Reckless Rules (Brambridge Novel 4) (6 page)

“Yes, we did have… how many did you say?”

“Two hundred and eighty-four.”

“Two hundred and eighty-four paupers here last month, but, err...” Mr. Robertson stammered.

Victoria took another sip of tea and held his gaze.

“Wait. I will ask Mrs. Prident to help me with your request.” Mr. Robertson heaved himself off the chair and moved ponderously to the door of the visitor’s room.

Out of the corner of her eye, Victoria watched as the door opened imperceptibly before Mr. Robertson had even laid his hand on the door handle.

“Ah! Mrs. Prident,” Mr. Robertson exclaimed in relief as a thin, dour lady stepped through the door. Victoria took in her appearance whilst being careful to keep her gaze blank and non-interested. Just because this lady was thin, didn’t mean to say that she too wasn’t salting away some of the funds herself. It was obvious she had been listening at the door; she was either Mr. Robertson’s loyal assistant or was keeping tabs on him.

“Yes, Mr. Robertson.” Mrs. Prident entered the room without waiting for a welcome and took a seat on one of the hard chairs in front of an empty fireplace.

“Mrs. Prident, I was wondering if you would be so good as to tell me why last month we had… err…”      

“Two hundred and eighty-four,” Victoria prompted.

“Two hundred and eighty-four inmates, I mean paupers, and this month we have two hundred and… and…”

“Two hundred and eighty-one inmates, sir?” Mrs. Prident said, a Scottish burr just traceable in her voice.

Mr. Robertson smiled weakly. “Yes, thank you, Agnes.”

“Old Higgedy died of consumption and was buried a sennight ago. Lason and Dimble were taken on as staff to Lord Stanton’s household on Lady Colchester’s recommendation.”

Mr. Robertson nodded and smiled at Victoria. “Fount of information our Mrs. Prident.”

“And we received two new paupers from Westminster and Stockwell.” Mrs. Prident remained sitting staunchly upright and folded her arms across her chest.

“There you have it, Lady Colchester. A fine account of our people movements over the month. Well done, Agnes.”

Mrs. Prident did not even move her lips or smile. She remained gimlet-eyed, focusing on Victoria, who couldn’t help feeling that Mrs. Prident was testing her. She shifted her gaze to the fireplace and studied the scallop design on the guard. Then she deliberately stared at Mr. Robertson.

“If I might point out, Mr. Robertson…” No, that was too direct. Victoria knocked over her cup of tea with a practiced flap of her arm and stood up sharply as the water ran across the stained mahogany table. “Oh silly me!” she exclaimed, looking frantically about her.

“Never mind, Lady Colchester, please do let me clear it up.” Mr. Robertson stood and dabbed ineffectually at the water with a large handkerchief.

Victoria glanced at Mrs. Prident, who had continued to stare at her, but who now wore a small smile at the edges of her mouth. She sat down again and sighed. “Dear me, I am so terribly clumsy. I’m almost as bad at maths as well. I was so sure that losing three paupers and gaining two would mean that your overall people count would only reduce to two hundred and eighty-three. I thought you said that there were only two hundred and eighty- one this month, but then I knocked my cup of tea over as I tried to concentrate on the sums and everything has been swept clean out of my head.” Victoria laughed a little tinkling laugh and opened her eyes wide to project innocence.

“Lady Colchester, you are quite right.” Mr. Robertson nodded earnestly. “Mrs. Prident, would you be so kind as to explain why your figures do not add up?”

Victoria watched as Mrs. Prident slid Mr. Robertson a look of loathing from beneath hooded eyelids. “Two of the young ladies ran away ten days ago,” she said, unfolding her arms. “Lena Mickel and Tessa Dunbar.”

“Tessa Dunbar, but she was my favorite! So very young too,” Mr. Robertson exclaimed. “Whatever can have induced her to leave? I gave her special dispensations at every opportunity.”

“I’m sure you did,” Mrs. Prident murmured.

“Are your girls in a habit of running away, Mr. Robertson?” Victoria patted at her hair. “I mean, surely with all the money that we are giving you, none of the paupers can want to leave voluntarily?”

