Milk forgotten, she stole back upstairs. The vile lechers!
Reaching her room, Margaret pushed a chair against the door, doubting it would slow a man for long. She paced back and forth across her bedchamber. She was no match for Marcus physically. If he forced himself into her room, she would be a caged bird, a cornered hare.
One of her father’s sermons came to mind, the one about how everyone might take advice from young Joseph. When Potiphar’s lascivious wife tried to seduce him, he did not bar himself in his room.
He fled.
She needed to do the same. She would not stay in Sterling Benton’s home another night.
But where could she go? She had only the few coins she had found on his dressing table. Those wouldn’t take her far. If only her mother were home. For though she had clearly taken Sterling’s side to this point, she would never stand for her daughter’s ruination!
Margaret heard something and stood still, straining her ears. Had Marcus come to her door already?
Muffled sobbing. What in the world? She crossed to her dressing room and opened the door. Joan slumped against the wall, her pale face blotchy beneath auburn fringe and white cap, her light eyes streaming tears.
“What is it?” Margaret asked, but dread prickled through her, as if she already knew the answer. Had Marcus . . . ?
“It’s Mr. Benton. He accused me of taking money from his dressing room. But I never did, miss. I never!”
Margaret’s mouth went dry. Her stomach knotted. “I am sorry, Joan. I don’t know what to say.”
Joan’s round eyes beseeched hers. “You believe me, don’t you?”
Margaret pressed her lips together. “Yes.”
Something in Joan’s expression shifted. Her brows lowered and she stared at Margaret with disconcerting directness.
Margaret looked away first.
Joan said, “He told me to leave straightaway, but I snuck up here to see you. I hoped you might believe me and write me a character. I won’t get another post without one.”
Margaret’s mind spun. She had no time to be writing letters. Not now. “I know nothing of character references, Joan. Though I would be happy to vouch for you . . . sometime.”
Joan frowned. “It was you what took the money, wasn’t it?”
Margaret swallowed back the guilt churning her innards like spoilt cod. How had Joan guessed? She was usually a better actress than that. “It was only a few coins. I never intended for you to take the blame.”
The tears in Joan’s eyes sparked into anger. “And who else would be blamed when the money turned up missing? It’s always the maid.”
“I thought . . . I hoped he would not notice.”
“A man like him?”
“It was foolish. I see that now.”
“But you won’t go and tell him it wasn’t me who took it, will you?”
Margaret hesitated, then shook her head. “I am afraid not. Not yet. I cannot let him know I have any money.”
Joan’s face mottled red and white. “Of all the bacon-brained lies . . .”
Margaret reeled. “How dare you? How ungrateful—”
“Me ungrateful?” The cords in Joan’s throat stuck out. “What have you ever done for me? It’s me what’s done for you all these months, up working before you rise and after you’re in bed. And for what? To get the sack for taking money you stole!”
The venom in her maid’s voice shocked her. She had never known Joan felt this way about her.
An idea struck Margaret and she changed tack. “Where will you go?”
Joan sniffed. “To my sister’s. Not that you care.”
“I do care. I . . . I want to come with you.”
Joan’s brow puckered. “With me? Have you any idea where I’m going?”
“Your sister’s, I believe you said.”
“My sister, who lives in a run-down tenement in Billingsgate? You’ve never ventured into such a neighborhood, I’d wager. And with good reason.”
“Let me go with you. I need to leave. Now. But I cannot go anywhere alone at night. It is not safe.”
“It’s not safe where I’m going either.”
“We shall be safer together,” Margaret insisted. “Look, I only took that money because I needed it to escape.”
“Escape? Why should you need to escape?” Joan’s lip curled. “Mr. Benton won’t buy the new silk stockings you set your heart on?”
Goodness. Now that Joan had no post to protect, she allowed her tongue free rein. Margaret bit back an angry retort of her own and said earnestly, “No, I need to escape because I fear for my virtue.”
Joan’s eyebrows rose. “Young Mr. Benton?”
Margaret nodded.
