The Scandalous Life of a True Lady by Bárbara Metzger Read Free Book Online Page A

and well-spoken. She went to church regular-like, too, which proves her decency.” She looked out the tiny window of Simone’s former chamber, the one that overlooked the street, and Lydia Burton’s house. “Not like the females across the way who miss more Sundays than they make. And no wonder, with the hours they keep. Why, I could tell you—”
    “So this room’s for rent now, eh?” Harold said, opening the shabby trunk under the eaves to load in more books, two gowns on hooks, a threadbare robe and flannel nightgown, and a small portrait. He tucked the small stack of letters into his coat pocket, but bumped his head when he stood up. “Got any other rooms to let, iffen I come across any swells lookin’ for quarters? I never know who’s gettin’ in my coach these days.”
    “Why, that would be real neighborly of you, Mr., ah?”
    “Harold, ma’am,” he said, barely tipping his hat, keeping his eyes lowered while he rubbed at his skull and then wiped at his mouth. “Bigger rooms’n this one?”
    “Well, I have the ground floor, naturally, so I can watch the comings and goings of my tenants. I permit no hanky-panky in my dwelling, you understand.”
    “Wouldn’t of thought otherwise, ma’am.”
    She glared at the dark driving coat he wore. “And no pets, neither.”
    Harold quickly brushed at his sleeve. “I’ll remember that, ma’am. What about the middle floor, then? Is that one occupied?”
    “Mr. Fordyce has the whole apartment.” Mrs. Olmstead pursed her thick lips. “He pays his rent on time, that’s about all the good I can say of him. Never goes to church, he doesn’t. Doesn’t talk much, neither. Too busy counting his coins, I’d suppose. An investor, is what he calls hisself. Cold-hearted heathen, is what I call him, what never shares a pint or a pastry or a bit of chitchat. But he pays on time.” She sighed. “And more’n the rooms are worth. Too bad about the lass, either way. I’ll miss her.” She stuffed some of Miss Ryland’s things into a carpet bag, things not fit for a gent’s eyes, she told him.
    Harold kept his own eyes on the landlady, devout Christian that she was, to make sure Miss Ryland’s belongings got into the satchel. Then he closed the trunk and hoisted it to his shoulder.
    “My, you are a strong one, aren’t you?” Mrs. Olmstead admired. “Don’t suppose you are looking for accommodations, are you?”
    “No, ma’am,” Harold said, hurrying down the stairs and out to the carriage, guessing the overweight widow, church-goer or not, meant more than a room. “I’m well set where I am.” He stowed the trunk, handed the boy on the coach the satchel, and handed Mrs. Olmstead a coin for her trouble. Then he said as how he ought to go back up for one last look, to make certain they hadn’t missed anything.
    Mrs. Olmstead decided to wait below. “No need for us both to climb those stairs again, I suppose.”
    Her voice held a tinge of regret, so Harold quickly said, “No, ma’am,” and took the stairs two at a time, out of her sight. He knocked on the door of the other lodger, however, before reaching the attic room.
    “Come to give you a goodbye message from Miss Ryland,” he said when a short, middle-aged man with pale skin, deep-set eyes, and hanging jowls opened the door.
    He frowned, at the intrusion or the information. “Leaving, is she?”
    Harold heard a flicker of regret, as the boarder licked his lips, his tongue darting out like an asp’s. Harold planned to deliver his message as a fist to the soft gut that overhung the man’s trousers.
    “Well, what is it?” the investor demanded. “I am busy.”
    Harold touched the brim of his brown hat and looked down in humble servitude. “Sorry to interrupt Mr., ah…?”
    “Fordyce, sirrah. Malcolm Fordyce.”
    The coachman stepped back. He decided to withhold his lesson in manners toward defenseless women until he did a bit of investigating. Why would a surly man lie about being busy, and