“This is simply unheard of! How dare he make such a proposition?! And an earl, no less!” Ophelia muttered angrily, kicking at the pebbles in her path.
Through her slightly worn boots, each kick sent a faint pang through her toes. But she paid it no mind. On the contrary, she deliberately struck the stones, as if trying to release her fury toward the Earl of Chevington.
Could she, the daughter of a baron, ever have imagined hearing such an offer directed at her? No, she wasn’t so naive as to be unaware that such arrangements existed in aristocratic circles. But she never could have thought her desire to work would be twisted in such a way.
Oh, if only her father had shown a shred of restraint and not gambled away their entire fortune at cards! He wouldn’t be rotting in debtor’s prison, her mother wouldn’t have died from the shame, and she wouldn’t have been forced to leave home and travel to the other end of England, where no one knew her, just to fend for herself.
But finding work as a lone young woman proved far from easy. Without references or guarantors, securing a respectable position was nearly impossible. Just this morning, she had been ready to move on in search of better prospects. Yet, overhearing at the inn that the earl’s estate manager had died, she had hoped to secure the position here. As it turned out, her hopes were in vain. As was the time she had wasted.
A sharp, icy wind slapped her face, pulling her from her heavy thoughts long enough to wrap her coat tighter around herself. As dusk fell, the weather worsened, and Ophelia quickened her pace. She had no desire to be caught in a storm in the middle of a field. The inn where she had rented a room was still at least a mile away.
With her quicker, heavier steps, her thoughts grew heavier too. Her options were dwindling. Her savings were melting away like wet snow. A few more days, and she wouldn’t be able to feed herself or keep a roof over her head. She had even considered taking a position as a maid in a wealthy household. But in this area, no such openings existed. In the few days she had been here, she had already received several rejections. The estate manager position at Chevington House had been a lifeline. But even that had slipped through her fingers. How could she possibly agree to become the earl’s mistress? How could he even suggest such a thing?
The memory of the earl and his proposition ignited a fresh wave of anger in her chest. Why was she fated to cross paths with a rake like him? Couldn’t it have been a courteous, elderly earl who wouldn’t dream of entertaining such notions? That’s how she had pictured the Earl of Chevington when she overheard the conversation at the inn. In her mind, she had imagined her proposal being readily accepted, relieving an aging earl of unnecessary burdens. But no! The Earl of Chevington was far from old. Judging by his appearance, he was in the prime of his life, and she was certain more than one lady had fallen under his spell.
And no wonder! He was undeniably handsome, with a well-built frame. Tall, with broad shoulders and narrow hips… Slightly wavy, dark chestnut hair that fell across his face, and those piercing, steel-gray eyes…
Who knows where her thoughts might have led her if she hadn’t reached the inn and nearly collided with a stranger walking toward her. Muttering an apology to the man, Ophelia mentally scolded herself. How absurd! Because of the Earl of Chevington creeping into her mind, she had lost all sense of awareness.
She shook her head as if to deny that such thoughts even had a right to exist in her mind.
“Miss Claywood!” a voice called out just as she passed through the common room and began ascending the stairs to her small room on the second floor. She recognized the gruff tone of the innkeeper, Mr. Thomson.
Forcing a polite smile, the young woman descended a few steps and dipped into a slight curtsy.
“Mr. Thomson,” she replied as calmly as she could, adopting an innocent expression.
She had a sinking feeling about what this conversation would entail, but she prayed to God that Mr. Thomson might simply be offering a greeting. Yet God did not hear her prayers. Not this time.
“Miss Claywood, if I recall correctly, you promised to settle your bill today for the few days I kindly allowed you to stay while seeking work. I had to turn away several respectable gentlemen today who would have paid on the spot,” he said, a hint of irritation in his voice. Ophelia batted her eyes innocently, hoping to soften his demeanor. It was painfully clear that renting a room to gentlemen who would also spend on food and drink at the inn was far more profitable than renting to her.
“To be honest, I intended to settle with you right after dinner. But since we’ve crossed paths, I’d be happy to pay for the room now.”
She reached into her pocket, where she usually kept her small coin purse, and her heart sank. The purse wasn’t there. Though she was certain it had been.
“Would you mind if I go up to my room and return with the necessary amount in a few minutes?” she asked, her voice trembling. Mr. Thomson merely squinted at her skeptically. He doesn’t believe me, Ophelia realized, and made one last attempt to defend herself. “I’m not planning to run off. I just need a moment to freshen up.”
Mr. Thomson finally nodded, and Ophelia turned to head to her room. It took every ounce of her composure not to break into a run.
Once inside her room, she let out a loud exhale and hurriedly removed her coat. With trembling hands, she rifled through the pockets of her coat and dress. But it was no use. The coin purse was nowhere to be found.
Tears welled up in her eyes. Fearing that someone might sneak into her room and steal her money while she was away, she had carried nearly all her savings with her. Now the purse was gone. She was left penniless. Except, perhaps, for the small stash she had set aside to buy a new dress.
Biting her lip to keep from sobbing aloud, Ophelia retrieved her suitcase and pulled out the money hidden among her belongings. Counting out the required amount, she let out a choked sob. Her chest tightened as if caught in a vise. She had only a few coins left. Not enough for another night in this room. Not enough to travel far on a stagecoach. And even if she did manage to get somewhere, she wouldn’t have the means to pay for lodging. What was she to do now? Beg on the streets and hope someone took pity on her? Or would she be forced to accept the earl’s terms?