Tight Laced (7 page)

“Children?”

“Used to be they were sent down with a pail as soon as they were strong enough to hold one. But now, our youngest colliers are strapping older boys who work around the school schedule.”

A cart ambled past, its wheels splashing through standing water, the driver frantic with keeping the thing upright. Lacilia shook her head. Chaos was a dandy devil – hungry, unquenchable. She softened her voice. “Were children among the victims, do you think?”

Darlington took in a slow breath. “The money your father lent was for improvements to the pit. For ventilation, to keep the blackdamp from poisoning the colliers. He was particularly concerned for the younger miners.”

Lacy felt tears well in the corners of her eyes. “My father loved children.”

Darlington tucked his watch and its fob in his jacket pocket. He climbed down from the bench, and patted each horse in turn. “The rain is letting up a bit. Let’s travel on to the inn. I’ll guide the animals from the road, and you can steer them from the coachman’s seat?”

He was quite the striking figure, this duke. His broad shoulders and straight back, his confident manner. Sarah Jane could certainly do worse.
Any
lady, actually, could do worse.

I subjoin here the presumptions of prostitution required on the Continent, before placing a woman upon the registry; …The points, then, from which presumption of clandestine prostitution are deduced on the Continent, are the following:

1. When a girl is arrested in any public place or public road, giving herself up to acts of debauchery with a man who declares he does not know her, and will not bail her.

2. When a girl is arrested introducing into her house a man whom she has met in the public streets, or place of public resort, and who makes the same declaration as the above.

3. When a girl is arrested in a furnished house or inn, shut up with a man who makes the same declaration as the above.

~ William Acton,
Prostitution, considered in its Moral, Social, and Sanitary Aspects 2nd edition 1870

T
HROUGH A HAZE
of misty fog and several waterlogged spruces, Lacilia spied a weather-beaten sign, held by only one of its chains. She cocked her head sideways to read it. “The Rogue Inn. Yes. This is the place I first sipped ale with my father years ago. In front of a roaring fire.”

Darlington was muddy from toe to hip, having coaxed the team through a bog, a washed out road and a small stream. Lacy thought he looked more a stable boy than a duke, and in truth, she preferred this modest look to the tile-and-choker fancy man.

Darlington followed Lacy’s extended finger with his line of sight, sluicing the water from his brow and flicking rain’s residue into the muck. “That old hovel? Why, that’s no place for a lady to warm her boots.”

“Nonsense,” Lacy countered. “Hold the team whilst I make the inquiry.”

With that, they came to rest beside a slanted porch (which had suffered broken railing boards in the storm, causing Lacy to have to lift her skirts and tiptoe around the debris).

The entry parlor was little more than a rickety chair and tea table, upon which lay a dusty tin bell. Once her eyes adjusted to low light (and her nose, to the dust) Lacy’s memory was sufficiently jogged.

Her father and she had stopped here many times over the years, on their way to and from delivering meats and toys to the Cockermouth Asylum for Foundlings. The innkeeper was a man named Snopes. Or was it
Stokes
?

Lacy rang the bell.

She rang it once more when the first ringing did not produce the desired result.

“Hold your head, Sir,” came a scraggly voice from the other room, and then, shortly thereafter, the innkeeper – a hunched over man barely taller than a grave marker – shuffled forth.

As he came to a standstill in front of Lacy, he blinked and rubbed his eyes. “M’lady, what brings you about in foul weather such as this?”

He did not recognize her, that was clear. Doubtful out here in the grove that he would even know about the earl’s death. Where to begin in such a knotted situation? Which strand might she tug on first?

While she was trying to unravel the threads and pick out her opening salvo, who should stomp in but the muddy duke.

“Sir,” he bade, bowing his head ever so slightly.

In his condition, and without proper overcoat nor neckcloth, it was difficult to discern his rank. But the innkeeper’s livelihood depended upon such distinctions, and he quickly guessed that he was in the presence of someone important. “Your Grace,” he greeted, tipping his own bald pate slightly.

“The horses need food, as do we,” Darlington managed. “Can you spare a dry stall or two? A tin of victuals and a pint, perhaps?”

“Yes m’lord. And for the lady, shall I fetch a dry shawl?”

“That would be capital,” piped Lacy.

The little man then squinted in her direction. After a moment he gleamed. “Why, it’s the little Bloomsbury daughter! I was so sad to hear of the passing of the earl!”

Lacy was quite aware that she would need to come up with a reason for her lack of mourning attire (and the fact that she now appeared here unchaperoned, with a man, no less) – she ran the risk of enormous scandal. She was attempting to respond in a such a way to avoid rancor, when the duke spoke up.

