Page 50 of My Deceitful Duchess
“Ain’t do it for you,” she sniffed, somewhat less enamored withhimthan she was with Charlie. “But for Jenny—well, I s’pose I do it for her.”
“Thank you all the same.” He reached down to pat Charlie, only to discover that he’d been deserted once again, and the unfaithful hound had trotted off to go sniff at the other woman’s skirts. “Charlie,” he scolded. “Where are your manners?”
But the woman said in a raspy slur, through a split lip and cheeks swollen with bruises, “It’s all right,” as she allowed Charlie to rub his nose into her palm.
Blast. This had been the first woman he’d encountered on his own who needed help, and he tried to throw his mind back to what Jenny had said, what he was meant to do. But he hadn’t Jenny’s practiced manner with people, nor her way of setting them at ease.
“Are you—”Stop. They didn’t want to talk, Jenny had said. Not when circumstances were still so fresh. Best, as she had said, to allowthemto decide what, if anything, they wished to disclose. Instead he asked, “Do you know the way to Ambrosia?”
“No, sir.” It was an effort for her to speak, and it sounded uncomfortable besides.
“It’s just a few streets away,” he said, and provided the directions. “Do you…feel you can manage it on your own, or would you prefer for me to accompany you?”
Even the mere suggestion had her sidling backward once again. “I can manage, sir, thank you.”
“You’ll come to no harm there,” he said. “Just give a knock at the servants’ entrance in the back.”
An unsteady curtsey followed. “Thank you, sir.”
And as their paths diverged, Sebastian winced as a new truth settled into his brain—context he’d lacked. Like a long-lost piece of a jigsaw puzzle clicking into place, producing a clearer image than he’d once had. The veryreasonwhy Jenny came in search of these unfortunate women, why she took them in and helped them, how it was that sheknewthat they did not want to talk, or what to do for them until theydid.
She had once been one of them.
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“Ma’am, there’s someone here for you,” Alice said as she swept into the pantry, where Jenny was writing up the inventory.
“I’ll have no visitors, thank you. Ambrosia is closed.” It was an absent reply, but then it was also one she’d issued with an increasing frequency of late. She’d becomenotorious, and with that notoriety had come an avalanche of unwanted attention. Though she’d widely avoided reading of herself in any of the papers, still there were new articles every day—some bordering on libelous—and there was alwayssomeoneasking for a peek behind the curtain, or requesting an interview, or some such nonsense.
“It’s not avisitor, exactly,” Alice said. “She came knocking at the servants’ entrance. Said she was sent round for you. And, oh, her face, ma’am—her poor face.”
Thatwas different indeed. “Send for a bath,” she said. “Up to the green bedroom, if you please, Alice. And some ice, and cold compresses—and dinner,” she added, as she set down her pen and paper. Inventory could wait. “If there’s nothing proper left for it, have Cook prepare something quick.”
“Right away, ma’am.” Alice scampered off with a hasty curtsey, and Jenny brushed at her skirts with ink-stained fingers.
She hadn’t expected it. There were always women in need, but it had been more than a month since she’d last made her rounds, more than a month since her sources had been paid for their services. She hadn’t expected they would continue to send women round in her absence, in the absence of the coin she’d given them.
But theyhad, and that was a small blessing. Thatsomethingof her life had remained untouched by scandal. That something good, something right, had continued on. And so she hurried toward the servants’ entrance, brushing at the loose strands of hair that wanted to fall in front of her eyes.
The woman standing there, hardly more than a few inches from the door—as if she hadn’t quite decided whether or not she would stay just yet—had been beaten so badly that it tugged at Jenny’s heart. Whenever it wasthisbad, she knew it was almost always at the hands of a spouse. Though the law technically forbade battery in excess, what was deemedexcessivewas left open to determination. And women beneath the higher classes could rarely afford to bring matters of abuse before the courts—who would likely only assume that the husband, as the natural head of the household, had undertaken his right to issuecorrectionto his wife in the manner that he had deemed fit.
Usually, if a womansurviveda beating, no matter how severe, that was proof enough for the law that it had not beenexcessive. And there were so many women trapped beneath the thumbs of men who never thought twice about such things. Men who were just as likely to issue a slap as a kiss; perhaps more so.
“Good evening,” she said softly, hoping not to startle the woman, who had not noticed her approach. “My name is Jenny. If you’ll allow—”
The woman recoiled, her battered face contorting in horror. “I know who you are,” she said in a slur. “You’re that woman who killed her own husband. You’re a murderess, you are.”
Jenny didn’t know why the words hurt, why she found herself suddenly wounded over the opinion of this woman—thisstranger—to such an extent. She supposed it was simply proof positive that while the vast majority of people whoknewher had had no doubts, gossip was still rife…and those who didnotknow her had come to their own conclusions.
“Thatiswhat people are saying,” she managed, attempting to inject a dry, bland tone into her voice. “Now, I have had a room prepared for you, if you will follow—”
“And get my own throat slit?” The woman backed a step away, and placed her hand upon the door as if she feared Jenny might make a charge for her.
“What reason would I have to kill you?” Jenny asked on an awkward laugh that seemed to scrape her throat as it emerged. But the sound had not put the woman at ease, and she continued to slant that suspicious look at Jenny—though the door to the servants’ entrance remained closed. “You are free to leave, of course,” she said at last, though her stomach clenched with the injustice of it all. “I’ll send someone else to see to you. If you choose to stay, you’ll have a bed and a bath and a hot meal.” Still she was subject to that rank suspicion, that dubious stare from a woman who thought sheknewJenny based only on whatever gossip she had been privy to. “If you’ll excuse me, there are many tasks that require my attention. I’ll not inflict my presence upon you any longer.”
And as she swept away she tried to tell herself that it didn’t matter what anyone thought of her—that the only opinion that mattered was her own. But she found it cold comfort indeed. The truth could get lost in a haze of confusion, of doubt, of mistrust. How long until evensheno longer knew what the truth had been?
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