LITMIR.BIZ

      “What if it’s the curse?” Claire looked at Tory with big blue worried eyes. “You know what people say—Mama told us a dozen times. She said the necklace could bring very bad fortune to the person who owned it.”

      “You’re being ridiculous, Claire. There is no such thing as a curse. Besides, we don’t own it. We just borrowed it for a while.”

      But it had certainly brought misfortune to her stepfather. Tory gnawed her bottom lip as she remembered the baron lying on the floor next to the bureau in Claire’s bedchamber, a trickle of blood running from the gash in the side of his head. Dear God, she had prayed every night since it happened that she had not killed him.

      Not that he didn’t deserve to die for what he had tried to do.

      “Besides, if you remember the story correctly,” Tory added, “it can also bring the owner good fortune.”

      “If the person’s heart is pure,” Claire put in.

      “That’s right.”

      “We stole it, Tory. That’s a sin. Now look what is happening to us. Our money’s almost gone. They’re going to throw us out of our room. Pretty soon we won’t have even enough to buy something to eat.”

      “We’re just having a little bad luck, is all. It has nothing to do with the curse. And we’re bound to find employment very soon.”

      Claire looked at her with worried eyes. “Are you sure?”

      “It might not be the sort of work we had hoped for, but yes, I am extremely sure.” She wasn’t, of course, but she didn’t want Claire’s hopes to plummet any lower than they were already. Besides, she would find work. No matter what she had to do.

      But three more days passed and still nothing turned up. Tory had blisters on her feet and there was a rip in the hem of her high-waisted dove-gray gown.

      Today is the day, she told herself, summoning a renewed determination as they headed once more for the area she believed most likely to provide employment. For more than a week, they had knocked on doors in London’s fashionable West End, certain some wealthy family would be in need of a governess. But so far, nothing had turned up.

      Climbing what must have been the hundredth set of porch stairs, Tory lifted the heavy brass knocker, gave it several firm raps, then listened as the sound echoed into the house. A few minutes later, a skinny, black-haired butler with a thin mustache opened the heavy front door.

      “I should like to speak to the mistress of the house, if you please.”

      “In what regard, madam, may I ask?”

      “I am seeking employment as a governess. One of the kitchen maids down the block said that Lady Pithering has three children and may be in need of one.”

      The butler’s gaze took in the frayed cuffs and the rip in her hem and lifted his nose into the air. He opened his mouth to send her away when his gaze lit on Claire. She was smiling in that sweet way of hers, looking for all the world like an angel fallen to earth.

      “We both love children,” Claire said, still smiling. “And Tory is ever so smart. She would make the very best of governesses. I am also looking for work. We were hoping you might be able to help us.”

      The butler just kept staring at Claire and Claire kept on smiling.

      Tory cleared her throat and the skinny man dragged his gaze away from Claire back to Tory. “Go round to the back door and I shall let you speak to the housekeeper. That is the best I can do.”

      Tory nodded, grateful to have gotten even that far, but a few minutes later, when they returned to the front of the house, she was filled with an even deeper despair.

      “The butler was ever so nice,” Claire said. “I thought for certain this time—”

      “You heard what the housekeeper said. Lady Pithering is looking for someone older.” And there never seemed to be a job for a servant as lovely as Claire.

      Claire gnawed her bottom lip. “I’m hungry, Tory. I know you said we have to wait till supper, but my stomach is making all sorts of unladylike noises. Can’t we have a little something now?”

      Tory closed her eyes, trying to resurrect some of her earlier courage. She couldn’t stand the look in her sister’s eyes, the worry mingled with fear. She simply could not tell her they had spent their very last farthing, that until they found work of some kind they couldn’t buy so much as a dry crust of bread.

      “Just a bit longer, darling. Let’s try the place the housekeeper mentioned down the block.”

      “But she said Lord Brant doesn’t have any children.”

      “It doesn’t matter. We’ll take whatever jobs we can find.” She forced herself to smile. “I’m sure it won’t be for long.”

      Claire nodded bravely and Tory wanted to cry. She had hoped to take care of her younger sister. While Tory had often worked long hours at the day-to-day task of running Harwood Hall, Claire wasn’t used to the hard work done by a servant. Tory had hoped to spare her sister, but fate had led them to this dismal place in their lives and it looked as if they would have to do whatever it took to survive.

      “Which one is it?” Claire asked.

      “The big brick house just over there. Do you see those two stone lions on the porch? That is the residence of the earl of Brant.”

      Claire studied the elegant town house, larger than any other on the block, and a hopeful smile blossomed on her face.

      “Perhaps Lord Brant will be handsome and kind as well as rich,” she said dreamily. “And you shall marry him and both of us will be saved.”

      Tory flashed her an indulgent smile. “For now, let us simply hope the man is in need of a servant or two and willing to take us in.”

      But again they were turned away, this time by a short, bald-headed butler with thick shoulders and beady little eyes.

      Claire was crying by the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, which was a rare thing, indeed, and enough to make Tory want to cry along with her. Funny thing was, if Tory cried, her nose got all red and her lips wobbled. But with Claire, it just made her eyes look bigger and bluer and her cheeks bloomed with roses.

      Tory grabbed her reticule and began trying to dig out a handkerchief for Claire when one magically appeared in front of her face. Her sister accepted it gratefully. Dabbing it against her eyes, she turned her sweet, angelic smile upon the man who had provided it.

      “Thank you ever so much.”

      The man returned the smile as Tory could have guessed he would. “Cordell Easton, earl of Brant, at your service, dear lady. And you would be…?”

      He was looking at Claire the way men had since she was twelve years old. Tory didn’t think he realized there was anyone else there but Claire.

      “I am Miss Claire Temple and this is my sister, Victoria.” Tory silently thanked God that Claire had remembered to use their mother’s maiden name, and ignored her sister’s disregard of the proper rules of introduction. The man was, after all, the earl, and they were desperately in need of his employment.

      Brant smiled at Claire but had to force himself to look in Tory’s direction. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

      “Lord Brant,” Tory said, hoping her stomach wouldn’t choose that particular moment to growl. Just as Claire had imagined, he was tall and exceedingly handsome, though his hair was dark brown and not blond, and his features were harder than one of Claire’s imaginary princes would have been.

      His shoulders were exceptionally wide, with no padding that she could discern, while his build was solid and athletic. All in all, he was a very impressive man, and the way he was looking at Claire made a knot of worry

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