Read Online Barbara Metzger by Cupboard Kisses - Free Book Online

shouldn’t know about such things, much less talk about them. She hurried to change the topic. “Very well, you won’t speak ill of him, but even you cannot condone such wicked gambling.”
    “No, ma’am, except it did win you this house in Kensington we’re aiming at. Pardon me for saying so, but without it you’d be shark-bait, make no mistake.”
    That was close enough to the truth to give Cristabel pause. “Still,” she said, “it’s not right.”
    “I’m naught but an old tar on permanent shore leave, miss. Who am I to say what’s right?”
    If that were a gentle reminder that provincial, penniless school mistresses had no truck with London ways, Cristabel ignored the hint. The coach was slowing down so the driver could ask directions, and she looked around eagerly. They had long since left the narrow streets of the city which were congested with traffic, noisy vendors, and harassed pedestrians. These roads were wider, tree-lined, and almost empty of carriages. Some streets had attached houses, like rows of uniformed schoolgirls in their church pews. Other wider avenues held modest homes with neat little patches of lawn in front and coach-wide alleys between. Four or five of these buildings could fit on the grounds of the Grosvenor Square properties, but these houses looked comfortable, and comforting to Miss Swann. Tidy and unassuming, they had as little to do with extravagance and wild ways as Cristabel herself. If Fate hadn’t been kind, at least she’d been wise.
    Fate could have been a little more choosy, Cristabel decided when the carriage pulled to a stop. Fifteen Sullivan Street was narrower than its neighbors, closer to the road, and its tiny front yard was a mud swamp instead of a lawn. The windows were grimy, the steps were hidden under layers of dirt, and the whole house was smudge-colored. No wonder the place wasn’t bringing in more income. No wonder the captain didn’t want it.
    Jonas Sparling cleared his throat. The footman had been holding the coach door open, waiting to hand her down. “Steady on, miss. Take heavy weather bow-on.”
    She still made no move. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. Sparling.”
    “Chin up,” he interpreted, smiling his encouragement.
    “Yes, you are quite right,” Cristabel responded, indeed firming her backbone and her resolution. “I have been enough of a ninnyhammer for today. Time to, ah, raise the colors?”
    “That’s it, ma’am. You’ll do. The lad and I will bring in the baggage; you go on ahead.”
    Her skirts may have hidden wobbly knees, but her shoulders were straight as she walked to yet another new door. Instead of the Harwood crest nearby this one had a tattered, hand-lettered ROOMS sign in a window alongside. Cristabel’s knock was just as firm.
    The man who opened the door was short and dark. His hair was spiky and he looked up at Cristabel from under bristly overhanging brows. His nose was squashed flat at the bridge, and a damp, chewed cigar stuck out of his mouth. His jacket was rumpled, his open shirt showing a ring of grime on the once-white collar. He was certainly not the type Miss Swann wished to see at her residence. The feeling was mutual. After an insolent perusal of the tall, thin, drab female on the doorstep, the small man announced “You ain’t our sort,” and shut the door in her face.
    What a way to attract boarders! Miss Swann knocked again. This time he opened the door with a grin, not much more appealing with its blackened teeth. “Persistent wench, I’ll give you that. You’ll have to show me more’n that though.”
    “I’ll show you the door, my man,” Cristabel answered, glowering down at him from her seven or eight inch advantage. “I suggest you learn some manners if you wish to keep your position here, whatever that may be. Doorman, I suppose. You’ll have to get a proper uniform and maintain a neat appearance. If possible,” she added doubtfully.
    “Who the bleedin’ ’ell do you