Page 7 of The Truth About Lord Stoneville
She couldn’t think of that right now or she’d surely shatter.
“Mopsy—” Freddy began in an undertone.
“Don’t call me that. We’re not children anymore.” Besides, Nathan thought it unbecoming to a lady. He was particular about such things, having been raised in Baltimore high society before moving to tiny Dartmouth six years ago to partner with Papa.
“Sorry, Mop— . . . Maria,” Freddy mumbled. “I keep forgetting.” He edged closer. “But I’m thinking we shouldn’t stay out past dark. This part of town doesn’t seem very nice. And those ladies up there look a little . . . well . . . naked.”
She’d been so focused on not losing the man ahead that she hadn’t noticed their surroundings. As she glanced about, her heart faltered. Scantily dressed women hung out of the windows above them, their bosoms spilling out of their bodices. They had to be freezing, but clearly that took second place to their purpose.
Memories of fetching Papa from such places when no one else could go after him made her stiffen.
“See here, sir,” one of them called to Freddy, her breath a puff of mist, “I got a tuzzy-muzzy that’ll bring you to a cockstand right quick.”
“You can sample my quim for only half a quid, love,” added another.
Maria didn’t understand their words, but judging fromthe blushes darkening Freddy’s freckled cheeks, they were rather . . . salacious.
“Let’s go back to the lodging house,” Freddy said.
“Not yet. Our quarry is stopping up ahead, and all we have to do is get a look at that satchel. We might not have another chance.”
They hung back until the man entered the building. Then they approached the front. Raucous laughter spilled into the street, along with the gay tunes of a fiddle playing a jig. Through the open door, she could see couples engaged in dancing and . . . naughty behavior.
While the lamplighters trudged by with their torches, Freddy’s brown eyes studied the house. “You can’t go in there. It’s no place for respectable women.”
“I can see that.” She shivered in her black redingote as a cold gust of wind hit her. “It appears to be a brothel.”
“Mopsy!” His cheeks shone as red as his wildly disordered hair. “You’re not supposed to talk about such things.”
“Why? We both know Papa went to one every Saturday night.” She turned to him. “Why don’tyouenter? They won’t notice another man in there. Just find the satchel, and see if it’s Nathan’s.”
“And if it is? Then what?”
“Then lure the man out here so I can speak to him. Tell him that his mother is outside, and she’ll come in if he doesn’t come out. No young man wants that.”
Freddy looked skeptical, and she sighed. “If you do as I say, I’ll buy you as many pies as you want.”
“All right.” Drawing his sword, he handed it to her. “You’d best hold on to this. You shouldn’t be standing on the street without protection.”
That he’d give up his precious sword for even a moment touched her. “Thank you.” She gave him a push. “Now go find out if that satchel is Nathan’s.”
With a heavy sigh, Freddy trudged up the steps. Trying not to look conspicuous, she slid into the shadows and stifled a laugh as he hesitated before going in. Any other male Freddy’s age would be dying to enter a brothel, but as usual, all he could think about was food. Yet no matter what he stuffed in his mouth, he stayed thin as a toothpick. Meanwhile, if she so much as added sugar to her tea for a week, she started popping out of her stays. It wasn’t fair.
But then, life generally wasn’t fair for women. If she’d been a man,shewould have inherited Papa’s company. He would never have brought in an outsider.
Not that she didn’t like Nathan. He was clever and quite handsome, the sort of husband most women would walk over coals to catch. And she had little chance of finding another good husband in Dartmouth. It was a small fishing town with only a handful of educated unmarried men, and Papa’s colorful background made her ineligible to wed a true gentleman.
She sometimes wondered if Nathan would even have considered her as his wife if not for her connection to New Bedford Ships.
No, that wasn’t fair. He’d always been perfectly lovely to her. It wasn’thisfault that their few kisses had beenunderwhelming—she must have done something wrong. Or expected too much from them.
Maybe Papa was right. Maybe shedidread too many of those Gothic novels by Minerva Sharpe. After all, no man could be as dashing as the Viscount Churchgrove, or as heroic as the Duke of Wolfplain. Or even as fascinating as the villainous Marquess of Rockton.
She scowled. How could she think of Rockton at such a time? Bad enough that she’d been secretly pleased when he’d escaped justice at the end of the novel. The intrusion of such a wicked villain in her thoughts when she should be thinking only of Nathan was most alarming.
Maybe shewasn’ta normal woman. She was certainly more outspoken and opinionated than most women she met. And she did so love reading about murder and mayhem. Papa had called it unnatural.
A sigh escaped her. It was true that other ladies didn’t seem to listen with avid interest to men’s tales of fighting in the Revolution, or pore eagerly over every dark crime reported in the newspaper. They didn’t pray to solve an enigmatical murder.
