Heartless (The House of Rohan 5)

“Thank God I did send them,” Emma said, wanting to change the subject. There were too many people who thought they needed to protect her from herself. “If they were still in residence they might have died in the fire.”

Mollie made a clucking sound. “The more I thinks about it, the more suspicious I get. I lived there longer than anyone. That place was kept tidy. No loose rags or papers likely to make a fire spread. There were a lot of people who thought Charity had no business bringing a bunch for whores into her house, and we was always on the lookout for danger. You were the one what taught us that.”

“I’m not very trusting,” Emma admitted.

“No!” Mollie said in feigned shock, grinning. “Did they think it was an accident?”

“The police came and searched for bodies, but there weren’t any, thank God. Someone from the Fire Brigade picked over the place, but no one mentioned anything suspicious.”

Mollie shrugged her heavy shoulders. “Seems strange, is all.” She peered at her through beetled brows. “The rest of ‘em are itching to see you, but I thinks you need a strong cup of tea before you have to deal with them lot. Am I right?”

“You always are, Mollie.”

Mollie accepted the praise as her due and rose to move over to the stove with her slow, rolling pace. She had once been considered the most beautiful woman in all of London and she’d lived very well indeed. By the time Emma met her she had already retired from the business, making herself useful in Mother Howard’s kitchens and doing her best to keep everyone’s spirits up with cakes and pies and simple good sense. In fact, it had sometimes been rumored that Mother Howard’s brothel had retained its exceptional clientele with its pastries rather than its more traditional sensory delights.

She could also make the best tea—wickedly strong and powerfully sweet, a feat Emma could never duplicate no matter how hard she tried. She took the proffered cup with a sigh of gratitude, took a sip that burned her tongue and then slid back in her chair, at peace. “I just want to stay here,” she murmured. “Can’t you find me a pallet somewhere?”

Mollie snorted. “With all them new girls from London filling every nook and cranny? I think not. We’ve got two and three to a bed right now, and until the latest bunch get a placement it’ll stay that way.”

Emma sighed. It had been a desperate, unlikely attempt, and in truth she no longer needed to worry. Brandon and his ancient retainer would be gone by now, heading back to Scotland. Starlings Manor was once more a safe haven.

She took a deep swallow of the strong tea, and she could practically feel her backbone stiffen. He’d been a momentary distraction, a bit of longing for a time long past, and it was over. She would never …

“Oh, Jesus Christ on a fucking fig tree,” Mollie said bitterly, shoving herself to her feet. “They’re here.”

“Who’s here?” Emma demanded, startled, and then realized the female voices she heard were not those of any former streetwalker, soiled dove, kept woman, or lady of the night; these were the purebred sounds of Mayfair. “Oh, Lord,” she said weakly, having never developed the ability to curse in style of most of her friends. “Melisande’s brought the ladies here for tea, hasn’t she?”

“That’s what it sounds like. I shouldn’t be surprised—she drags people down here on any excuse.”

“I should have remembered,” Emma said wearily. “She wants to drum up support among her society friends, the ones who shunned her when she was simply an eccentric widow. Now that she’s a countess they’re more interested in listening, and she’s always looking to take on new sponsors for the Gaggle Project.”

“Gaggle Project?” Mollie echoed grimly, a dangerous look in her eye. “Is that referring to us?”

“I know—it’s a wretched name, isn’t it? I’ll talk to her about it. In the meantime, I don’t suppose I could sneak out the back door and. . .”

“Emma!” Melisande greeted her in a carrying voice from the door she’d just thrust open. “I thought you might be here. Come and join us—you know even more about the program than I do. After all, you’ve been on the front lines while I’ve been here having babies.” She smiled at Mollie. “You don’t mind us dropping in, do you, Mrs. Biscuits?”

Melisande had been determined to address the sundry souls of the Dovecote formally, declaring that it gave them back some dignity, and all the arguments in the world couldn’t convince her that “Mrs. Biscuits” was absurd.

Mollie had given up fighting it. “Not at all, your ladyship. I’ll have tea ready in a few minutes.”

“Come along, dearest,” Melisande said to Emma. “You know you do a better job explaining the business aspect.”

“I should help Mollie. . .” She tried to back up, but Melisande was as stubborn as she was.

“Don’t need help,” Mollie pronounced, the interfering wretch. “And if I did, don’t I have three girls learning to cook as we speak? You go along now, Miss Emma. No need

to worry about us.”

She was trapped, and she threw Mollie a speaking glance as Melisande drew her into the front parlor. The room was crowded—usually Melisande’s tea parties were small and female. The entire house party seemed to have descended on the Dovecote, including their male counterparts, as well as several people she’d never seen before.

She must have balked, because Melisande gave her a gentle push. “What’s wrong with you?” she whispered in her ear.

“Nothing at all. I’m just tired. I should be fine once the sun shines and I get enough sleep.”

“Those two things are never a certainty, given that we live in England,” Melisande muttered. “And if you’re to sleep peacefully then you need to drive out whatever devils are plaguing you.”

He’s already gone, she thought wistfully. “You’re right,” she said out loud, moving into the stately room that had once been the reception hall for whatever dowager was in residence. Now it served as a school room, meeting place, and even, occasionally, a boxing salon. Emma knew better than anyone the dangers a woman could face, and she did her best to see that each girl was equipped with the needed skills to protect herself no matter what circumstances she was thrust into.