Behind the Rake's Wicked Wager - By Sarah Mallory Page 0,57

the house, salving her conscience with the thought that do to so would give rise to unnecessary speculation. At length she escaped to her room to dress for dinner, only to suffer an uncomfortable half-hour as Dorcas bemoaned the loss of the tasselled cord from her

mistress’s green-silk gown. She was scandalised by Susannah’s airy admission that she had never liked the cord and had thrown it away. Her declaration that she was going to send the gown back to Odesse to be

fitted with a ribbon tie instead met with even more condemnation.

‘Never did I think you would be guilty of such extravagance, Miss Prentess,’ declared her maid, shaking her head. ‘Why, as high and mighty as a viscountess you are getting.’

‘No, I am not,’ declared Susannah, blushing hotly. ‘Why on earth should you say such a thing?’

Dorcas turned to stare at her.

‘It’s just a saying, miss, as well you knows. And I’m sure if you want a gown altering then ’tis no business of mine.’

Susannah quickly begged pardon and sat meekly while her maid dressed her hair, fervently hoping that she would be able to get through the rest of the evening without blushing again over the events of the past few days.

* * *

By Sunday the snow was melting, leaving the ground waterlogged and the sky grey and overcast. Susannah wondered if Jasper had left Bath, now that he knew she had no intention of marrying Gerald. She realised she would be very sorry if she did not see him again. Then she remembered his final words to her—it may be best if we do not meet for a few days. Her hopes rose. Surely that could only mean he was remaining in Bath? With this in mind she took particular care over her choice of walking dress for the Sunday morning service in the Abbey. A watery sun broke through the clouds as she descended from the carriage, prompting her aunt to hope that they had seen the last of the winter weather.

The walk to the Abbey doors was a short one, but Susannah was aware of the frowning looks that were cast her way as she accompanied her aunt. A frisson of nerves tingled down her spine. Did they know about her meetings with Lord Markham? To dine with him in York House had been a risk, but that was compounded by being stranded with him at Florence House the following night. Head high, she tucked her hand in Aunt Maude’s arm and accompanied her into the Abbey. A quick look around convinced Susannah that the viscount was not present. She was disappointed, but considering the looks she had received, she thought perhaps it was for the best.

The service seemed interminably long and Susannah was impatient to be outside again where she could confront those who were casting such disapproving stares in her direction. Better to know the worst immediately. At last they were making their way out through the doors and into the spring sunshine. Aunt Maude had been blissfully unaware of the frosty looks and now sailed up to Mr and Mrs Farthing, who were conversing with Amelia Bulstrode.

‘Oh, Mrs Wilby, I did not see you there.’ Mrs Bulstrode stopped, flustered, her eyes flickering to Susannah and away again. ‘Heavens, I did not expect—that is, with all the talk, I thought you might prefer not to come here today.’

‘Talk?’ Aunt Maude glanced at Susannah, a crease furrowing her brow. ‘Perhaps I have missed something. I have not been outside the house since Thursday.’

‘Then you will not know that everyone is talking about the new establishment you have seen fit to create,’ Mrs Farthing’s strident tones cut in. She turned to Susannah, her rather protuberant eyes snapping angrily. ‘I suppose you think yourself superior, Miss Prentess, to be setting up your own house for fallen women. Our establishment in Walcot Street is not good enough for you. I wonder what your uncle would think if he knew you had put one of his houses to such use.’

So it was Florence House that had started such a fluttering in the dovecotes. Relief allowed Susannah to respond mildly to the accusations.

‘I beg your pardon, ma’am, but you said yourself the Walcot Street home cannot cope with the number of applicants. My own small attempt to help distressed gentlewomen...’

‘Gentlewomen!’ Mrs Farthing snorted. ‘Trollops, they are. Wanton hussies, flaunting themselves before the young men. Is it any wonder that they find themselves in difficulties? Rather than trying to set up