“No one leaves voluntarily.” The usually cheerful Mr. Robertson narrowed his eyes, reducing his florid face to resemble an angry boar. Noticing that both women were watching him, Mr. Robertson guffawed forcefully and slapped the table. “They probably decided that the life of a streetwalker was more remunerative and comfortable.”

“Streetwalker?” Victoria was confused, it was the first time that she had heard the term.

“Prostitute,” Mrs. Prident said quietly. “It’s not illegal and many girls drift between being a pauper and a streetwalker. We may see the girls in a couple of weeks.” She shrugged uncomfortably. “Or, we may not.”

“I thought you said that Tessa was very young?” Victoria frowned.

“The legal age of consent
is
thirteen.” Mrs. Prident coughed. “Many girls end up on the streets.”

“It’s a shame because I had high hopes for Tessa. Mr. Durnish seemed particularly taken with her when he came to interview for new staff for his house.” Mr. Robertson laughed abruptly. “It just means more room for the rest of the poor.”

“Quite right,” said Victoria, injecting a saccharine sweetness into her voice. However, it was hard to let the incident go. Mr. Robertson’s callousness was shocking. “Although, is there nothing that can be done to help the poor girls in that situation?”

Mr. Robertson turned to look at her with surprise. “Help them? They don’t want help. They left of their own accord. They’ll probably make a nice bit of money out there and then come back to us for a holiday. You shouldn’t pity them.”

Victoria tried to catch Mrs. Prident’s eye, but the woman’s gaze was fixed on the wall opposite her and she would not turn her head.

Mr. Robertson coughed, the folds of skin at the edge of his face wobbling as he gave a gurgling last rasp. “If that is everything, Lady Colchester?”

Victoria nodded.

“Then we look forward to seeing you next month as usual.” Mr. Robertson rubbed his hands. “Now I must go back to looking at those accounts. We don’t get paid much by the parishes to house the poor and it is always a job balancing the incomings and outgoings.” He laughed harshly and stopped. “That is err… without the generosity of your funds, Lady Colchester. Of course.”

Victoria clenched her fingers tightly around her pelisse and stood, “Of course,” she parroted. With small steps she left the room, brushing past Mrs. Prident who had moved to stand outside the door. Looking up into the dour woman’s face, she was surprised to see a tinge of sadness in her eyes. Victoria had had enough; she craved the safety and comfort of her home.

Outside, her magnificent white barouche stood waiting for her, the horses stamping their feet in impatience. Her coach driver hopped off the elevated front seat with alacrity and jumped across the cobbles to meet her.

“I’m sorry, my lady, I couldn’t stop him.” The coachman scratched his head. “He was most persuasive. And a little intimidating.”

Indeed it was obvious to whom the coachman referred. The man sat incongruously on the white leather seats of the barouche, his massive frame dwarfing the delicate seats. He shrugged off his coat and tossed it carelessly onto the opposite seat as she watched.

The coachman offered Victoria a tentative hand. “My lady?”

Victoria sighed. If her stout coachman had been unable to remove Bill, then it seemed that Victoria would need to do it herself. Surprisingly, a thrill of anticipation ran through her. She gave her hand to the coachman and allowed herself to be handed into the barouche.

Stepping lightly over Bill’s long outstretched legs, Victoria turned and swept his coat off the seat and into her arms. She turned to find his deep brown eyes firmly fixed on her derriere.

“If you have quite finished, Mr. Standish?” Victoria all but threw Bill’s coat onto his lap. She glanced round the quite empty street. It would be an unusual area of the London for other members of the ton to come to. If they saw her alone in a coach with Bill Standish there would be no end of gossip generated. She would be a laughing stock. Her reputation… perhaps finished.

“Can I help you?” she asked frostily. Bill’s unwavering gaze was beginning to make her rather warm.

He laid an arm out along the back of the barouche and crossed his legs, lifting her skirt slightly as she did so. She refused to flinch.

“I wondered what a lady of leisure did all day and now I know,” he said; his deep voice sent a shiver through her. “They visit the poor. I should have guessed. Does it make you feel any better?”

“Better about what?” Victoria wished she hadn’t asked. She knew what the response was going to be.

“Better about your position in life? The silver spoon that props up your lifestyle. The
reputation
that you have to uphold.”

