Dance of Seduction Read Free Page A

you’ll lose a position. Because one day the dream will vanish as so many others have, and you’ll have nothing to stand between you and starvation but your skills .
    She took one look at his anxious face and sighed. “From now on, please practice only on me and the servants, all right?”
    He blinked at her. “You mean you’re not dismissing me?”
    The hopeful yearning in his face made her heart hurt. “No. Though if you ever do anything like that again—”
    “Oh, yes, m’lady…I mean no, m’lady…I mean I’ll never do it again, I swear!” Grabbing her hand, he kissed itwith a slavishness bordering on desperation. “I won’t disappoint you. I’ll never pick a pocket again, and I’ll be the best footman ever to work at Stanbourne Hall!”
    “You’ll certainly be the most nimble.” When he looked downcast, she smiled reassuringly. “There, there, you’re a good, hard worker, and I have every faith that you’ll put your quick fingers to better use than you have in the past.” Gently she extricated her hand. “Now go on with you, and summon my carriage.”
    With a quick nod, Samuel scurried off. She shook her head as she watched him go. Samuel was one of her successes, yet even he had his moments. How much hardship must it take to bludgeon such a promising young man into believing he had no hope of a future beyond stealing? That he must always expect life to hand him lemons?
    She squared her shoulders. She was here to counteract all that bludgeoning, and with this new source of funds, she could do it on a grand scale.
    The carriage rumbled up at once. As Samuel took his place on the back, she climbed inside and began to contemplate plans for her new inheritance. There were the practical improvements, of course, expansion of the children’s dormitories and a new stove for the kitchen, not to mention at least two more teachers and a whole slew of books. Mama had always wanted better heating. Indeed if they’d had adequate heating during the cruelly bitter winter of 1812—
    She sighed at the dark memory. Her mother had died of pneumonia during that winter. Clara herself had taken ill, for they’d spent many hours at the Home trying to keep the children warm. But her mother hadn’t possessed the youthful constitution to survive frequent exposure to the dank, cold air.
    Tears stung Clara’s eyes, and she brushed them away impatiently. How silly to dwell on what couldn’t be changed. The news of Uncle Cecil’s death had made her morbid.

    She smoothed out the skirts of her practical worsted gown, the sort she always wore to the Home, and straightened her spine. The best way to honor the dead was by making their passing useful to the living. Mama would be pleased to know she’d indirectly contributed to the Home’s present windfall. Indeed, if not for Mama’s steadfast insistence that Clara associate with the Doggetts as well as the Stanbournes, Uncle Cecil would never have known his niece well enough to warrant giving her such an inheritance.
    Clara smiled. She hoped Mama was watching from heaven and smiling, too.
    By now they’d entered the grimy, despair-ridden environs of Spitalfields. The passing of her carriage was scarcely noted—the bleary-eyed denizens of the streets were used to seeing the black-and-gold Stanbourne equipage trundle by nearly every morning. Clara had been coming this way alone for the seven years since Mama’s death, and for three before it.
    They lumbered onto Petticoat Lane, a street notorious for its receivers of stolen goods, who often worked out of pawnshops. She gathered up her leather reticule and striped wool shawl as they rode within sight of the Home.
    Then something caught her eye in the alley very near her destination. Normally, she wouldn’t give a second glance to two people squabbling, but a flash of red arrested her attention.
    Johnny Perkins in his favorite scarlet coat. And the twelve-year-old, a resident of the Home, was having a spirited discussion