Page 8 of Better Off Wed

She didn’t feel brave. Not this time, anyway. London’s vastness had provided a paradoxical sort of security. No matter the scrape Lady Sterling found herself in, there was always a hiding place. In the country, her every movement would be regarded with suspicion. If trouble befell her, she would know no one to call for aid.

Betty seemed to read her thoughts. “I know it’s not my place, miss, but I can’t like you going off by yourself, and your aunt none the wiser. Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

“Of course I shall,” Laura insisted. Lady Sterling always worked alone. She began to hurry toward the inn again; passengers were already taking their seats in the post chaise, and its driver would not tarry for anyone, not even if he’d known he was about to transport one of the most infamous women in London.

She secured the last place inside the coach, while one of the men took her valise from Betty and stuffed it between two trunks that were tied to the rear with ropes. As the post chaise lurched into motion, Laura raised her gloved fingertips in answer to Betty’s encouraging wave and muffled that pesky inner voice, the one insisting she ought to have brought the maid along.

No need to endanger anyone else.

As they picked up speed, familiar shops and houses began to slide past the window in a blur. For the first quarter of an hour, she amused herself with a surreptitious study of her fellow passengers. On the rear-facing bench sat a trio of young men, the two youngest with ginger hair like her brother’s, divided by a dark-haired man only slightly older. A tutor and his charges traveling somewhere, she decided, or perhaps returning from a sojourn in the capital. To her left, a portly squire of forty or so, clad in a tweed coat, soon began to snore softly. To her right, a woman, a widow by her appearance, nervously watched out the window. On her lap lay a small satchel, which she clutched in her gloved fingers tightly enough to signal to any observer that its contents had some value—an impulse Laura had long ago learned to recognize and exploit.

Before long, Laura caught herself tracing the shape of the watch through the heavy silk of her own little bag, fancying that she could make out the edges of the ornate letter L. But between the watch and her fingertips lay another barrier: a much folded and refolded sheet of parchment that no doubt crinkled at her passing touch, though nothing could be heard above the coach’s rattling wheels.

She had read Miss Godfrey’s letter so many times she had long since committed its contents to memory. She had no need to slip it from her reticule and read it again now, not with five pairs of strangers’ eyes surrounding her. Though, of course, none of them seemed to be paying her any mind. The red-headed brothers peered steadily out their respective windows, while between them their tutor was engrossed by a small, leather-bound book of poetry. The squire snuffled occasionally but showed no further sign of wakefulness. And the widow’s glass-eyed gaze was now fixed on the floor.

With a strict economy of movement, so as not to jostle her fellow passengers and draw their notice, she slid the letter free and unfolded it.

To the esteemed Lady S—

Will it surprise you to learn that your reputation as a warrior for mistreated women is known even in the country? The news travels on the breeze, lifting the spirits of every girl in service who has suffered at the hands of her master.

Each and every time she read those words, Laura pursed her lips into an expression somewhere between a smile and a frown. She distrusted flowery effusions of praise, no matter the honest sentiments that might underlie them.

She much preferred the more tangible reward she had received that morning: Betty’s gasp of delight and daring hug of gratitude when Laura had handed her Lord Penhurst’s purse and, with it, the means of avoiding the foundling hospital, the workhouse, or worse.

The stranger’s letter, on the other hand, sent a prickle of apprehension down her spine with every fresh perusal.

Last spring, I was employed by Lady Thornton as governess to her three youngest children. My charges are not difficult pupils, and my time at Thornton Hall has been pleasantly spent. It may well surprise you, then, to see how my pen trembles in fear.

Nothing surprised Laura. Not anymore. Even if she were not intimately familiar with the contents of the letter, she would have known what was coming next.

Though I heard no rumors before accepting this post, it seems Lord Thornton has forfeited his good character among his servants. The kindly housekeeper has warned me that when Lord Thornton arrives in the country this week, I must look sharp, particularly when he is in his cups. She would tell me nothing of what became of the last governess, but three maids, she says, were dismissed just last year, and through no fault of their own. I hope I make myself clear.

I have hardly known a moment’s peace since she spoke those words. I haven’t even the means to flee the house, not yet having been given any wages. Without Lady Thornton’s good word, how shall I ever find another post? You have succeeded in making such men pay for their crimes. But have you the ability to prevent Lord Thornton’s depredations?

Please, Lady Sterling, won’t you help me—nay, not just me, for every female domestic here is in similar danger. Won’t you help us?

Emily Godfrey

Thornton Hall, Kent

Though her sympathy rose to the woman’s plight, Laura would have refused Miss Godfrey’s case under ordinary circumstances. She had come to accept, however grudgingly, that she could not help every poor woman who needed it. Kent was too far, the subterfuge required too great, for Lady Sterling to take the risk. Exposure—or worse—would render her unable to help anyone.

But the name Lord Thornton had reached out from the paper and arrested her.

Lady Thornton’s personal maid had been one of Lady Sterling’s first clients, but Laura, still inexperienced, had waited too long to corner the earl. Then, just this past spring, she had been approached by Lord Thornton’s cook, hoping that something could be found to check the behavior a man for whom a cast-iron pan to the ribs had proved an insufficient deterrent. That time, Laura had secured something of value, but no secrets, no information with which she could threaten him, nothing that would keep such a man from continuing to exploit his servants.

Now, anticipation of Lord Thornton’s arrival at his estate in Kent had struck fear in the heart of his children’s governess—and all his female domestics. If Laura failed to stop him on her third attempt, how in good conscience could she go on calling herself Lady Sterling?

Her gaze rose to the window. Beyond, the sky grew ever more ominous. Laura’s fingers wanted to tremble. But Lady Sterling’s were steady as she refolded the note and returned it to its hiding place, alongside Lord Penhurst’s pocket watch. Come what may, she was determined to see this case to its end.

Afterward, no one would need to tremble at the name of Lord Thornton ever again.

* * * *

The threat of rain and a cooling breeze had sent most of the residents of Clapham indoors. In more than a few windows, candles and lamps were already flickering to life despite the earliness of the hour. Walter grabbed Jeremy’s elbow and nodded toward a maidservant who was just about to turn up a side street. “Well, I’ll be. That’s her. Betty!”

She paused but did not stop.