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stairway. “Who is it?”
“A friend of Lord Cheddersby.”
There was a sound of hasty movement behind the door, which soon swung open to reveal a woman slovenly attired in a day robe, her curling wig slightly askew and her eyes bleary enough to tell him—if her breath had not—that she had been drinking heavily.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” the woman drawled, surveying him slowly and lasciviously. Her pasty brow wrinkled slightly. “So, you are one of dear Foz’s friends?”
“I am Robert Harding, Lord Cheddersby’s solicitor.”
“What?” she cried, shoving the door closed—to no avail, for Rob’s booted foot covered the threshold.
He put his hand on the door and pushed it open. The woman gasped, then grabbed her robe and pulled it tight, as if it were some kind of protective armor. “Get out!”
“I am here to discuss terms.”
The fear left her face and she crossed her arms. “Come in.”
Rob did so, and closed the door behind him. He scanned the room and the one visible beyond. He wondered if Lord Cheddersby had ever actually been here, or if she had insisted they go to his house, and eat his food and drink his wine.
“Terms, eh?” the woman queried.
“Yes.”
“Is he going to pay?” she demanded, shifting her weight to the other leg.
“I thought you wanted him to marry you.”
“He … he’s willing to marry me?” she asked, dumbfounded.
“No.”
Her eyes got a triumphant gleam. “Then he’s going to pay.”
Rob continued to regard her steadily. She blinked and moved slowly toward an open bottle of wine and a pewter goblet sitting on a table covered with a shabby stained cloth. “I don’t expect all that I asked for, naturally. That was just an opening … suggestion.”
“How much will you settle for?”
She studiously poured out some wine and took a large gulp. Setting the goblet down, she wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “Half.”
“Unacceptable.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Quarter, then.”
“I think nothing would be appropriate, Mistress St. Dunstan, if that is really your name.”
“Nothing?” she cried, arms akimbo and paying no heed to the comment about her name, or the fact that her gaping robe revealed nearly the whole of her pendulous breasts.
“Nothing. If you had identified yourself as a whore in the beginning, you would have received suitable remuneration, I’m sure. Since you did not mention money before the act of sexual intercourse, it was not clear that you were a whore. My client thought you were simply a generous woman. To attempt to wring money from him now under the conditions you specified is extortion. Unless you cease and desist, I will be delighted to take the case to court.”
She scowled. “You would, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes.”
Eyes narrowing, she waggled a finger at him. “You might not be a lawyer. For all I know, you could be one of Cheddersby’s actor friends from the theater playing at being his solicitor.”
“You are free to think whatever you will,” Rob replied, “as long as you understand there will be no money forthcoming from Lord Cheddersby, and that if you attempt to spread false rumors about his physical condition, I will have you arrested and charged with slander.
“So we understand each other, Mistress St. Dunstan, do we not? Lord Cheddersby will never hear from you again.”
Suddenly the woman’s eyes widened. “I know who you are! I’ve seen ya before! You’re Heartless Harding!”
“So some people call me.”
“I know all
about
you, too,” she said with a sly smile. “How you was caught picking a pocket and would have hung except the man you tried to rob was a solicitor who liked the way you tried to talk your way out of it. Liked you so much he took into his house and educated you and let you be his clerk and so you got to be a solicitor yourself. I know how you paid him back, too, my fine Heartless Harding. Seems I ain’t the only whore in the room today.”
Rob crossed
“A friend of Lord Cheddersby.”
There was a sound of hasty movement behind the door, which soon swung open to reveal a woman slovenly attired in a day robe, her curling wig slightly askew and her eyes bleary enough to tell him—if her breath had not—that she had been drinking heavily.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” the woman drawled, surveying him slowly and lasciviously. Her pasty brow wrinkled slightly. “So, you are one of dear Foz’s friends?”
“I am Robert Harding, Lord Cheddersby’s solicitor.”
“What?” she cried, shoving the door closed—to no avail, for Rob’s booted foot covered the threshold.
He put his hand on the door and pushed it open. The woman gasped, then grabbed her robe and pulled it tight, as if it were some kind of protective armor. “Get out!”
“I am here to discuss terms.”
The fear left her face and she crossed her arms. “Come in.”
Rob did so, and closed the door behind him. He scanned the room and the one visible beyond. He wondered if Lord Cheddersby had ever actually been here, or if she had insisted they go to his house, and eat his food and drink his wine.
“Terms, eh?” the woman queried.
“Yes.”
“Is he going to pay?” she demanded, shifting her weight to the other leg.
“I thought you wanted him to marry you.”
“He … he’s willing to marry me?” she asked, dumbfounded.
“No.”
Her eyes got a triumphant gleam. “Then he’s going to pay.”
Rob continued to regard her steadily. She blinked and moved slowly toward an open bottle of wine and a pewter goblet sitting on a table covered with a shabby stained cloth. “I don’t expect all that I asked for, naturally. That was just an opening … suggestion.”
“How much will you settle for?”
She studiously poured out some wine and took a large gulp. Setting the goblet down, she wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “Half.”
“Unacceptable.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Quarter, then.”
“I think nothing would be appropriate, Mistress St. Dunstan, if that is really your name.”
“Nothing?” she cried, arms akimbo and paying no heed to the comment about her name, or the fact that her gaping robe revealed nearly the whole of her pendulous breasts.
“Nothing. If you had identified yourself as a whore in the beginning, you would have received suitable remuneration, I’m sure. Since you did not mention money before the act of sexual intercourse, it was not clear that you were a whore. My client thought you were simply a generous woman. To attempt to wring money from him now under the conditions you specified is extortion. Unless you cease and desist, I will be delighted to take the case to court.”
She scowled. “You would, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes.”
Eyes narrowing, she waggled a finger at him. “You might not be a lawyer. For all I know, you could be one of Cheddersby’s actor friends from the theater playing at being his solicitor.”
“You are free to think whatever you will,” Rob replied, “as long as you understand there will be no money forthcoming from Lord Cheddersby, and that if you attempt to spread false rumors about his physical condition, I will have you arrested and charged with slander.
“So we understand each other, Mistress St. Dunstan, do we not? Lord Cheddersby will never hear from you again.”
Suddenly the woman’s eyes widened. “I know who you are! I’ve seen ya before! You’re Heartless Harding!”
“So some people call me.”
“I know all
about
you, too,” she said with a sly smile. “How you was caught picking a pocket and would have hung except the man you tried to rob was a solicitor who liked the way you tried to talk your way out of it. Liked you so much he took into his house and educated you and let you be his clerk and so you got to be a solicitor yourself. I know how you paid him back, too, my fine Heartless Harding. Seems I ain’t the only whore in the room today.”
Rob crossed
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