The Wicked Ways of a Duke(3)

“She is a terrible flirt,” Prudence agreed. “Still, if I were as pretty as she, I’d flirt, too.”

“Sally McDermott does far more than flirt.”

“We don’t know that.”

Her friend gave an exasperated groan. “You’re too nice, Pru, that’s your trouble. Believing the best about everyone, mild as milk, and hiding your own lights under a bushel. Make me quite cross sometimes, you do.”

Prudence felt compelled to protest. “I’m not nice! Whenever I look at Sally McDermott, I want to pull every pretty blond curl out of her empty head. Her, and that awful Lady Alberta, too. I wanted to stab her in the leg with my needle. There, you see,” she added as they both laughed, “I’m not nice at all.”

“Aren’t you? If I had your situation, I’d starve. I can manage Andre, for he doesn’t mind if I give as good as I get. Rather likes it, in fact. But those women you make dresses for? I wouldn’t last a day. I saw how that girl kicked your basket and abused you up and down, while you just kept sewing and saying, ‘Yes, my lady.’ You should’ve stabbed her, I say.”

“Be glad I didn’t. I’d have lost my post, and then you’d be paying all the rent on our flat.” Prudence glanced at the window, noting it was still pitch-black outside. “Isn’t this ball almost at an end?”

“We’ve two more hours, at least. It’s barely three o’clock.”

Prudence’s shoulders slumped a little at that discouraging news. The thrill from her encounter with the handsome duke had faded, and she was once again feeling the effects of exhaustion.

Maria studied her with concern. “You look all in, Pru.”

“I’m all right. It’s just so warm in here, and the fumes from these gaslights give me a headache.”

“When this ball’s over, we’ll take a hansom home, shall we?”

She shook her head. “I’m not going home. Madame told me I have to be in the showroom at seven o’clock. We’re to make things ready for a group of Austrian ladies who want gowns for the Embassy Ball. They come at nine, so there’s no point in returning to Holborn.”

“Madame Marceau’s a slaver.” Maria set the empty tray on the floor, leaning it against the wall, and reached out to grasp the handle of Prudence’s sewing basket. “Go get some air and clear your head. I’ll take your place for a bit.”

“You can’t!”

“Well, I like that!” Her friend sniffed, pretending to take offense. “I can sew on a button or fix a torn hem, I daresay. Not as well as you, but—”

“I didn’t mean it that way. Someone will notice you’ve taken my place.”

“No one ever notices a servant or a seamstress,” Maria responded blithely. “We’re part of the furniture, don’t you know?”

“I meant Madame. She’ll notice.”

Both of them glanced at Prudence’s employer. The dressmaker was on the other side of the alcove, her back to them as she supervised the efforts of the seamstress who was making repairs to the torn frock of Lady Wallingford. In her phony French accent, the dressmaker from Lambeth was exclaiming over the marchioness’s beautiful figure and the elegant arrangement of her hair.

“She’s too busy bootlicking to notice anything,” Maria said.

“We can’t risk it. We’d both lose our posts, and then there’d be no one to pay the rent.” Prudence shook her head. “Besides, if I take a rest now, I’ll just drop.”

Her friend let go of the basket with a reluctant nod. “All right, but come find me after the ball. We’ll share the cab as far as New Oxford Street. The driver can leave you in front of the showroom then take me on to Little Russell Street.”

“All right. I’ll come to the kitchens and find you after. And Maria—” She hesitated, wavering, then added in a rush, “If there’s any more of those canapés left—”

“Girl?” A commanding voice rose nearby, and both Prudence and Maria turned their heads to see a very stout woman encased in an ice-blue gown so tight it made her look like a sausage.

“Yes, ma’am?” both younger women answered in unison, bobbing deferential curtsies.

The stout lady perched a lorgnette on her nose and peered at Prudence as if she were some sort of insect. “You are one of Madame Marceau’s seamstresses, are you not?” Without waiting for a reply, she beckoned Prudence with an impatient wave of her white-gloved hand. “Come with me,” she ordered. “I’ve a split seam to be mended. And you’d best be quick about it, girl. I don’t have all night, you know.”