“The dear man is gone, yes, but we bring good news! The earl’s daughter and I have been wed. Just yesterday. It was his deathbed wish. Now, however, there is terrible news of my holdings in the North, and we are on our way to attend to it. But, clearly, waylaid by the storm.”

Lacy’s heart fluttered. Her instinct was to slap the duke silly and confess the truth, but for once she held her tongue. This was quite the clever ruse, after all. Particularly given the engagement to Sarah Jane. If Lady Bloomsbury’s gossips had done their job, news of an impending betrothal from Highcastle may have reached as far as India by now.

And yet, Lacy’s stomach felt a falsehood’s tightening knot begin to take hold. All she could think to do was smile weakly as the innkeeper bowed and scraped and offered his sincere congratulations.

“You must stay here as my guest! I have but one room that’s not damaged by the rains, and it is a glorious room at that! By morning, when the sky turns clear again, you shall be treated to the loveliest vista this side of Manchester. I swear it!”

The little man was so animated that his cheeks turned crimson and his breathing faltered. Lacy worried that there might be yet another fatal incident should this Spokes fellow continue on in such a manner.

She put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “We only need a bit of warmth and nourishment, and then will be on our way, kind Sir.”

“But where will you go? The roads north are in terrible shape, and trees are down blocking the route back to Rosehaven. I do not think you and your groom have a choice but to stay here the night.”

Lacilia’s heart leapt to her throat. She waited for the duke to counter with some grand plan, but when she peered his way, she caught the beginnings of a grin that reached into his very soul.

The impish innkeeper was quite pleased with himself, that much was clear. He thrust the door open, letting loose a clod of dirt that poofed up in the air and settled on the surfaces of the somewhat filthy room. He exclaimed, “The last couple who slept here created an heir. They brought him round just this past week. I believe the space to be imbued with the spirit of fertility.”

Lacy’s face crumpled in disgust. She was likely wondering if the room had been swept since.

Darlington paused at the threshold of the so-called Honeymoon Suite, and turned to his would-be bride. He meant his words to be wry, and expected the good lady to be amused. “Shall I carry you?”

Instead, the dear maiden glared at him with such opprobrium, he was reminded of Queen Victoria herself.

“I will warm some water for the stand-up, Your Grace. And after you are settled, I’ll take my leave.”

With that, the man produced a wink.

Lacilia watched the small fellow amble down the hall and down the flight of stairs, and then she lit into Darlington, whispering harshly. “I can see that this amuses you greatly, Duke. But I shall tell you right now, you are sleeping in the barn with the team.”

Darlington smiled, surveying the crumpled linen, ripped curtains and mildewed canopy cover. “It might be tidier in the stable.”

Lacy’s hands quickly found their way to her narrow hips. The loose gown she wore rumpled at her waist. “This is a wretched situation.”

“At least we are out of the storm.”

“We are out of one storm and into yet another. What do you think is going to happen once we are found out?”

“I won’t tell a soul,
Lala
, and I don’t think the mad dwarf has much credibility.”

“Well nothing is at stake for
you
, is it? Acton shan’t imprison you for prostitution, after all. Also, do not, not ever, call me
Lala
. I despise that name.”

“Is that what has your knickers in a knot, my dear? Acton’s men stampeding the countryside, hauling tarts off to the gallows?”

Lacy seethed. “You are not to mention my knickers. What do you take me for?”

Darlington grazed her with a lengthy up-and-down, allowing himself the response she’d set up. “An angry, beautiful, confused, utterly exhausted, young lady. In a silly frock.”

“What? I’ll have you know this dress came from Paris. All the artists and philosophers are wearing the rational gown. Why, even Oscar Wilde—”

“Oscar Wilde! That rummy young cove?”

“He is
not
rummy. I had the good fortune to have met the man at Oxford last season. Mark my words, Duke, he will become one of the most important writers of our era.”

“You met him? Was he wearing one of those robes? Or perhaps all done up in a frock coat, his moustache waxed tighter than his curls?”

“He is not a man of whiskers, nor cruelty.”

Darlington huffed. Surprising himself with pangs of jealousy. Or possibly envy, he had to admit. The Oxford set had always snubbed him. Dukes of the peerage were often sent to Glasgow or Edinburgh for their education, and in Darlington’s case, he’d squeaked by in Aberdeen – thought to be where the dullards were sent. Academics bored him, and academicians bored him even more.

The innkeeper returned with a kettle and some flannels. He filled the pitcher and steam rose from it.

Darlington nodded approval, and the small fellow bid farewell. Once again offering a bold wink that, fortunately, Lady Lacilia missed, as her back was turned and her gaze delivered out the smeary glass, into the darkening surround.