A Proper Mistress (14 page)

Molly stared back, uncertain whether to reply in keeping with her pretense or to obey the urge to follow the good manners trained into her during her youngest years. Sylvain seemed to mistake her hesitation for ignorance, for she leaned forward and confided, "You're supposed to curtsy back and say your name and that it's a pleasure. You don't actually have to tell me how you do. It's stupid to ask questions you don't want answered, but so is most of being polite."

Fighting down a smile, Molly agreed with this, dropped a quick curtsy and said, "I'm Molly Sweet."

Sylvain nodded. "I know. Mrs. Brown's cousin is the upstairs maid at Harwood."

"Mrs. Brown?" Molly asked.

"The cook at Winslow Park. Oh, and I should introduce Trace. His name is actually a play on the French for three. Terrance named him. But he can't offer you his paw because he lost one in a trap—Trace, that is, not Terrance. If he likes you, you may pet him."

With a dubious glance at the fox, Molly decided she would probably offend if she declined such an offer. Bending down, she stretched out a hand. The fox hesitated, but Sylvain gave him a nudge with her leg. After a brief glance at his mistress, the fox bobbed toward Molly on his three legs.

Eyes watchful, Molly kept still. The fox returned her look with just as much caution. Two feet away the creature paused and sniffed the air. He edged forward, looking ready to run if Molly dared so much as to let go her breath. Whiskers lightly tickled her fingertips, and he allowed her the barest touch of his head. He had surprisingly wiry fur.

As she straightened, the fox turned and bobbed back to Sylvain, glancing over his shoulder, his dark eyes less wary and now filled with shy interest.

Sylvain seemed to approve of the exchange for she smiled. That changed everything. Her eyes brightened, and the smile added an elfin charm to her face, curving the straight lips into an attractive bow. Her features no longer looked so sever, nor so awkward.

Gracious, if she left off the muddy dresses and the twigs in her hair, she would quite catch the eye.

The young woman seemed to have no idea of her charm, however, and she merely said, as if bestowing an honor, "Trace likes you."

The fox sat down next to Sylvain and opened his mouth to pant, revealing a pink tongue and a gleam of sharp teeth. Molly would not have been so interested in having him sniff her fingers if she had first glimpsed those teeth. They were not as long as those she had seen on the tiger heads that had adorned some of the officer's quarters in India, but they looked capable of taking off a finger with one snap.

"We can walk with you to Lanton—it's not far," Sylvain offered.

"Thank you," Molly said, coming forward. But what she really wanted to ask was more about Theo and Sylvain's sister.
Only it's nothing to do with me and I ought to just mind my own business.
And still the words popped right out, "So why did Theo not marry your sister?"

Sylvain seemed not to mind her prying, but started into the woods, taking the footpath that had brought Molly to the lane.

"Oh, she married someone else instead. I rather thought she wanted Theo, but she changed her mind, which is just like Cecila. She was even going to be Lady Nevin for a bit, but now she's Mrs. Dawes of London and Penelope—she's my other sister—is Lady Nevin."

Pausing Sylvain glance over her shoulder with a frown. "I suppose that all sounds terribly ramshackle, doesn't it?"

It did. But Molly found relief slipping through her that Sylvain's sister had been the flighty one. So she only shook her head and said, "I'm not in much of a spot to judge others overmuch."

Sylvain started forward again. "That's sounds wise. I hate to be judged—and I always am. All I am supposed to know, or care about, are pretty dresses and dancing and dull things like sewing and household economies!"

Molly smiled. The girl made these sound fates worse than death. "That doesn't sound too awful."

"It is if you do not like dancing, or sewing, or having to put on gowns that you will only tear the hem on." She slanted a glance back at Molly. "Do you know Terrance as well as Theo?"

Again, Molly shook her head. She had to concentrate to get over the roots of a towering tree—oh, how she wished they could at least have walked upon the dirt lane. Even the cobbles of London were seeming so much easier on the feet than this rambling, uneven path. "No, I've not met Theo's brother. I only just met Theo at a...at Mrs. Ellis' house."

 Sylvain slid her a glance again and asked, "Are you actually going to marry Theo?"

Putting her gaze on the ground, Molly focused on avoiding yet more roots. She supposed that if she could ask Sylvain straight out about her sister's past with Theo, there could be no reason the girl could not ask about her future with him. Only there wasn't one to discuss.

Preferring to stay as honest as she could, she said, "You might say it depends on what his father thinks."

"Really? And you don't mind that Theo...well, that he visits the sort of places where he met you? Terrance does that, too—I'm not supposed to know about any of it, but everyone in Halsage knows about the Winslows."

"Do they? What do they know?"

"That they are shockingly wild. At least Terrance is, and Theo seems to mean to follow him. Do you mind? Cecila did—which is why I think she and Theo quarreled so much. It always seemed to be over him—well, his being some place she did not like him to be."

"Well, any man I marry won't be needing a place such as where we met—I'd make sure of it!" And she would, too, Molly thought. She had made up her mind about that some time ago, after enough chats with Sallie's girls to have an idea of just what brought a man to Sallie's and what it took to keep his interest there.

It had surprised her that most of the girls had their regulars, and that the gentleman themselves seemed to prefer an established arrangement. But Sallie had always said, "They're creatures of habit. It takes treatin' 'em bad enough that they'll look for new, more pleasant habits to get into. So you just have to make certain the habits you set with 'em are too enjoyable to leave."

As Sylvain stepped from the woods and into open land, she stopped and turned to Molly, a puzzled frown tightening her sandy brows. "But just how do you make certain he would never need such a place?"

