Marce glared at the stack of bills and piles of coins on the desk before her. It was a startling amount of money; however, she could not allow herself to ponder all she could do with it. It was the funds amassed to make her next payment to the Duke of Harwich.

Not Rowan. She never thought of the man by his given name now. It lulled her into a false sense of familiarity with the duke. She needed to remember that they were little more than strangers, despite their years of forced association.

With the funds before her—plus the money she’d been able to hide away—Marce had collected enough to purchase a plot of land with at least a modest cottage with several rooms, perhaps close to the sea with a fishing village nearby, or in a meadow with a garden fertile enough to provide food all year long.

A hint of a smile crossed her face before Marce pressed her lips tightly together. She couldn’t allow herself even a moment of elation at the fact that she, and those who depended on her, would not only survive but also thrive.

In the week since she’d returned to London and her home, she’d tried to remind herself that Craven House no longer belonged to her, that detaching her emotions from the place was in her best interest. She’d slowly started collecting all the possessions that meant the most to her. But as the days passed and no one came to cast her out, Marce had begun to pack with less urgency. Could it be that the duke was in no hurry to throw her to the streets?

Marce pushed the coins into the velvet, drawstring bag before stuffing the stack of notes in next. No matter what his plans were, Marce was not paying him another shilling of her hard-earned money. She’d need every note and coin to set up her new household—once she found a suitable residence, that was. But she would be ready when he did arrive, even if that meant renting several rooms in a lodging house closer to Drury Lane.

If there was one thing Marce knew for certain, it was that she could—and would—do all that was necessary and in her power to protect everyone who depended on her. She would let no one down…not her siblings or the women who’d come to her for help.

Rowan could go to the Devil if he thought to get any more money from her or if he thought she’d leave before she was damn good and ready.

Upon returning to London, Marce had consulted with Lady Chastain, one of her few friends—and her husband—gaining the name of their family solicitor: a Mr. James Adams, Esq. The man was, at the moment, scouring the countryside for an appropriate and fitting home for Marce that would give her the space she needed but also a modicum of privacy and seclusion. With the number of women who came and went from Craven House, it was no wonder rumors still continued that her house was one of ill repute. Thankfully, Ellington and her husband, Alex, were well aware of the work Marce did and had very graciously offered their assistance.

It was an odd turn of events—Marce being the one to depend on Ellie—as Marce had raised Ellie alongside her own siblings after Ellie’s mother, a working girl at Craven House, had expired shortly after Ellie’s birth. Ellie had maintained that she owed Marce much for the many years of kindness she’d shown the girl, even during her hellion years, but Marce knew the woman’s indebtedness was misplaced. It had been survival they’d all worked so tirelessly toward, and that they were able to wage war together had been beneficial to them all. It wasn’t as if Ellie hadn’t done everything in her power to help Marce with Jude and Sam once it was time for them to take their places in society. Without Ellie’s sponsorship, neither of Marce’s sisters would have met and wedded the men they love.

Marce pulled the drawstring tight and slipped her savings—meager as it might appear to others—into the bottom drawer of her desk. The lock clicked into place just as a knock on her study door sounded.

Her entire body tensed.

She wasn’t expecting anyone, nor did she have anywhere to go. The meal for the evening had already been agreed upon, and the money for the market given to Cook the previous night.

Marce smoothed her hands down the front of her gown and swept her long curls back over her shoulders. She hadn’t bothered to fuss with it that morning and decided to allow her long locks to do as they pleased.

“Enter,” she called, sitting a bit straighter in her chair.

Darla, the Craven House housekeeper and cook, pushed the door wide and stepped aside to allow a young, delicate girl to enter the room. She couldn’t be more than sixteen, at most, with her ebony hair pulled back in a severe knot, and her pale skin highlighting green eyes with high cheekbones and a straight, if not a bit too pointy, nose. Images of Rowan with his dark hair and green eyes sprang to Marce’s mind, but she pushed them away and locked them up tightly.

