Free Joan Smith by True Lady Page B

dispirited eye around the dismal chamber. Its unclean condition was not so visible in the fading shadows of eventide as it would be the next morning. She saw enough of the linens to tell her charge they would lie down on top of the counterpane with their pelisses over them, and with their towels for pillow cases. Within half an hour it was necessary to light the lamps. An hour after that, Norman had still not come, but hunger pangs had set in. They sent below for a meal, which was every bit as bad as Mrs. Harrington forecast it would be.
    As she ate and Mrs. Harrington nibbled, Trudie thought about their predicament. Mostly she wondered how such an awful thing had happened to them. It had to be Mr. Mandeville; yet where had he got the idea she was a lightskirt? The idea had come from his own low mind. He had no notion of propriety, just money and arrogance. She longed to retaliate for his various offenses, particularly that nasty, punishing kiss.
    Her anger and frustration had ample time to grow. Seven o’clock crept to eight, to nine, and still Norman didn’t come.
    It was nine-thirty when he came bounding up the stairs, three at a time, his dusty face a perfect mask of astonishment. “Good God, Trudie, what brings you and Auntie to this wretched hole? You are lucky you haven’t been set upon by thieves and worse. Come to my room at once, where you will be safe.”
    This speech did nothing to calm their exacerbated nerves. Neither did the appearance of Norman’s room, which had once been a replica of their own but was now so covered with dirty linens, newspapers, dusty boots, empty glasses, cigar butts and other signs of a gentleman’s occupancy that it wasn’t immediately recognizable. Aunt Gertrude took one look, and one gasp of the stale air, and said they would retire to her room instead.
    “Have you eaten yet?” Trudie asked. She examined the youth before her with the keenest interest and hardly recognized him as her younger brother. His fine, dark hair had grown an inch; his usually decent provincial toilette had been replaced by a spotted Belcher kerchief at his neck, buckskin trousers, topboots that were very likely leather but appeared to be constructed of caked layers of mud. The jacket and trousers on his tall frame hung more loosely than before. His face, really rather a handsome face, had become tanned from constant exposure and lean from starvation. And beneath all the decrepitude and grime he looked incredibly happy. His brown eyes sparkled.
    “Not since noon,” he answered. “But what on earth brings you here to Brighton?”
    “We require your assistance, Norman,” Mrs. Harrington said. “The most wretched thing has happened.”
    Trudie saw the flash of apprehension on her brother’s face, the fear that he would have to leave this raffish paradise he had discovered. She was very loath to burden him with their problem, and cast an admonishing glance at her aunt.
    “A little difficulty, Norman. It is nothing of great account. The fact is, we had to leave our rooms on Conduit Street and want your advice on where we should go.”
    “Leave? Why the deuce did you leave? You paid the rent, didn’t you?”
    “Yes, it was the neighbors. We—we did not care for them in the least. They were very noisy and troublesome.”
    Mrs. Harrington had lived with the Bartens long enough to understand the new situation without explanation. She gave Trudie one accusing look but said nothing.
    “I don’t see why you took into your noggins to come pelting all the way down to Brighton,” Norman exclaimed. “Why didn’t you see a real estate agent and hire another set of rooms?”
    “That would have been much more sensible,” Trudie agreed quickly. “But you know Auntie always wanted to see Brighton and the Prince’s pavilion, so we decided to come here for a few days first.”
    “That makes sense,” Norman said. His hunger soon gave such peremptory signals that he had to tend to it. Another plate of the