miss Lagrasse. I’ve been dreaming of his puddings for weeks.”
“Then I’m afraid you’re doomed to disappointment.” Seb grinned. “I’ve given him the night off.” He glanced out of the carriage window. “We’re nearly at Covent Garden. I’m off to Haye’s to see what all the fuss is about. Harwood says she has the finest girls in London. You can set me down here.”
Chapter 4.
“Sweet violets! Penny a bunch!”
Anya crossed the bustling square of Covent Garden, nodding a friendly greeting to several of the stallholders who plied their wares in the haphazard chaos of London’s largest outdoor market. She dodged a costermonger’s barrow boy, staggering under the weight of a wheelbarrow dangerously overloaded with turnips, and smiled at the eel pie vendor on the corner. She’d never been brave enough to actually try an eel pie, but the smell that emanated from beneath the cloth-covered baskets was surprisingly inviting.
She and Elizaveta had been in London for almost a year, but she never tired of the myriad sights and sounds. It was still so strange and foreign, such a contrast to the gilded, glittering palaces she’d known in St. Petersburg, or the cultured order of Paris. London was beauty and ugliness pressed close together. Foul gutters and vibrant flowers, filthy death and pulsing life, danger and excitement, all rolled into one fascinating metropolis.
Anya ascended the steps that led to the small apartment she shared with Elizaveta. Covent Garden certainly wasn’t the most genteel of neighborhoods, but that suited her purpose very well. She had no desire to mingle with the elevated members of society who resided a few streets to the west in Mayfair.
Not that their finances would allow such a luxury. She’d had to sell most of her precious diamonds to afford the rent on even this tiny apartment, and her wages, though generous, only just enabled them to live within their means. Lodgings in Covent Garden were always in high demand due to its proximity to both the theatre district and the fashionable enclave of St. James’s.
Elizaveta glanced up from her sewing when Anya let herself into their small front room. “How was the dowager duchess?”
“In fine fettle, as ever.” Anya carefully removed her hat.
“Who’s incurred her displeasure this week?”
“Lady Jersey. Apparently the wine she served at her soiree was ‘an insult to vintners everywhere.’”
Elizaveta chuckled. They both enjoyed the elderly dowager’s acerbic insights into the workings of the haute ton. It was better than reading the scandal sheets.
When they’d first arrived in London, Anya had been dismayed to realize how completely unprepared she was for any form of meaningful employment. She’d visited an employment agency, naively confident that her ability to speak English, French, and Russian, and her extensive knowledge of literature, history, and geography, would qualify her for the position of governess or tutor. Not so.
The pinch-faced woman behind the desk had given a wheezy, cynical chuckle. “Have you looked in a mirror, child? No wife will want you within a hundred leagues of her husband or her sons, believe me. Women want tutors who are stout and ugly, preferably with whiskers and warts, so they don’t pose any temptation.”
Anya had stifled a sinking feeling. “I can teach manners and etiquette to girls.”
“I have no openings for that, I’m afraid.”
“Perhaps I can become a translator for a bookseller, then?”
The woman gave a dismissive sniff. “There’s not much work to be had for anyone right now, what with all the soldiers back from the war. Everyone’s looking for work. And very few men want to employ a woman, unless it’s for pleasure.”
“I don’t want to do that,” Anya said firmly.
The woman sent her a speculative glance. “Are you sure? You’re a good-looking girl. I could recommend you to some of the better establishments.”
“Thank you, but no.”
The woman shrugged. Anya’s spirits dropped even further, but she pasted an enthusiastic smile on her face. Elizaveta was depending on her. “Perhaps I could learn a trade of some sort? I’m not afraid of hard work. I could be an apprentice.”
“You’re a bit old for that,” the woman said bluntly. “How old are you? Twenty?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Hmmm. Seamstresses like young girls, to train up. So do milliners.” Seeing Anya’s crestfallen expression, the woman smiled. “Buck up, girl. I do have one position open. It’s companion to the Dowager Duchess of Winwick. I warn you, the woman’s a harridan. Eighty if she’s a day, and as eccentric as they come. She don’t suffer fools—she’s dismissed four secretaries this year already. But the salary is generous. If