A wistful smile crossed Lydia’s face. “It would be so nice to have pretty undergarments again. ”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m going to put a stop to this right now. ” She pushed past the man carrying the rug and reached for her shawl.
“You can’t go out now!”
“I can and I will. It’s still early—I can inform his lordship that his inappropriate gifts should be removed immediately. ”
“Not the chicken?” Lydia said in a plaintive voice.
Elinor paused. “No, not the chicken. Or the scones. Or the firewood,” she added with a shiver. The constantly opening door was spreading blasts of cold through the house.
“You’re not going out to that château again!” Nanny Maude said in a shrill voice.
“No need. He’s at his town house. Over on the Rue Saint-Honoré,” said the helpful man, who seemed to be the leader of this never-ending line of furniture movers. “I’m Rolande, in charge of the comte’s household possessions. I can promise you these things are merely castoffs from his overfilled house. ”
“It is still unacceptable. I’m going. ”
“I can take you there if need be,” Rolande offered.
Elinor looked at him suspiciously. “Did he tell you to bring me?”
“I don’t talk to the comte, mademoiselle,” he said. “Just his steward. And no one said anything about bringing you back. Just trying to be helpful. ”
She looked at him for a long moment. It was a cold, dark night, snow was falling, and finding Lord Rohan’s town house could be problematic at best. She had no choice—the more things he sent the harder it would be to get rid of them. It wasn’t simply the fact that if anyone heard of it Lydia’s reputation would be ruined. This was how their mother had lived, how they had lived, dependent on the largesse of a man with wicked plans. She was not going to follow in her mother’s footsteps, she simply was not.
Rohan wouldn’t listen, of course, no matter how she tried to explain it. If she had any sense she would sit back by the fire, in one of the new chairs the men had brought, and accept it for the sake of her poor family. What was honor if your family was starving to death?
But there was still her missing cousin. They weren’t devoid of all hope. They could accept this, and nothing more, and she would make that clear.
“Let’s go,” she said. “Allons-y. ”
The ride from the gutter to the elegant streets of Paris was surprisingly short, given the disparity between the residences. A good thing—Rolande’s mode of transportation was a wagon, the only seat being beside the helpful driver, and the wind seemed to grow colder with each breath she took. She tried to concentrate on his stories of his grown son, his grandchildren, his bad leg, but by the time he slowed the horses she was shivering.
“Here we are, mademoiselle,” he said, coming to a stop. “Would you like me to come with you? This isn’t the sort of household that welcomes people like us, not at the front door. ”
People like us? she thought, startled. And then the truth hit. In fact, this servant was better dressed than she was—his old clothes were worn but patched. She’d had to put on her last dress when she’d arrived home earlier that day, and she’d torn the skirt on a loose nail.
For a moment she wavered. Someone of Rohan’s wealth and stature would hardly have nefarious designs on a young woman who lived in worse surroundings than his own servants.
But then she remembered that Rohan didn’t have a charitable bone in his body. He lived for his decadent desires—altruistic gestures were beyond him. It didn’t matter what had happened in his youth to wound him. He was the man he’d become, and that man was dangerous.
“He’ll want to see me,” she said with false certainty, sliding down off the wagon before Rolande could help her.
“Just in case, mademoiselle, I’ll wait here for you. ”
“There’s no need…”
“Just in case. ”
“You’re a very kind man, Rolande,” she said. “I will tell his lordship to double what he’s paying you. ”
“His lordship pays very generously. And I’m doing this for you, not him. ” He cast a look of dislike up at the huge house. “You go on ahead now, mademoiselle. You look very cold. ”
Rohan would have to have a broad expanse of steps leading up to his mansion, she thought dourly, starting the climb. She expected lights, gaiety, debauchery spilling out into the nighttime, but the house seemed secure and quiet.
She reached for the huge brass knocker, but before she could use it the door opened and an extremely proper-looking servant stared at her as if she was complete filth. He had to be French.
His first words confirmed it. “The servants’ entrance is to the side,” he said, and started to close the door in her face.