Miss Molly Robbins Designs a Seduction (17 page)

She laughed at the young lady’s odd jumble of ingredients for a worthy suitor. Caught up in it for a moment, still giddy about the way Carver defended her before his mistress, she decided to play along. “He is old. Too old and set in his ways, I fear. He is very ill humored, dances badly, and drinks far too much.”

“Gracious!” Lady Anne laughed and then said slyly, “Then you really must be in love with Danforthe to see beyond all his faults.”

Horrified, Molly could only stare dumbly at the young woman before her.

Much to her relief, the teasing was ended almost immediately when Lady Anne’s brother came to the door, looking for her.

“You needn’t worry,” was her tormentor’s parting remark, “I shan’t tell a soul your secret, Miss Robbins. As long as you save all your best, most delicious designs for me.”

Appalled, she watched the mischievous lady exit the room on her brother’s arm. Until that moment, she’d thought Lady Anne quite naive and uncomplicated, a sweet girl but prone to making a vast deal of noise. Alas, it seemed she misjudged the young woman.

She knew other folk in the dressing room eyed her curiously, wondering at the way the Earl of Everscham spoke up for her. Intent on ignoring the incident, Molly replaced her spectacles and tidied her sewing box. But the music filtering in from the ballroom made her feet tap and her petticoats swing in a manner most unusual for her.

It wasn’t long before news of a quarrel and a pair of thrown diamond earrings reached the annex room. The Earl of Everscham, so the eager gossip went, had finished with his mistress, and she retaliated by scoring his cheek with her diamonds.

Of course it was never considered a good party without a little drama, and it was not the first time Carver Danforthe had been the cause of it. Nor was it, so the gossips exclaimed gleefully, the first time a woman had thrown jewelry at him. After all, said one stout lady standing near Molly, he was known to always give his mistresses a piece of very fine jewelry as a parting gift whenever he ended an affair.

***

When Molly eventually went to her bed that evening, after describing the ball in enough detail to satisfy her fellow residents at the house, she expected to sleep almost immediately. It had been a tiring few weeks leading up to the ball. But as she lay down, her mind still raced excitedly, unable to settle. While her body was drained, her head and heart were too full.

Carver Danforthe and his teasing had knotted around her mind like an invasive weed slowly taking over the garden of her good thoughts.
You
might
change
me
, he’d said at Vauxhall Gardens.

Could she? Did she even want to?

Lying on her belly, Molly hugged her pillow tightly and tried her damndest to cast him out.

It was a futile exercise. When she did finally fall asleep, he was there in her dreams, waiting for her under an arbor of thorny roses. She felt herself smiling, holding her pillow even closer, melting into it and into his strong arms, helpless and losing control. But not nearly as angry with herself as she should be.

When Mrs. Lotterby received news of a windfall coming her way on the death of a relative, it took her several days to recover from the shock. The unexpected influx of coin was enough to pay for repairs to the old leaky roof and provide other much-needed maintenance to the house, so it must indeed be a sizeable inheritance, as well as unexpected.

To celebrate, she organized a picnic in the park, and all her residents attended, except the unpleasant Arthur Wakely, who had apparently packed his bags and left in the middle of the night. Not even his sister knew where he’d gone, and nobody cared enough to find out why. Mrs. Bathurst’s health had taken a turn for the worse quite suddenly, and she would have stayed in bed, had Molly, who thought the lady was simply giving in to a mournful state of mind, not persuaded her to join the party.

“It won’t be the same without you, Mrs. B. Who will entertain us with stories if you don’t come?”

“Quite true, my dear,” the lady eventually conceded. “I suppose the sunlight won’t kill me any faster, will it?”

The weather held out for the excursion to Hyde Park, and Molly anticipated a restful afternoon under a parasol, seated by the lake and sipping lemonade. Frederick made them all laugh and kept young master Slater occupied by threatening to throw him into the Serpentine. Mr. Lotterby fell asleep with his mouth wide open, and his merry wife, in between swiping at flies to keep them away from his face, fussed over her tenants to be sure they ate plenty.

“Miss Robbins, you are in need of sustenance, I’m sure. Do have a tart, and give me your opinion. Take two or three, indeed, for you are all bones and very little flesh. When winter comes, you’ll welcome a few more layers. I know when the cold winds set in, I’m grateful to have my Herbert. At least then he is of use. But you’ll have no one to keep you warm at night.”

It was not a reminder she needed. “I’ll procure a warming pan for coals.”

Mrs. Bathurst leaned over the proffered plate and, ignoring her sister’s chiding, palmed three tarts with the efficiency of a magician. “You need a man, Miss Robbins,” she said.

“I’m sure I’ll manage well enough without one.”

“Nothing can take the place of a man in one’s bed. A warming pan does only so much. And it is likely to cause a fire if one leaves it in too long.” She snorted and nudged Mrs. Slater. “A man can cause the same conflagration, but in that case, the fire in one’s bed is welcome.”

The young widow flushed scarlet, and Mrs. Bathurst teased her.

“Now don’t be coy, madam. You know of what I speak. That noisy child of yours was not found under a gooseberry bush.”