Victoria glanced away from the almost angry set of Bill’s chiseled jaw. It seemed more than personal to him. His comments were too close to the bone. “I made a significant donation to this establishment. I came to hear what they spent it on,” she said quietly.

“And what did they spend it on?”

“I was told new shoes.”

Bill glanced back at the railings of the building. Several people had gathered in the yard, looking out at the street, watching the occupants of the barouche with interest. He snorted. “I’ve been waiting here for three quarters of an hour. I haven’t seen one member of your so called
establishment
wearing anything that I would call new shoes.” Bill ran his hands through his hair. “Gods Victoria, most of them don’t have shoes at all. You are wasting your money.”

“I have not had time to verify—”

Bill spoke over her reply. “It’s just typical of a woman of your
breeding
. Give the poor some money and hopefully it will make some restitution for the same amount she’ll spend on a ball dress. Do you know what it is like to be poor?”

“No, well I—”

“Well I bloody well do. You don’t want some rich person handing over money to the first corrupt person they meet to assuage their guilty conscience.”

“He’s not corrupt.”

“How do you know?”

Victoria forbore to mention that she had had the man investigated. Not by herself, mind. Unfortunately though that was her normal style, she couldn’t have risked the subject—Mr. Robertson— becoming aware of her in that capacity. To him she needed to remain a benign benefactor.

“I just do.”

“There you go again. Arrogant statements about life as if what you say is the last word in ton propriety.”

Victoria could feel a hot flush beginning to rise just below the nape of her neck. Her coachman sat facing forwards, hands clutching at his reins, ostensibly not listening, but the occasional twitch of his ears belying the fact. He could hardly not listen, given that the silly contraption was an open-topped carriage. She rued the day that she had bought it.

She drew back her shoulders and sat, twitching her elevated skirts away from Bill’s large boots. “Let me remind you, Bill.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you for what?”

“You used my real name for once. I don’t believe you’ve called me that since last summer.”

Victoria swallowed. She didn’t want to be reminded about last summer. “Let me remind
you,
Mr. Standish. You are the one who entered my barouche without my say so, intimidated my coachman—” she paused as Bill laughed—“and asked questions which you believe you already know the answer to.” She glared at him as he continued to guffaw. “Might I ask whether or not I am really necessary to all of this, and if not, I will go back into the building and wait until you leave.”

Bill cocked his head and stared at her. Involuntarily, Victoria’s hand lifted itself from her lap, itching to trace the squareness of his jaw.
But what about those caramel eyes? By Minerva those eyes!
Gritting her teeth, she buried her hand back into the folds of her skirt and glanced away.

“That will not be necessary.” Bill ran a hand through his hair.

“Why not? As far as I can see, you should be the one leaving the coach, but instead I am offering to leave it for you.” Victoria frowned. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“I was passing,” Bill said with no more elaboration. “I thought you might be able to give me a ride back to Mayfair.” He smiled lazily. “You can still do that.”

Victoria gasped at his daring. “You think that I will give you a lift back after what you have insinuated?”

“I am sure that you will give me a ride back. After all, your coachman has agreed not to leave without me. Isn’t that right, Oswald?”

The coachman nodded with a grimace at Victoria. Bill knew the coachman’s name? Victoria only knew it because Carruthers her butler had told her. The man was positively mute most of the time. He had also been generally loyal. She cursed all males to hell and back.

“Why don’t you sit back, Victoria, and let Oswald take you home in comfort.” It was almost as if Bill couldn’t resist the afterthought. “After all, you do have lovely shoes and a carriage to ride around in. It wouldn’t do not to use them.”

Victoria opened her mouth to retort but stopped. It wasn’t worth it. Resigned, she sat back in her seat. If anyone saw them in the barouche together she would just say that he had forced his way into the carriage like the jumped up man that he was. It wasn’t far off the truth, and it was something the ton would love to believe. Unfortunately it was very hard for Victoria to believe that Bill was at all jumped up. He might have been a smith before his property inheritance brought him to the attention of the ton, but Victoria could attest to the fact that even before then Bill had acted like a gentleman. It seemed it was just recently that he had become more jaded in his behavior. Certainly last summer…

No, she wasn’t going to think about that. She had no illusions that she had been the one to leave that behind. It was her choice. He needed to accept that. She didn’t need him as much as she needed
other
things.