The friends exchanged wry glances.

“Yes, ma’am,” Prudence murmured, and turned to Maria with a grin as the woman flounced away. “I’ve changed my mind. Take my place.”

“Too late,” Maria told her with a wink. “You lost your chance, luvvy. But I’ll save you all the crab cakes I can.” She departed for the kitchens, leaving Prudence to stitch the sausage lady back into her dress.



It was indeed two and a half hours later before the ball finally ended, just as Maria had predicted. Dawn was breaking by the time the guests began to depart and Prudence went in search of her friend. When she entered the kitchens, however, she found Maria still occupied with her duties.

“I’ll wait for you in the alley,” Prudence said, pulling her cloak from the row of hooks near the entrance to the kitchens. “I need some air.”

“Right-ho,” Maria called back. “I’ll be along in just a few minutes.”

Prudence donned her cloak and fastened the buttons as she walked down the corridor toward the servants’ entrance. She opened the door and stepped out into the alley, inhaling the cool air of early spring with gratitude, savoring it after the stifling heat and horrid gas fumes indoors. She started down the alley, intending to stroll up and down its length while she waited for Maria, but came to a halt almost at once.

A couple stood in the back corner where the alley ended, and though the man had his back to her, blocking her view, it was clear the pair were engaged in an amorous encounter. Hotly embarrassed, Prudence started to turn around and go back inside, but the woman’s voice stopped her.

“No, sir! No!”

In the woman’s voice was the violent protest and raw fear any other woman immediately understood. Realizing her initial assumption had been a mistake, Prudence turned back around, further alarmed as she saw the man grasp the woman’s wrists and pin them against the wall over her head.

“No, sir, please let me go,” the woman sobbed as she twisted in a violent effort to free herself. “Let me go.”

“Don’t carry on so, my girl. There’ll be a bob in it for you afterward.” Holding her wrists with one hand, he began pulling up her skirts with the other.

Heart in her throat, Prudence started forward, but before she’d taken three steps, she was shoved aside. She looked up to see the handsome duke who had collected her sewing supplies earlier in the evening. “Stay back,” he muttered to her as he passed. “Keep well out of the way.”

She let out her breath in a sigh of relief as she watched the duke stride down the alley toward the struggling couple in the corner. Without preliminaries, he grabbed the man by the arms and hauled him away, his action revealing the sobbing woman in the corner.

It was Sally McDermott.

Prudence gave a gasp of surprise, but had barely registered the other girl’s identity before Sally dodged sideways, scrambling to get clear as the duke spun the other man around.

“St. Cyres?” the man cried in amazement. “Are you mad? What in blazes are you doing?”

“Rescuing a damsel in distress, it seems.”

“What?” The other man twisted his shoulders as if to free himself from St. Cyres’s grip. “She’s a scullery maid, for God’s sake!”

“A scullery maid who said no, Northcote.”

“What does that matter?”

Whether it was that question or the laughter accompanying it that ignited the duke’s temper, Prudence couldn’t tell. He slammed the man called Northcote against the wall of the alley. “It matters to me,” he said, drew back his fist, and landed a blow to the other man’s jaw.

Northcote’s head snapped sideways, but St. Cyres did not seem content. He dealt the other man several more punishing blows, giving him no opportunity to strike back. When he finally stopped, Northcote fell to the ground, where he lay unmoving on the cobblestones.

St. Cyres watched him for a moment, as if to be certain he was thoroughly incapacitated, then turned away just as Sally hurled herself into his arms.

“Oh, sir, thank you, sir!” she cried, clinging to his neck. “Thank you!”

Behind Prudence the door to the alley opened and banged against the brick wall of the building. “I’m finished, Pru,” Maria cheerfully called as she stepped into the alley. “Let’s be on our way before all the hansoms are—crikey!”

That last startled exclamation came as her friend paused beside her and took in the sight of the unconscious man on the ground and the terrified Sally McDermott sobbing into the shirtfront of the gallant duke.