Trifling Favors (Redcakes Book 7) Read Free Page B

money they could not afford to take out of their housekeeping budget, not if they wanted to keep eating decent food.
    “I should offer him condolences,” her father said, standing up from the table.
    “He’s in a mood,” she said. “And I’m not as polite as you are, Father. Let me speak to him.”
    He smoothed his hair across his balding pate. “I can do the washing up. You made dinner.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Should I make tea?”
    “Let’s wait until he’s gone.” She wouldn’t be surprised if Victor tried to steal the teacups. Time and time again, he’d shown resentment of anything nice that they owned. Over the years he’d made off with candlesticks, books, her father’s new overcoat, even the coverlet from her bed. Her father continued to treat him like a mentally challenged relative and excused his behavior without complaint.
    When she walked back into the parlor, she found Victor striking matches against the box strip and dropping them, still burning, into the fireplace.
    “What are you doing that for?” she asked, ripping the box out of his hands. The match he held dropped onto the varnished wood platform in front of the fireplace. She stamped it out quickly, glad she had forgotten to change out of her street shoes for slippers.
    “Me mam died,” he said again, turning those dark, cold eyes on her. He had the round face of youth and that glorious golden hair, but his eye sockets were too small for his face and his nose had a bulbous quality. His lips were too red for his skin and looked somewhat obscene.
    “I know that, Victor. My condolences. We have to rise early for work, so please leave. Thank you for visiting.”
    “I haven’t eaten dinner,” he said plaintively.
    “We haven’t any food left,” she lied. “We ate it all.”
    He sniffed and puffed away at his pipe, then blew the smoke in her face. She coughed. Somehow, when it wasn’t her father smoking, the tobacco wasn’t nearly so pleasant.
    “I need money for the burial costs,” he said.
    “Your mother paid into a burial society. The expenses should be covered.”
    “We need new clothes,” he said, blowing more smoke.
    She waved it away. “Customs are changing. You don’t need anything but an armband. And I saw Violet. She has a black dress.”
    His nostrils flared. “Where’d you see ’er?”
    Betsy shrugged, not wanting to give him any ideas. “Nice to see you, Victor. You are welcome for the tobacco, but it is time to leave.”
    He tilted his head as if processing her words, then snatched up her father’s tobacco supply and tucked it into a pocket with a sneer. She turned away to go into the hall and escort him out the front door. A hand came down on her arm and he pulled her against him in a rough embrace.
    “Guess I need a wife now to care for Violet an’ me,” he said, blowing more acrid smoke into her face. “Ye’re too old, but at least you work.” He tilted his head again. “Get all your money that way, right?”
    As she pulled back, outraged, he pushed his mouth against her in a revolting, tarry kiss. She stomped on his foot and he let go of her, swearing. Reaching a hand behind her, she felt for the fireplace poker and picked it up. If she left the room to escape him, he might destroy their furnishings, so she held her ground. He was an opportunist but also a coward. She hoped.
    Victor wiped spittle from the corner of his mouth and grinned. “What I wouldn’t do for a chance to tame a spitfire like you, Betsy. But I don’t suppose they’d keep you on at that fancy place you work with your face all bruised up, and I wouldn’t be able to help myself from flattening that snotty nose.”
    She lifted her chin defiantly and brought up the poker to lay it across her chest.
    He snorted. “Like I don’t know where you keep the money.”
    He stood on his tiptoes and pulled down what appeared to be an old Bible from their shelf. Chortling to himself, he opened it. He poured coins into his fist, then