Page 50 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl
Constance looked up in startlement.
“I am truly grateful for the meal, but I really must go.”
The skilled cook stood. “Where are you off to?”
“His Lordship allowed me the use of a carriage, but it appears to not be coming. I have to return.” And she did. There was Trudy waiting. And for the first time since she’d devoured the grandest breakfast she’d had in her entire life, guilt assailed her. Here she’d been dining and conversing quite contentedly while Trudy was left alone with the baron and baroness and their hired goon.
There was also a certainty that Trudy would have been worrying this entire time.
“Constance,” she said, holding a hand out. “Thank you for the meal. You will do great things in his lordship’s kitchen.”
Unlike before, Constance accepted her palm, but the same frown she’d first worn when meeting Cressida was firmly in place.
“His Lordship made a promise. He keeps his promises. Him and the other gents who own this place are good men, the only ones of their kind. His lordship, however, is a busy man. He’ll eventually look after you, and then you can take one of his fine carriages.”
Cressida was glad for Constance’s benefit that she felt a sense of safety and security here.
Cressida had a whole lot less faith in men, however. She’d been sold for a bag of silver by her brother. Was she to believe Lord Dynevor cared about Cressida, a random stranger to him? And now she could add Benedict to her list of men who’d failed her.
There came a flash remembrance of the horror when he’d realized he’d bedded a virgin. She should have known better. A respectable gentleman such as the Earl of Wakefield wasn’t one to take a woman’s virtue, even if she had been all too willing and eager to hand it over to him, as Cressida had done.
“Cressida?”
“I have to go, Constance,” she said with a greater resolve. Cressida sank into a curtsy.
The maid stared bemusedly a moment, and this time, Cressida didn’t allow her to put up a protest.
Cressida grabbed herparting giftand hurried for the exit. As the young earl promised, the scarred guard there didn’t bar her from leaving, but instead drew the door open.
A bright flash of a spring sun blinded her, and she lifted her forearm up to block that light. She squinted until her eyes grew accustomed to the day sky. Pulling her hood into place, she drewdeeper into the tattered article and made a straightaway towards the gravel and down the cobblestone path that led to the East London streets.
Soon enough, she found herself outside the gates of The Devil’s Den, and everything that’d transpired, she left behind.
Or pledged to.
Cressida put all her focus on getting to a carriage. In these violent streets of London, the scourge of England leered at Cressida, following her with their eyes…and then following her. Unfortunately for them, Cressida knew a thing or two about surviving.
She looked about, scanning the streets. There was a row of hired coaches all stationed along the front entrance of The Devil’s Den. Obviously, the drivers knew they had wealthy clientele inside who’d stumble out at some point, drunk and tired and in need of a conveyance to bring them back to their sparkling abodes. Cressida considered the drivers and opted for the oldest fellow soundly sleeping atop his box, with his hat pulled low over his brow.
When she reached the side, his loud snores reached her. She had been that tired many times. She almost felt bad about waking him, but she also knew he’d feel far worse if he’d known he lost out on good coin. “Sir?” When another bleating snore met her question, she raised her voice to reach him. “Sir?”
The old fellow started so badly, he knocked his too-small-for-his-big-head cap free and revealed a shocking patch of orange hair. “What now?” he groused, searching about for his hat.
Cressida recovered the article and handed it over. “My apologies,” she said.
The sleepy confusion faded from the man’s eyes. His mouth formed a circle of surprise. “You’re not a nob.”
“No.” Cressida smiled wryly. “And thank goodness for that.”
The old man grinned, revealing a completely toothless smile. He started to climb down.
“Oh, you needn’t!” she called up. “I’m more than capable of—”
“None of that now,” he said gruffly. Lumbering slowly down from the coach, he joined her on the grime-slicked cobblestones and drew the door open. “I wouldn’t hear of it. All I usually get are drunk, miserable, selfish sorts.” He winked. “Never a fine lady like yourself.”
Sensing the driver was a proud man, she refrained from further protest and let him do the work he was clearly proud to do.
She placed her fingers inside his and allowed him to hand her inside the coach. The minute she was inside and seated, her driver closed the door shut behind Cressida.
