused hands upon her, searching her body in a touch that had bordered tender and rough. And . . . no. There was no gentleness in him. He’d been clear with his words and every action that he’d cede nothing over to her. “No,” Verity said, making herself look back at Livvie and Bertha. “I’m not speaking to him.” Never again.