As she stared at the girl, Marce noted her torn gown, as if the hem had been caught on something and she’d pulled it free. A bruise marred her jawline, and her hands—where they were clenched before her—were stained with soot and filth. She kept her stare focused on the floor, and her shoulders trembled ever so slightly.

Marce eased slowly from her seat in an attempt to not startle the terrified girl as she brought her hesitant stare up from the ground.

“My dear girl.” Marce reached forward with a gentle touch, but the girl stepped back out of reach as her alarmed gaze darted about the room. “What is your name?” Marce spoke low, holding her hands up in surrender—or at least to show the girl she wouldn’t invade her space again until she was settled.

“Abbigail, madam,” she uttered in a thin, reedy voice with the undeniable hint of aristocracy. She was of noble birth, or at least part of the upper gentry. “I was told you could help me.”

“Of course, of course, Abbigail.” Marce moved back to her seat, lowering herself gradually as she gestured for the girl to sit, as well. “Please.”

Abbigail lowered her head once more. “I will stand, but thank you for the kindness.”

From her manners and the quality of her gown, the girl was certainly a part of society. “Abbigail, please tell me what you need, and I will do everything I can to help.”

“A place to stay—”

“Of course, we have plenty—”

“Just until word arrives from my aunt in Dover.”

“You may stay at Craven House—err, with me—for as long as you need.” Marce fell into silence as the girl eased into the chair, wincing when her backside touched the red velvet covering. Even if Rowan arrived that very day to toss her from Craven House, Marce would make certain all her charges were well taken care of. There was space at Lady Chastain’s home or at one of her siblings’ empty residences. “Are you injured? Should I send for a physician?”

“No, madam.” She gave her head a solid shake. “I do not need a doctor.”

“May I ask a few questions before Darla shows you to your room?”

“Yes.” It was a simple reply, but the way Abbigail’s shoulders slumped told Marce that she’d need to be selective and quick with her inquiries lest the girl decide to flee.

“Is someone looking for you?”

“No.” There was a deep sense of surety in her tone.

“Does your aunt know to write you here?”

“Yes.”

“If your aches and bruises worsen, you will tell me immediately?”

The girl’s eyes snapped to Marce and searched her blue depths. Marce did her utmost to appear open and poised as she folded her hands before her on the desk. Seeing women beaten and bruised never grew easier and always filled Marce with a deep sense of sorrow.

Finally, the girl whispered, “Yes.”

“Very good.” Marce grabbed the list that always sat on the corner of her desk and read down the page. “Are you agreeable to sharing a room with another woman?”

When Abbigail simply nodded, Marce went back to her list. She had only six women staying at Craven House at the moment, with only one who remained all hours of the day. The others were working toward stable employment and gaining their own accommodations. “You will room with a woman named Natasha. She is quiet and reserved, but friendly when coaxed from her silence. You will get on very well.”

“I will endeavor not to outstay my welcome, madam.”

“When was word sent to your aunt?”

“My maid—errr, a friend, sent a letter via the post yesterday.”

“Then it will be at least a week before we can expect to hear anything back,” Marce said with a small smile of reassurance. “Until then, you can settle in. We eat at eight o’clock, two o’clock, and seven o’clock each day. Everyone is to be in their rooms from nine o’clock each night until the morning. That is my only rule, and no one is to disobey it.”

In the back of her mind, Marce prayed she had a week’s time before the duke—or one of his associates—arrived to take possession of Craven House. Ellie’s solicitor thought it would take at least several weeks to secure a new house.

Now Marce could add Abbigail to the list of people who’d suffer if Rowan made good on his threat. Never had she fully reconciled the far-reaching effects of her decision to end their arrangement. It was not just she and the duchess who were gravely injured, the women under Marce’s care would be impacted, as well. With any luck, a new home would be secured with all due haste, and things would progress as normal. Or what was to become her new normal.

“Can you abide by that rule?” she asked.

“Yes, madam,” Abbigail said with a confident nod.

“Last question before you retire to rest,” Marce said, her voice softening. “May I ask what happened?”

The girl glanced over her shoulder to the open door, but Darla was wise enough to have moved out of view.

