eerie sound that reminded me of the ghost stories Vi and I told when the nights were too cold to sleep. I’d sworn I would never be a servant to anyone. But truth of the matter was we hadn’t paid last month’s rent, and now we couldn’t pay this month. We’d be kicked out onto the streets for sure. It was either become a servant, or a whore. “I dare say the pay is lower than at the factory.”
She sighed. “A little. But Ginny, we’ll live in a fancy house. Not have to worry about room or food, no fleas, no lice…so as I figure, we’ll actually be able to save some.”
Unfortunately, she had a point. A good one. “Go on then. You say?”
She grinned her wonderful smile, so full of laughter and mischief, and I couldn’t help but smile back. “Clean bed. No bugs. Fancy, warm home. Good food. Bellies always full. And just think, maybe we’ll catch the eye of some handsome gent who will sweep us off our feet.”
I rolled my eyes. “Vi, that’s something only in books.”
“Gah.” She started to unbutton her bodice. “I’m not expecting a duke, but no reason a baron or such wouldn’t take a fancy to us. Surely you, at least.”
“Yes, perhaps he’ll take a fancy to us…to be his next paramour, not his wife. Besides, I’d rather find a way to support myself and not rely upon any man.”
She shrugged off her dress, standing in her shift. She’d lost so much weight since she’d arrived over a year ago, not that she ever complained. “You’re no fun.”
“And you’re too romantic. Besides, I thought you were interested in Mr. McKinnon,” I teased.
My jest, however, had the opposite effect. Violet went pale, her eyes shaded. “Don’t be silly.”
“’Twas merely a jest.”
She turned her back to me and shuffled together the few pieces of scrap paper she’d found to write her stories on. Sometimes at night, she read her stories out loud before bed. Lovely tales of dashing heroes and brave heroines. Romantic stories of true love. She moved to her small cot on the floor. Most of the women would have given their right arm for a chance at Mr. McKinnon.
“Did he try something, Vi?” I snapped. Rich gent or not, I’d kill the bastard with my own fingers. “Did he—”
“Nay. Of course not,” she muttered, sliding under her thin blanket. “It’s merely obvious he only has interest in one woman at the factory.”
I found her comment odd, but didn’t have the patience to pursue it. I merely wanted to see her smiling again. “Right. Say I’m interested in this position you procured.” She rolled toward me as I settled on her bedding, her grin back in place. “Scoot over, it’s too bloody cold to sleep alone. What’s the catch?”
She moved over as much as her small mat would allow, and I curled up against her. “No catch. We work hard, listen well, and be obedient.”
“Oh dear,” I sighed. “As we both know, that might be a problem for me.”
****
Gabriel
“Get your lazy arse out of bed.”
The words did not stir him. Christopher merely continued to lay there snoring; a naked woman curled up on each side. Oblivious. Idiot. My restraint was near to breaking. If he wasn’t my brother, I would have tossed him exposed into the winter for all of London to see.
Instead, I lifted the pitcher of water on the stand near the bed and poured the contents over his head. He bolted upright, flailing his arms around like a windmill.
“Fucking hell! Do you know how cold that is?”
The women beside him shrieked, finally stirring. Did I recognize them? Shite. They were maids here; I was sure of it.
“Get washed, dressed, and escort your whores from the house.”
Christopher rubbed the water from his scruffy face and yawned. “They’re not whores, they’re your maids.”
Maids who were currently blushing and trying to hide under the sheets. Until Chris had arrived, I’d retained complete control over my household. Not one servant would dare disobey me. They knew the rules. For the last year, he’d been sleeping and drinking his way through France and Spain. I admit, I’d enjoyed the break. One night in London and everything was thrown into disarray.
Chris raked back his hair, flinging the water from his fingertips, and glared up at me. “A bit dramatic, don’t you think? Not as if you don’t partake.”
“Yes, I’m the dramatic one,” I drawled out. “I sleep with mistresses. I don’t lower myself to the