Starling. Virginia Taylor

about colors. I was wrong, and I’m sorry.” Her voice rose with hope. “I would accept a position in any other of your departments.”

      “I don’t have a position in any other department. I do have a list a mile long of women wanting to work in the emporium, as you know.” He evaded her gaze.

      Focusing on her weary black shoes, she exhaled her last hope. She’d loved measuring the soft fabrics, feeling the quality, and sliding the sharp scissors across the width. She’d loved working out the profits. She stood, not caring that her shoulders drooped.

      He pushed out his chair and stood, facing her. “You could earn quite a bit of money if you accept my alternative. I’m much in need of a woman like you.”

      She straightened. A woman like her? “If you don’t want me, I will get a job at Harris’s.”

      “Unlikely, given that they don’t employ females with or without references. I won’t beat around the bush.” Pausing, he eased his black cravat with a forefinger. “You look respectable. I need a woman to pose as my wife for a couple of weeks.”

      Aghast, she took a step back. He didn’t want a maid. He wanted to tup her. “I don’t know what gave you the impression that I might do that, but—”

      “Money.” His lips tilted cynically. “Now, what would you say to five pounds for the two weeks?”

      “No.” Her jaw tense, she backed to the door. “I worked as a laundress at the inn. Not a prostitute.”

      He raised his eyebrows. “You only have to pretend to be my wife.”

      “I’m not good at pretending. I never have been.” She opened the door and walked out.

      Cheeks hot with humiliation, she strode past the clerk and down to the fabric department where, with shaking hands, she grabbed the cloth bag holding an apple, a clean pair of cuffs, a handkerchief, and a few pennies. Tying her shawl across her shoulders, she took the staff exit leading to a narrow alley off Rundle Street. She didn’t have time to weep.

      First, she would need to retrieve her belongings from the emporium’s boardinghouse and next find accommodation for the night. The Star Inn might let her use the laundry room. If not, her friend Meg would find her a safe place.

      Starling’s chest hurt and her eyes prickled. As she pulled the heavy door, she noticed the purple haze hovering over the sunset. She stood staring, her dreams shattered and her life in pieces. Gathering her bag under her arm, she hurried down the cobbled alley, chased by the aroma of fresh horse manure and settling smoke. A hot wind whipped her hair across her face, forcing her to pause. Blinking hard, she tucked the strands behind her ears.

      Dashing the back of her wrist over her eyes, she cornered into Rundle Street. Mr. Seymour stepped in front of her. His high-crowned hat cast a shadow across his features.

      “This way.” He seized her elbow.

      She wrenched her arm out of his grip. “Let me be. I don’t want your money or you.”

      “I have to have you tonight.” He drew a deep breath. “I’ll give you six pounds.”

      She backed away, disgusted. “I know at least three women who would accept your proposition. Go to the Star Inn and see which you would prefer.”

      He shook his head. “I wouldn’t be standing here with you if I hadn’t already tried that. None could pass as a lady.”

      “So, now you want a lady? I thought you said a wife.”

      “My wife would, of course, be a lady. I spent the last two weeks interviewing whores and actresses. Then I looked at my staff yesterday, and there you were with your careful speech, your background at the Star Inn, and your neat and plain appearance.”

      “Neat and plain.” She firmed her lips.

      “Good Lord, girl.” His voice softened. “I’m offering you real money, far more than the fourteen shillings a week you earned here, to live a life of luxury for two weeks. You don’t need to look at me as if I’m Satan. I’m giving you the greatest opportunity of your life.”

      “I had the greatest opportunity of my life—a job as a shopgirl.” She blinked hard. “And for reasons of your own, you’ve taken my best chance from me.”

      His brow creased. “I’m offering you a better one.”

      “I have plans that don’t include being anyone’s wife, real or not.”

      “Two weeks, that’s all I ask,” he said in a long-suffering tone. With a sweep of his hand, he indicated she could move in the direction he wanted her to go.

      She folded her arms.

      He gave her a sideways glint. “I’ll pay you twenty pounds.”

      “No.” She wet her mouth.

      “Perhaps you won’t suit,” he said, shrugging. “Mr. Porter said you were intelligent, but you are acting like a simpleton. I have offered you more than half a year’s wages, and all you can do is persist in your belief that I want to bed you.”

      “Mr. Porter said I was intelligent?” Her voice rose with hope.

      He raised his eyebrows.

      “So, why can’t you put me back in the fabric department?” She brushed down her sleeves, stalling while she thought. “I’m good at selling materials because I like selling materials.”

      He didn’t want her as a maid, and he didn’t want to tup her? She didn’t understand what he wanted.

      He heaved a monumental sigh. “And I’m sure you’ll like pretending to be my wife because if you make a convincing job of it, I’ll give you forty pounds.”

      Her mouth dried. Forty pounds! That was double twenty. For twenty pounds she could hire a little shop of her own. For forty pounds, she could not only buy stock, but also employ at least two other Birds from the orphanage. Robin and Nightingale would be her first choice.

      Her breath fluttered. “You don’t want to bed me?”

      He looked her up and down. “Do you think you’re my type?”

      She put her hand to her hair and, blushing, quickly brought her arm down again. A gentleman who owned a number of emporiums, proving a head for business, wouldn’t invest more than a few shillings in an untried, drab bed partner. He could take his pick of women.

      “Well, what would the job entail exactly?”

      “Just doing whatever wives do. Having breakfast with me in the morning, arranging flowers, eating cakes, drinking tea, sitting in the drawing room doing whatever you please until I tell you otherwise.”

      “What might ‘otherwise’ be?” She eyed him narrowly.

      “Standing by my side and agreeing with every word I say while smiling pleasantly at my guests. You can smile, I suppose?”

      “I’m not sure.”

      He gave her a suspicious glance.

      “The job can’t be as easy as you say.” For forty pounds, there had to be a catch.

      “It’s as easy as you want to make it. I have a household that runs perfectly already.”

      “Then why do you want a wife? Other than to idle away the day.”

      Pushing aside his unbuttoned jacket, he slid his hands into the pockets of his biscuit-colored trousers. How he maintained a fit, broad-shouldered physique while sitting behind a desk all day was a mystery to Starling. Although she’d met no other rich men, she had assumed they were those with barrel bellies. “Last week my sister notified me she is bringing a lady with her, a lady she is sure I would like to see. She arrives from Victoria tomorrow.”

      “I don’t understand.”