“It is just us, Abbigail,” Marce coaxed.

“My father…he thought I’d ruined myself, but I didn’t, I swear to it. I never—”

“You needn’t explain anything to me.” Marce stood and called Darla back into the room. “Please see Abbigail to her bedchamber—with Natasha—and have a bath brought up for her.” She paused, turning her attention back the girl. “I will have Darla procure two gowns and underpinnings for you. Are your shoes suitable for the time being?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Please let me know if you need anything else.”

“There is one other thing…”

“Of course,” Marce said.

“I do not have enough coin for the coach to Dover,” Abbigail confessed, her cheeks coloring with shame. “My aunt, she is old, and I do not want to burden her…”

Marce thought of the stash in her drawer…barely enough for a new home and to keep Craven House going until the move. “Do not fret over the funds. I will see that you have the fare and some coin to take with you for emergencies.”

“You are too kind, madam,” she said, her voice thickening.

“It is what another did for my family once, long ago. I am more than happy to help you, Abbigail, and any other woman—or family—that comes to me for assistance. Now, find your room, bathe, rest, and be ready to join us for our meal when the clock strikes two.”

“Yes, thank you.” She gave Marce a quick curtsy and followed Darla from the room.

Alone once more, Marce glanced about the red and gold office.

She’d be lying if she said she wouldn’t miss this room—and every other space in the large house. Running her hand along the smooth, wood surface of the desk, Marce thought back to when her mother reigned over Craven House. She was a fair, kind, and compassionate woman. Someone who’d known the struggle of wedding above one’s class, gaining a taste of high society, and then being cast back down just as quickly. During her brief years as a marchioness, her mother had met many people, but not one remained at her side after Benton threw her from her home. No one offered her and her two young children lodging during the harsh time. Not one individual had come to call on her once she settled at Craven House. But, oh, how the men of society had flocked to Madame Sasha. Her richly adorned brothel, her parties held once a year at the home of whichever lord offered his country estate as a gathering place, her bed…

It was the one thing Marce would never sacrifice. She’d perish before lying with any man just to further her own needs. Her mother had taken up with Pengarden, Sam and Jude’s father, after her husband died, and then Payton’s father—a kind, but lowly blacksmith. Then it had been Julian Delconti, the Duke of Harwich. Had there been others? If there were, Marce was unaware of who they were.

Despite all the men who’d occupied Sasha’s bed, she’d still been, first and foremost, a mother. She’d made certain that her children were fed and clothed. Extra coin went for tutors and afternoons and evenings spent about London: the museums, the playhouses, and occasionally, a day trip to the countryside not far outside London proper.

Like her mother, Marce would continue to do her best for everyone involved.

Glancing at the clock atop the hearth mantel, she was surprised to see how quickly her morning had passed. In just ten minutes, the tall clock in the foyer would chime midday. Two hours until she and the few women under her care who did not have employment would meet in the dining hall for a meal. Two hours until she must look each in the face, smile, chat about her day and theirs, and not mention one word about their impending troubles. They all counted on her, had accepted her offer of a house and safety—something Marce had no right to offer anyone. Once she purchased her own home, she’d be free to promise these women something as grand as a fresh start at life or a bed to sleep in until their situation improved. But at this moment, they were all living on borrowed time, at the mercy of the duke. It was everything she’d feared all these years.

He could arrive at any moment to shatter their hopes and cast them from their lodgings and out into the cruel London streets.

Would Natasha be forced to return to her punishing husband? Would Abbigail rather sleep in a filthy alley off Oxford Street than seek her father’s home once more? Marce carried the burden of options. She could fall at Garrett’s feet and beg for shelter or go to Ellington for a room. She even had the possibility of seeking out Lord Cartwright’s mother, Jude’s mother-in-law, for housing. Where would all the others go until Marce could secure rooms for them?

Marce needn’t squander her energy on that front until the time presented itself.

With luck, Mr. Adams would write to her about a suitable property within her price range.

The door opened, slamming on its hinges, and Marce let slip a startled yelp as she nearly leapt from her seat.

