Her face still burned at the memory even as the insult echoed with dreaded familiarity. Master Brocklehurst’s charge of vanity frequently rang out through the halls of Penwich for any girl whose hair showed beneath their caps. With her fiery tresses, Fallon had always attracted his particular ire.
Lifting her wool skirt, she increased her pace, eyeing the long length of hall. The small room she shared with another maid was at the far end, near the set of stairs that led up to the family’s quarters.
Suddenly another sound rose on the air, mingling with the distant laughter. Her pulse skittered at the dull thud of approaching footsteps. She didn’t know whether to quicken her steps or freeze in her tracks. The heavy tread grew. Air froze in her lungs.
A shadow descended, casting a pall over the corridor’s floor. Her heart seized in her chest.
Clutching the edge of her cloak near her throat, she prayed merely another servant approached, retiring for the night.
She lurched sideways, hoping—absurdly—to blend with the wall. She watched as black Hessians became visible, then buff trousers, then an opened waistcoat and rumpled lawn shirt. Her gaze drifted up and dread clawed through her.
Reggie. And well into his cups, if his rumpled appearance and the slight sway to his stance were any indication. His bleary eyes had no trouble spotting her where she hugged the wall.
“There you are, love.” Hiccup. “Fancy that. Thought I would have to search every room to find you.” Hiccup.
Inhaling deeply, she shoved off the wall and strode forward, chin high, intent on reaching her door. And bolting it solidly behind her.
“Good evening, sir.”
“Good evening, sir,” he quipped, his smile mocking as he waved an arm, his loose sleeve billowing like a dove on the air. “You speak well.” Hiccup. “Like a lady.” He smirked as if he told an amusing remark.
She resisted snapping that she was as educated and polished as any lady of his acquaintance—
that he needn’t act so bloody surprised over the fact that she could string her words together in an intelligent fashion. Despite her poor beginnings, she was not an uneducated guttersnipe. Penwich had seen to that, wiping practically all hint of an Irish brogue from her voice. The school might half starve its pupils and beat them for the slightest infraction, but they had not scrimped on providing a topnotch education. Indeed, Fallon was well suited for life as a governess.
Unfortunately her lot was that of a maid assigned kitchen duty.
A familiar anger burned through her blood. _Gentlemen _ like Reggie had seen fit to rob her of any other opportunity…dismissing her on the grounds of impertinence when she had not been more _accommodating _ to their wishes. With so many dismissals and too few references, a position more suited to her qualifications eluded her. Her fist curled at her side. Da’s voice whispered across her mind. Almost as if he stood beside her. Careful ,Fallon girl. Don’t let ’im get your goat.
Sighing, she uncurled her fingers and stowed away her frustrations. Such emotions would only get her sacked. Yet again. Far better that she diffuse the situation.
“If you would pardon me, Mr. Jamison.” She attempted to step past him.
He blocked her, moving faster than she expected for one so deep in his cups. “I thought you might like to join me and my friends in the parlor for some sherry.” Leaning forward, he brushed the back of his hand against her cheek. “See how the other half lives.”
He pressed a finger against his wobbly-mouthed smile. “I won’t tell Mother. Come.” He clasped her arm. As if he had every right to do so. Her teeth ground so hard her jaw ached. But didn’t they _all _ behave that way? As if they possessed _every _ right?
The top of his head did not even reach her chin. It would be a relatively simple matter to plant her fist in his pug-nosed face and knock him down. As much as her father had lectured her on controlling her temper and abiding the ill treatment of her betters, he had also taught her it was acceptable to draw a line when risk to her person loomed imminent.
Drawing a steadying breath, she cautioned herself that it had not come to that. _Yet _. And she must prevent such a situation from arising. Otherwise she would be at the mercy of the agency again.
Specifically Mrs. Harrison. The image of that proprietress rose in her mind, her sour face and buglike, unblinking eyes not the least bit merciful. She would not refer Fallon if she were sacked again. No matter the excuse.
Dignity and forbearance. Dignity and forbearance.
Like all those years at Penwich when she had bit her tongue and born Master Brocklehurst’s switch to her back. For whatever imagined infraction. She would bear more. She could. With as much charm and humility as she could manage, she pasted a smile on her face. “Lovely as that sounds, sir, I must decline.”
“Ah, you must not.” Hiccup. “As your employer, I insist.” His slight chest swelled with importance. “I command it. I told all my friends about you—my fiery-haired Boadicea.” His fingers flexed on her arm, his grip softening into a caress.
“Boadicea?” She winced.
“Yes. She was a Celtic queen who fought off the Romans—”
“I know who she is,” she inserted pertly, then bit her tongue. Dignity and forbearance.
“Indeed.” Hiccup. “Then you recall she was a giant of a woman with flaming hair. It is said she rode bare-breasted into battle.” His gaze dropped to her chest almost on level with his eyes.
Her cheeks smoldered. That particular bit had been left out of her history lessons.
He trailed his hand down her arm, his fingers reaching her tightly fisted hand. “If I don’t return to the parlor with you, they will think I’ve invented you.” Hiccup. “We can’t have that. Now. Do as you’re bade and come along with Reggie.” He winked. “I promise you shall have a grand time.” From the way he licked his fleshy lips, Fallon guessed he expected he would have a grand time, too—with her.