“If it’s unwanted attention he’s giving you, tell his uncle.”
“Who do you think put him up to it?”
The maid’s eyes widened. “But, why . . . ?”
“I will explain later. I expect any minute for him to come through that door, and I don’t want to be here when he does.”
Joan crossed her arms and asked sullenly, “Why should I help you?”
Obviously not out of affection or loyalty, Margaret thought wryly. “Because I will write you the most flattering character reference you’ve ever read. Why, when I’m through, St. Thomas himself wouldn’t doubt your abilities.”
Joan’s wary expression softened. “Very well. It’s a bargain. But I only plan to stay with my sister until I find another place. You’ll have to leave when I do.”
“Agreed.”
Joan surveyed her head to toe. “And you’re not going anywhere with me dressed like that.”
Margaret glanced down at the flounced day dress of white cambric muslin she’d yet to change out of, her mind quickly skipping to the other gowns in her wardrobe.
But Joan had other ideas. “There’s some old clothes of poor Mrs. Poole’s up in the attic.” She was referring to the belongings of an ancient housemaid who’d died, bent over her pail and scrub brush, a few months before. “I’ll fetch you a frock and cap from there.”
“What is wrong with my gowns?”
“Nothing. If you want Theo to follow us and every pickpocket in London to harass us.”
That was true. If the footman saw her coming downstairs dressed to go out, he would be on her trail before they reached the street.
“I shall be back directly,” Joan said. “Meanwhile, cover up that hair.”
Her hair. Margaret stared at her troubled reflection in the looking glass. Yes, her blond hair would be a beacon in the night. She thought suddenly of the dark wig she had planned to wear for the masquerade ball. She hurried to her dressing table and lifted the wig from its stand, examining it by lamplight. Decisively, she pawed through the drawer until she came upon a pair of scissors. With them, she lopped off the long curls meant to cascade down each shoulder, leaving only a simple curly wig with dark fringe across the forehead. It would do.
Joan had yet to return. Increasingly anxious to leave, Margaret decided she had better begin changing without her. She slipped her arms from her gown, twisted it back to front, undid the ribbon ties, and let the dress fall to the floor. She stood there in shift and stays. Heaven help me if Marcus comes in now. She slipped a petticoat over her head, then sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on two pair of stockings, then her half boots. She went to her wardrobe and found the blue dress and white apron she had worn as a milkmaid and laid them across her bed. Surely they would suffice if Joan failed to find something in the attic. Perhaps anyone who saw her would mistake her for a second housemaid, a friend of Joan’s come to call.
She pulled forth her plainest reticule and a carpetbag, and began stuffing in a few necessities. Her mind raced, panicked and muddled. Think, she told herself. Think! But it was difficult to plan when she had little idea of where she was going or for how long.
Still Joan had yet to return. What had happened to forestall her?
Nervously, Margaret tied her dressing gown over her underclothes and slipped out into the corridor, ears alert for the sound of anyone approaching—friend or foe.
Which was Joan?
Margaret tiptoed toward the stairway and paused. Hearing voices from around the corner, she pressed herself against the wall.
Sterling challenged, “Were you not dismissed earlier this evening?”
“Yes, sir,” Joan replied.
“Then why are you still here?”
“I was only packing my belongings, sir.” Joan’s voice quavered, unnaturally high.
“Packing only your belongings, I trust. Let me see what you have in that valise.”
“’Tis only clothes and the like, sir.”
Margaret heard shuffling and a clasp being unsnapped and snapped. “Be sure that is all you take or I shall hire a thief-taker to hunt you down.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Benton?” Murdoch called from the landing below. “Sorry to disturb you, sir. But that man from Bow Street is here.”
What man from Bow Street? Margaret wondered.
“Thank you, Murdoch. I shall be down directly.”
Margaret risked a glance around the corner in time to see Sterling turn his icy blue eyes on the quaking maid. “I trust you will see yourself out and do no mischief on your way.”
Joan nodded.
“Be out in ten minutes or I shall have Murdoch toss you out.”