Oh, don't I just talk too much,
Molly thought, biting her lower lip. Perhaps this was why young ladies weren't supposed to talk to women such as she was supposed to be—it wasn't only to shelter the young ladies, it also kept worldly women such as she was pretending to be from getting backed into corners. Well, she had to say something. The girl looked quite stubborn enough to out-wait Methuselah for an answer. Only what could she say that wouldn't lead to more questions?

Taking a breath, Molly tried to think of what Sallie might reply. "Look at it this way, ducks—a fellow's always going to look. He can't help that. But if he's got what he wants already in hand, why spend his time and money and effort for anything else?"

Head tilting to the side, Sylvain seemed to think this over. Before she could ask for elaboration—which she certainly ought not to know, and which Molly feared she wouldn't be able to provide—Molly glanced across the open land toward the square house of gray stone that stood on a small rise of land.

"Ah, and there's Lanton Hall. Thanks ever so much. I don't want to keep you, and I'll stay to the lanes goin' back."

The change of topics distracted Sylvain well enough. She glanced at the house and up to the darkening sky. She gave a sigh. "I suppose I should go home as well. I am already late out. Oh, if Lady Thorpe offers cakes, take the almond—they're wonderfully sweet."

Molly paused, her interest caught. "Really? What sort of almonds does she use?"

Sylvain gave a shrug. "I just eat them. I suppose though that I ought to warn you she is a bit odd. But I like her. She's not one of those who think I have to talk lots just to prove I'm not really shy."

Molly gave a laugh. "Ducks, you're one of the least shy people I've ever met."

"Well, of course." With a smile, she thrust out her hand and with a firm grip she shook Molly's hand, almost more like a man. "I am glad we met. I like you. And I hope you do marry Theo. You'd be good for him."

With that, she turned, gave a whistle to her fox and disappeared into the woods.

Molly stared after her a moment, bemused by the girl's opinion of her value to Theo—not one that any would share. A penniless orphan with no family, no assets, and only a history of working in a brothel good for a young gentleman? Not likely. But it showed what a good heart the girl had. And how innocent she was. Molly suspected that if the girl were given the chance she might well adopted Molly, much as it seemed she had that three-legged fox.

A drop of wetness splashed onto her cheek. She glanced up at the clouds, opened her umbrella and hurried toward Lanton Hall.

Thankfully, she reached the graveled drive before the rain began to fall in earnest. Droplets still managed to stain her skirts, blown sideways by the wind. But she gained the gray stone steps to the entrance and soon stood under the front portico. Applying the iron knocker to the door, she waited only a moment before the young man who had been with Lady Thorpe yesterday opened the door.

Stomach churning at her own audacity in arriving uninvited, Molly pushed back her shoulders. "I'm here to see Lady Thorpe."

He glanced at her and stepped back, allowing her inside.

Lowering her umbrella, she came in. Rose—pink ones, white ones, yellow, red, dark golden ones, some striped, some merely buds, some full blown, some with masses of petals and some with single rows—decorated every table in the hall, adding a perfumed scent. Molly glanced around, taking in the colors and the smells, and found herself facing Lady Thorpe's butler again.

"I'm—" she started, but he cut off her words at once.

"Miss Sweet," he finished for her, disapproval tight in his tone. "I don't know what you're game is with the Winslows, but her ladyship's care is my look out. And I won't have no London lightskirt taking advantage of her."

Molly stiffened. "My, but the gossip has been busy."

"I made it a point to ask after you. Whatever rig you're running with the Winslows, that's they're look out. But just because her mind wanders a bit, that don't mean her ladyship is ripe for your plucking."

Face hot now, Molly regarded the young man. He had an honest, round face. Dark blond hair was brushed back and worn short, and his gray eyes looked as dark as the clouds outside. Dressed in black with a yellow waistcoat, he was not tall—Molly could look him straight in the eye. But he had a sturdy look to him, as if he could easily pick her up and put her from the house if she would not leave on her own.

Chin lifting, she returned his stare, her pride hurting. "I came to visit an old woman who thought she knew my mother—that's the only rig I have. And if you think I..."

Before she could go on, Lady Thorpe's fragile voice drifted into the hall, sounding distressed, "Grieg, I cannot find Captain Villars anywhere—not even under my bed!"

Both Molly and Lady Thorpe's butler, Grieg, turned as her ladyship came down the blue-carpeted stairs at the back of the hall. Her ladyship paused on the upper landing and squinted into the hall before coming down the stairs. "Oh, dear—a guest. Do forgive me, but I have lost my cat. Grieg, can you please find Captain Villers. Oh, but I suppose first you must bring some refreshments for...for..."

Her words trailed off as she approached.

Molly picked up her courage and held out her hand. "It's Miss Sweet, your ladyship. We met yesterday."

That pulled an even more distressed look from the older woman. "Did we?"

Molly shot a glance at the butler and found him scowling at her, but she was determined to show him she did not mean any harm to Lady Thorpe. She turned back to tiny slip of a lady. "I shouldn't expect you to remember me. It was only the briefest meeting. On the lane between here and Winslow Park—I'm staying with the Winslows."

Lady Thorpe's faded eyes brightened. "Are you? And how is dear Lady Winslow and her little boys? Such rascals they are—always into mischief."

Molly's smile stiffened, but she caught the warning shake of Grieg's head and so she said nothing. She did not have to. Lady Thorpe had again turned to her butler, "Grieg, do bring refreshment into the drawing room." She tucked a trembling, age-withered hand into the crook of Molly's arm. "This way, dear Miss—what did you say your name was again?"

"Sweet, my lady."