Da had warned her of men’s lascivious natures—especially when it came to women they considered beneath them. Easy pickings. Aside of her own father, the years since had concreted her feelings on that score. The Penwich School for Virtuous Girls had boasted a few girls who were less than virtuous. And yet Fallon had never faulted them. They bartered what they possessed for what the school failed to provide—food, clothes…affection.
Post or no post, she had no intention of stepping into a parlor full of inebriated men scarcely out of leading strings.
“I work for your mother. Not you, Mr. Jamison.”
Something tightened in his face, reminding her of a spoiled boy denied a treat. He flicked a hand in the air. “And who do you think shall inherit? Once I reach majority, all this shall belong to me.” His gaze roved over her. “That includes you and every other servant in this house. If you wish to keep your post, you would do well to remember that.”
Her fingers tightened around the strings of her reticule. It took every ounce of willpower to not swing it at the insolent pup. If she remained one moment longer, she would strike him where he stood.
“Forgive me, sir, but I forgot I have something I must do.”
With that rather inane comment, she gave a fierce tug and freed herself from his grasp. Lips tight, she spun on her heel, perversely satisfied at her final glimpse of his startled face. Likely a servant had never denied him anything before.
“Where are you going?” he sputtered behind her.
She didn’t reply. Hopefully she could disappear into the night and tomorrow this whole encounter would be but a dim memory for the sot. A few times around the square and she would return, well after he had returned to his friends in the parlor.
She hurried out the servants’ door into the frigid night, her heels clicking over the cobbled path that circled the house. Passing through the gate, she forged ahead, heedless that it clanked loudly behind her. Her breath puffed before her in frothy clouds.
The sudden echo of the gate clanging open and shut again scraped the air. She froze and shot a look over her shoulder into the murky night. _It couldn’t be. He couldn’t be. _ She quickened her pace.
“You there! Girl! Wait.”
Heat licked her cheeks. Girl! Really! She possessed a name. And she happened to be older than he, the little toad.
“Stop, I say!” He was tenacious. A bulldog with a bone. She pretended not to hear him and turned down a street leading from the square, onto sidewalks lined with darkened shops. Feet pounded behind her. For a brief moment, she contemplated breaking into a full run but decided against it. A tad dramatic, and she was a pragmatist at heart. A pragmatist who needed her post come morning.
Sighing, she stopped and turned to face him, legs braced a bit apart. “Mr. Jamison,” she began as he came to a halt breathlessly before her, his face red from exertion…and something else.
Something that sent a trickle of unease down her spine. “Go home, sir. Return to your friends. I remembered I have an errand to—”
“At this hour?” he panted. “Nonsense. You’re trying to escape me. Most impertinent.”
“Please, sir. Just go home.”
Panting, he clutched his side, all evidence of hiccups gone. “You dare to command me? Hold your tongue, girl.”
“Please, Mr. Jamison,” she said tiredly. “I have no wish to offend—”
He raised his hand from his side and snatched her wrist, his eyes glowing with a sobriety absent moments ago, before his jog through fogged streets. “Then you best be a biddable creature and follow me back inside the house.”
She glanced down at her arm. At the pale hand, smaller than her own, gripping her. Anger churned in her stomach. Extending the spot-faced lad any courtesy at this point took every ounce of will she possessed. Da had long ingrained in her the importance of showing proper humility to her betters. But he had also instilled in her a healthy respect for herself—for the safety of her person.
“Do you hear me?” Reggie tightened his grip.
She inhaled thinly through her nostrils. Sorry, Da. But even you would agree this is one of those circumstances.
Her stomach churned. Not so much at what she was about to do, but at the consequences that were certain to result.
She nodded, an eerie calm sweeping over her. “I hear you, sir. Now hear me.” She locked gazes with him. “Unhand me or…” her voice faded.
“Or what?” Amusement brimmed in his voice.
“Or I shall make you.”
“Make me?” He laughed, tossing back his head. “Are you daft, girl?”
“Laugh all you like.” Her voice lowered a degree. “You’ve been duly warned.”
“Warned?” He shook her arm again. Hard enough to give her discomfort. She winced. “You have cheek, girl, I’ll give you that.”
She had more than cheek. Breath gusted from her lips. He was going to learn that the hard way.
She wrenched free of his grasp. Grabbing him by both shoulders, she lifted her knee. Using all her force, she kneed him in the groin.
His startled gaze collided with hers the instant she made contact. The choked gurgle to follow brought a grim smile to her face. She released his shoulders and stood back, watching as he collapsed, a twisted pile of man. Low, pitiable moans tripped from his lips, reverberating through the chill evening air.
“You’re fortunate my skirts hampered me.” Propping her hands on her hips, she added, “It could have been much worse.”
“Worse!” he wheezed, sprawled on the ground and clutching himself in the most undignified fashion as he rolled side to side.
“Indeed.”
His face burned varying shades of red and purple beneath the muted glow of gaslight. Spittle flew from his lips as he spoke the words she had dreaded. And yet if the truth be known, she had grown so accustomed to hearing them, they did not distress her as they should.