The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)(16)
Andrew, who’d just passed through the door with Primrose, felt the little girl’s hand tremble in his, her cheerful song dying in her throat. Her gaze bounced between him and Kitty. Crumbs of gingerbread—the first she’d tasted and which she’d joyfully inhaled—clung to her quivering chin.
“I told you I was taking Primrose to the mop fair,” he said in even tones. “Since she’s never seen one—”
“Why would the stupid brat need to see a hiring fair full o’ clodhoppers?”
Hearing the slurred edge to Kitty’s words, he surmised that the heightened color on her face didn’t come from paint. Her chignon had unraveled, russet strands lying heavily upon her shoulders. Her gown was a field of stains.
When Kitty was in her altitudes, she was less than pleasant to be around, and since their escape from Black three months ago, she’d been in this state more and more often. Her bitter litany ran through his head: she hated being on the flit, hated being destitute… hated doing “charity work.” For when it rained, it poured: despite Kitty’s repeated letters to the man who was supposed to pay for Primrose’s upkeep, the money had ceased to come.
Seeing the virulent flash in Kitty’s eyes, Andrew felt his gut tighten. Best to get Primrose out of here while he dealt with the situation.
“Go play outside,” he told the girl softly. “Don’t wander far.”
“Yes, Andrew.”
She turned to go; Kitty’s voice halted her.
“What have you got there?” the bawd snapped.
Primrose’s throat worked above the plain collar of her frock. “G-got, Miss Kitty?”
“In your hand, you dimwit!” Before Andrew could stop her, Kitty marched over to the cowering girl, snatching the object from her hand. “Where did you get this?”
Primrose’s lips, though trembling, remained pressed together. Despite her obvious fear, she didn’t look in his direction. He felt a curious pang… of respect. The four-year-old showed more loyalty and backbone than most adults he knew.
“Answer me, or I’ll box your ears! Who gave you this?” Kitty shook the cheap rag doll in Primrose’s face.
“Leave her alone,” Andrew said quietly. “I gave it to her.”
Kitty spun around to face him, and he braced for the storm.
“You did what?” she screeched, flinging the doll across the room.
He jerked his head at Primrose. Getting the message, the tot dashed off the battlefield… but not before scooping up her doll, cradling it like a wounded soldier. Kitty, her anger now targeted at him, didn’t notice.
“We are living like bleeding paupers,” she shouted, “and you squander our coin on that worthless little leech?”
“Don’t speak of her that way. She’s a child, for God’s sake.” He hated when Kitty was in this state, hated how familiar it felt to be on the receiving end of a drunken tirade. “And it is not our coin which I spent but my own.”
His private stash—which had taken years to save—was now nearly gone. Faced with the prospect of no food or shelter, he’d had no choice but to offer it up. The only reason he had any money left was because he’d managed to win a few card games here and there. He’d never liked gambling, but he was discovering that he had a knack for it. Not that he wanted to rely on capricious Lady Luck.
“Your pockets are as let as mine.” Kitty’s lips curled in derision. “You’ve but one skill worth anything, Corby, and that hasn’t been in evidence,”—her gaze dropped to his groin—“in quite some time.”
He hadn’t tupped her since they’d been on the flit. Hadn’t wanted to. Pointing out that fact didn’t seem like the wisest course of action at present.
Instead, he ignored her dig and tried a different tactic. “On the topic of employable skills, that was why I went to the mop fair in the first place. To see what jobs were available.”
Kitty stared at him—then threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, Corby, pull my other leg, eh? It’s shorter.”
“I’m not joking,” he said curtly. “We need the money.”
She sauntered up to him, trailed a finger down his chest. “You do know how one advertises one’s trade at the mops, lover?”
Though he might have lived his whole life in London’s underbelly, he wasn’t an idiot. “One walks around with a tool from one’s trade. You hold a mop if you haven’t any specific skill, but you’re willing to learn.”
“Exactly,” she drawled. “So how will it look for you to prance up and down the fair—waving that giant cock of yours about?”
His jaw clenched. “I can do honest work, Kitty.”
“You say that because you’ve never done it before.” She smirked. “Other than fucking, what are you good at, hmm? You’re far too good-looking to be a field hand, and your skills don’t qualify you to be even a second footman.”
His face burned; he had no reply.
“Self-delusion is for the stupid and weak.” She suddenly palmed his crotch, her rough squeeze driving a harsh breath from his lips. “Besides, can you imagine being in service day in and day out? And for what? Twenty-five pounds a year,” she scoffed. “You’ve made four times that in a single night—and enjoyed yourself far more in the process. No, Corby, drudgery wasn’t meant for the likes of us.”