In ladylike embarrassment, Mrs. Slater moved away to wipe sticky jam from her greedy son’s cheeks. As the subject of children was raised, Molly glanced at Mrs. Lotterby and then at her sister. She’d given a great deal of thought to the matter of Mrs. Bathurst’s baby and decided something ought to be done about it, before it was too late to manage a reconciliation. Secrets were all well and good—they had their place—but she would not stand by and see her friend fade away and die, never having met her own son.

“Mrs. Bathurst, you said you recently saw your son, now fully grown. Did you never approach him?” She did not believe, even for a minute, that the missing man was now a fine gentleman who traveled in grand carriages with beautiful ladies of high society, but if Mrs. Bathurst had truly seen him, it must have been somewhere not far from their lodgings.

“Goodness, no.” Mrs. Lotterby spoke up for her sister, who still had a mouthful of jam tart. “Why would she approach him? What could she say? How would such an encounter be managed?” She turned to her sister. “You did not tell me you thought you had seen him, Delilah. Why would you think it and not tell me?”

“You took him from me all those years ago,” Mrs. Bathurst replied primly. “I daresay you would keep him from me still. My own child wrenched from me.”

“Nonsense. I did what was best, as you well know.” The landlady seemed deeply wounded by the accusations of her sister. “If the Good Lord wanted such an encounter between you and your child, Delilah, he would arrange it. We must put our faith in the Almighty to know what is best.”

Her sister gave a deeply saddened sigh. “Then he and I shall never know each other. That is my punishment, I suppose, for a life of sin. I’m sure he would not wish to know me as his mother, in any case. Such a disappointment I would be.”

“It was for the good of the child,” Mrs. Lotterby muttered, brushing crumbs from her bosom. “We made that choice together.”

Molly thought about the choices people made. Her choice, for instance, had been work and business over marriage and a family. Resigned to the life of a spinster, she had forfeited her chance to be a mother when she ran away from the altar back in April. Had she stayed and married Rafe Hartley, she could be expecting a child by now and eventually given birth to a curly haired, rosy-cheeked baby, who would look at her adoringly while she sang to it.

Now that would never happen. Her choice was to remain alone, unburdened by a husband and children, but one day, she too—like Mrs. Bathurst—could sit by this lake, pondering her past and regretting the things she once gave up. She knew some success with her designs now, and it was a very sweet feeling, but it had not yet made her whole. Perhaps Arthur Wakely was right, and there was something amiss with her because she chose her work over a child.

Or perhaps not. Young master Slater wobbled over to her, snatched the last bite of jam tart out of her hands, and smeared it over his own newly cleaned face. Children, she remembered with a sigh of relief, were not all golden-curled cherubs with pink cheeks.

“Frederick is painting your portrait, I understand?” Mrs. Bathurst asked as they watched the boy toddle off after a butterfly.

“Yes.” She’d finally agreed to it, just for some peace. “I cannot imagine what he wants my picture for, unless to scare crows from a seed bed.”

The lady laughed croakily. “A lack of vanity can be just as bad as too much, you know.”

“I know what I look like.”

“You know what
you
see in the mirror. When Frederick has completed his portrait, you will know what others see when they look at you. That is what scares you, young lady. And do not frown, Miss Robbins. When you are not aware of being watched, you are in danger of becoming almost pretty, but the moment you feel eyes upon you, out come the spikes—just like a hedgehog.”

She supposed it was an improvement on a mouse. Or was it?

“Frederick is a very talented fellow,” added Mrs. Bathurst as she looked wistfully over at the man walking by the lake with Mrs. Slater. “A fine young man indeed.”

Molly followed her gaze and studied Frederick Dawes with a new thought taking root. Was it possible that when Mrs. Bathurst mentioned seeing her son fully grown and riding in a carriage with a fine lady, she spoke of Frederick and his benefactress? Mrs. Bathurst’s son would be about the same age, and Frederick had spent his childhood in the workhouse.

Surely it was merely coincidence. A great many children, sadly, grew up in workhouses. She had let her imagination run away with her. In a place the size of London, Mrs. Bathurst’s son could be anywhere. He might even be abroad by now. Or deceased. It was merely her own desire for neat ends and clean designs that made Frederick into a potential long-lost son.

An open barouche rumbled by the lake, following the meandering curve of a gravel horse path. Molly had watched it for several moments, squinting without her spectacles, before she recognized the passengers, and one of them noticed her.

Lady Anne Rothespur raised a hand and waved violently, calling out her name with the usual excess of vitality and lack of decorum. The barouche slowed to a gradual halt just a short way on. Now the lady twisted in her seat, beckoning rapidly.

Mrs. Bathurst peered through a crooked pair of opera glasses. “You’d better go and see what they want, my dear. Two very fine-looking gentlemen! Gracious me, and it is not even the fashionable hour, but that is a very grand barouche indeed. If I were twenty years younger…oh, but you, of course, have no interest in men. I had forgot you are resolved to spinsterhood. Pay me no heed.”

Molly clambered to her feet, brushing crumbs from her skirt. The people in the carriage watched her approach, and behind her, she knew that her friends did the same.