“I told you she’d be here,” Payton, her youngest sibling hooted with victory. “Now pay up.”

“I don’t think our wager was—” Garrett’s deep tone rebutted.

“You fawning, fly-bitten coxcomb!”

“Payton Samuels,” Marce warned, regaining her seat. “Where in all that’s holy did you gain such a foul mouth?”

Both Garrett and Payton halted before her desk, and Payton managed a remorseful glance in her direction.

“Well?” Marce prodded.

“The baron’s children, they have been left fallow for far too long.”

“Then you, as their new governess, should teach them better ways,” Marce scolded. “If I hear anything to the contrary, you will return home immediately and never be allowed from your room again.” Marce only hoped she had a room to put Payton in if the need to fulfill her threat presented itself.

“I am doing my best, sister, but these children…they are demons.” Payton threw herself down on the lounge Garrett favored, leaving their brother to sit in the chair Abbigail had vacated not long before. “I swear, they will be the death of me.”

“The death of you?” Marce’s brow arched high. “One is six, the other eight. Barely out of the nursery.”

“They are a troublesome and quarrelsome pair.” Payton laid her arm across her forehead. “I swear I will do my best to show them the correct decorum a young lady should exude.”

For not the first time since relenting to Payton’s badgering requests to take the paid position, Marce doubted that her youngest sibling was in any way qualified to instruct proper young girls on the correct ways they should conduct themselves. Yet, she knew it was more prudent to have Payton away from Craven House and removed from the turmoil soon to come.

Garrett snorted, throwing a bookend across the small room at Payton.

It landed on the girl’s stomach and brought forth an oof. Payton shot to a seated position to glare at their brother.

“Stop with your whining,” Garrett chastised. “Always with the whining and sulking.”

“I do not su—”

“You do,” Marce and Garrett said in unison.

Marce pinched the bridge of her nose, begging for some of the solitude she’d had directly before leaving for Hadlow the previous week. “My apologies, Payton, I did not mean to offend you; however, you must remember that you are the adult, and the children are your pupils. They are under your care and guidance.”

“Then mayhap a switch to the backside will halt their—”

“No!” Garrett shouted at the same time Marce voiced her objection. “I know nothing of children—besides you heathens”—he nodded to Payton, and she suspected that he also meant Jude and Sam—“however, perhaps sweets and toys are a better method for gaining their compliance.”

For a split second, Marce feared all her sacrifices and hard work in raising her siblings in a loving home had been for naught. That was until Garrett and Payton turned wide-eyed stares on her and fell into fits of laughter. Garrett’s deep and hearty, and Payton’s more of a light giggle more suited to a girl half her age.

“You two are incorrigible.” Marce turned her attention to the mess of papers and files littering her desk to hide her grin. She would miss these moments with her family. Once she moved out of London, their visits would not likely be regular. Her smile faded as she asked, “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“Payton needs funds.”

“I most certainly do not need money,” Payton countered. “I gain a handsome wage from the baron and whatever else I need, I get from—”

Marce narrowed her glare on her sister and said through clenched teeth, “You best not be about to say the gaming tables.”

To Payton’s credit, she widened her stare and made to look innocent. “Of course not, dear sister, I was going to say…”

Marce waved her hand, making it known that silence was favored over a lie. In no way was Marce prepared to punish or judge the vices of others when her own hands were stained with deception.

One could only play the hypocrite for so long before—

A pounding drifted down the hall from the front of the house. Another unexpected visitor?

“Are you expecting someone?” Garrett asked, his stare focused on her.

“I—well…I do not think so,” she replied.

“You appear a sickly green, sister.” Payton leaned across the desk, poking Marce in the cheek. “And your arms are covered in goose pimples.”

Marce hadn’t any need to look in the mirror or down at her exposed arms above her gloves to know how she appeared. It was the physical representation of the sense that came over her each time she heard an unfamiliar sound at Craven House—doom, dread, and disaster.

She only prayed she could hold the inevitable at bay until after her siblings had departed.