“Lady Anne.” She curtsied with some difficulty, for the ground between her friends by the lake and the people waiting in the carriage was an uneven, grassy slope.

“Miss Robbins, such a fine day, is it not? How glad I am that you get out in the fresh air and do not spend all your waking hours slaving away at work in that dingy little room.”

Carver Danforthe hitched forward on his seat, stiff and unsmiling. “Miss Robbins, you will join us for a ride around the park?”

“We have plenty of room,” said Lady Anne. “If you wouldn’t mind sharing a seat with the Earl of Everscham.” She lowered her voice. “He is, as you know, quite obnoxious company, but you needn’t speak a word to him, and I shall poke him with my parasol if he gets out of hand.” The young lady punctuated this comment with a wink that Molly would rather not have seen.

“Thank you for the offer, but I am with my friends, as you see.” Gesturing to the people by the lake, she saw Carver glance over, his eyes very dark. “We’re having a picnic,” she added.

His lip quirked sulkily. “So I see. Well, don’t let us keep you from your
friends
.” The last word, if it had teeth, would have bitten her. Her heart ached when she saw the mark on his cheekbone, the wound from his spurned mistress and her thrown diamond earrings. It was true then; he had given the baroness up.

Lady Anne also looked at the people by the lake and smiled, twirling the parasol over her shoulder. “Oh, there is that darling young man, Mr. Frederick Dawes.”

Carver flung himself back into his seat with such force that the Earl of Saxonby looked at him in surprise. Abruptly, Carver shouted to the coachman, “Drive on!”

The barouche rumbled away at speed, wheels kicking up gravel. Lady Anne waved as they rounded a bend and vanished from Molly’s sight.

***

“You’re in love with her,” said Sinjun, his tone incredulous.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your very aspect when my sister mentioned that artist chap…the way you defended her to Covey. The way you sat up when you spotted her there by the lake. Now it all makes sense—the bloody mood you’ve been in of late. I’ve never seen you like it, man.”

“Don’t be tedious, Rothespur.”

But he felt Sinjun’s eyes boring into him. “Remember, I’ve known you too long.”

Lady Anne moved her parasol to look at her brother. “What can you mean, Sinjun? Danforthe in love?” She guffawed.
“With Miss Robbins?”

Had they conspired to make him feel like a fool exhibited in the stocks, they couldn’t have done it better, but Sinjun had a habit of saying whatever was on his mind in that moment, and his sister did the same, always much louder than required. Often she was so very loud, Carver wondered if she’d been thrust down a well as a child.

“Your brother has a wild imagination and a romantic constitution,” said Carver, stretching one arm along the back of his seat. “He is prone to moments of mad supposition.”

“He is? I’ve certainly never noticed.” She arched her brows high, and he caught the twinkle of mischief dancing in her eyes. “But I pity you, Danforthe, if it’s true. Miss Robbins is much too good and sensible to become one of your damn doxies.”

Her brother turned his head to glare at her. “Anne! Where on earth did you learn a word like that? For goodness sake, don’t say it in front of Mama, or she’ll blame me.”

“Which word? Damn or doxy?”

“Both.”

“Separately or together? I do love a bloody good alliteration, and damn just makes everything so much more definite.”

Carver put a hand to his mouth and coughed, but his amusement did not last long when she turned her attention back to him. “You’re the very worst sort of man for Miss Robbins,” she shouted to be heard above the hooves and tumbling wheels as they clattered over a stone bridge. “A positively gruesome prospect for such a pleasant, sweetly mannered lady. Besides, she despises you heartily. I fear you quite waste your time, if that is why you wanted me to bring her to Vauxhall Gardens. She has nothing good to say about you.”

“No doubt.” He frowned hard.

Lady Anne closed her parasol and poked her brother with the end point. “See. You’ve got it all wrong. Miss Robbins is quite obviously in love with that delicious artist fellow. I knew she had a clandestine lover.”

“Well, the artist is certainly more appropriate for her. Younger and more handsome too. Don’t fancy your chances there, old chap.” Her brother smiled knowingly at Carver and tipped the brim of his hat with his cane.

Thoroughly annoyed by this travesty of misjudgment—Sinjun’s, Anne’s, and the Mouse’s—Carver pursed his lips, crossed his ankle over one knee, and became excessively interested in the shape of the clouds overhead.

A certain pinch-mouthed, judgmental seamstress rejected all that he could offer her and preferred to spend her spare time with gaunt, pretty young men who daubed paint around on canvas, did she? He realized he was drumming his fingers on his thigh and grinding his teeth so hard they hurt.

“Don’t fret, Danforthe.” Lady Anne exhaled with a heavy sigh, eyes shining. “I don’t suppose it’s a lost cause yet. You’ll just have to try harder, won’t you?”

He glared at the girl and wondered when, exactly, she’d stopped being so flighty and vacant-headed. Clearly she wasn’t nearly as dense as he’d assumed.

But she was wrong if she thought hard work would scare him off. “There are things in life worth making an effort for,” he replied grumpily. “Even I can put myself out for a good cause.”

Sinjun and Anne looked at him in considerable amazement and curiosity. He took superior pleasure in ignoring them both for the remainder of the journey.