A Proper Mistress (28 page)

The squire looked up, his mouth firming. "Do you love her?"

Theo blinked. "My mother?"

"Your Molly," the squire said.

Panic started inside Theo. Love seemed an enormous word. Far too weighty for any one man. But he made himself think on it.

Warmth spread through him as he thought of holding his Molly, of her laugh, of how irritating she could be with her questions, and how delighted she had looked the first time she had sat a trot without bouncing. His sweet Sweet. The woman who'd duped him.

"She's a cook!"

"And she makes a damn fine panda, but that wasn't the question," the squire said, irritable.

Theo frowned and struggled to be honest. If his father could confess that his mother was still alive—
where in heavens?
—he could return the truth. At last he said, "I don't know."

The squire rose stiff to his feet and said, voice gruff, "Best find out, lad." He added, his tone softening, "I ought to be proud I raised sons who don't need anyone else to order their lives, but I'll still give you advice—pride ain't only hard, it's a damn poor bedfellow."

He put a hand on Theo's shoulder before he let himself out of the stall.

Theo sat there, thoughts and feelings churning.

His mother. Alive.

God, this must be how Molly felt, wondering if somewhere in England she had someone who might love her and miss her as much as wanted to love that someone.

And with that his mind began to turn.

#

"Those egg whites was done five minutes past—you beating them into cement?" Edna asked.

Molly stopped her whisk and pushed a stray curl back with her wrist. She glanced at the egg whites. They were meant for meringues, but had gone past being stiff peaks. She had beaten the moisture out of them.

Distressed, she glanced at Edna, feeling the tears ready to tear loose again. She pushed them back. It had only been a fortnight since she'd left Winslow Park, but it seemed years. She'd let go the faint hope that Theo would come after her. He hadn't. Now she forced a smile. "We'll just have to start fresh."

Edna gave a nod and took Alice with her to go back to the street stalls for more eggs, leaving Molly to pull herself together.

Sitting down on one of the high-backed wooden chairs, Molly put her forehead in her hand and rubbed. She had to stop thinking about Theo, stop this wondering about his family, stop these wretched "if only's."

At least, after that first night back, Sallie had not asked a question nor said anything.

There had been the start of a dreadful argument between them, when she came back with only what was left of her ten pounds in her pocket after she had bought her ticket to London on the Bath mail coach.

Sallie had started in on her, asking what she was thinking not getting her payment, demanding to know what had happened.

And Molly hadn't been able to take one more argument.

She had turned and started to walk out the door.

Sallie had grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back in, taking her to the kitchen and ordering tea, and rubbing her hands.

She had said nothing more.

And Molly had said nothing about the fifty pounds Sallie had had from Theo.

That put them even, she figured. A paid holiday Sallie had once called it. Well, it had been that. And a good lesson, too.

She knew now that the reason she'd never had a beau wasn't due to her being too particular. She had been terrified to let anyone get close. She'd lost her parents, her uncle, and had been left unclaimed on the docks, and she'd lost her first real friends in that fire, as well. Looking at Sallie's now, she saw what a safe world she had made for herself—friends with a madam who knew how to keep her heart under lock and key, and living in a house where love and smiles were sold for a good price.

She'd made herself into one of those hard women without even having the physical pleasure in it—for now she had an idea now just how much pleasure a man's body could give a woman.

Oh, she had kept herself safe, and all without even realizing it. Until she saw the Winslows doing the same thing—pushing love away.

Well, she was done with that.

She was already looking for an inn for sale at a price she could afford. And the next gentleman who took an interest in her, well, she'd take an interest, too.

But it would take some time to forget Theo. And that faint hope she'd had. A good long time.

Sitting up straight, she put back her shoulders. Well, no sense dragging over more "if only's." What was done, was done. And if he couldn't see his way to her now, well...

The tears stung her eyes again, and she got up to cut onions even though she didn't need any cut. It helped to have some excuse to cry.

#

"Coo, you're early in the day for a bit o'sport!"

Sallie glanced into the entry hall to see Barbara leaning over the stair railing, blond curls tousled, and her almost falling out of her dress as she smiled at a dark-haired man who had a book tucked under his arm and his hat in his hand. Odd, that book, but Sallie started forward, her smile in place, ready to do business.

She heard his voice, low and pleasing. "Sorry—I'm partial to redheads."

He turned, and Sallie bore down on him. Blue eyes or no. Fine shoulders or not. No gentlemen trifled with her girls. Not even with her cook.

"You're not welcome here, Mr. Theodore Winslow," she said, arms folded and glaring at him.

Cool as could be, he lifted his eyebrows and she hesitated about calling the two prize fighters she paid to keep order in her house. He pulled out a fat purse from the tail pocket of his coat, and her anger with him eased.

A heart might lead one to disaster—she knew it had for her Molly, poor mite—but, still, he'd come after her, he had. That might be a good sign.

And weren't those just the longest black lashes he had?

She took his arm to lead him into her parlor. "Molly won't see you, you know."

He didn't budge, but stayed rooted where he was. She had to let go his arm. She also began to reconsider. This wasn't the young gent who had come to her earlier this summer. No, he'd become a far more interesting fellow. Blue eyes started down at her, something fixed in them.

"She'll see me. I've an account to settle with her, after all." A smile crooked his mouth at last. "So where's your kitchen and how much for an hour with her?"

At the sound of boots on the stairs, Molly looked up from dabbing at the onion-tears from her cheeks with her apron.

It wasn't Tuesday, so it couldn't be Mr. Goslin come to fill the milk pitchers. It wasn't.

Theo stepped into the room, and she stared at him, thinking herself a disaster and that she'd never seen anything so wonderful in her life. Even with him in dusty boots and breeches and
a shadow of beard darkening his jaw.

She pulled in a breath and let it out with her words, "Hello, ducks."

He came forward, putting a book down on the kitchen table. Molly gripped her apron tighter to keep herself from flinging her arms about him. She wasn't sure just where they stood with each other.

After glancing around, he looked at her. "I bought an hour with you."

She straightened and dropped her apron. "My time's no longer for sale."

Mischief glinted in his eyes. "You should tell Sallie that."

She glared at him. "How much now?"

"Less than what I owe you." Theo tossed a leather pouch on the table. Coins clattered as the pouch hit the wood.

Theo knew he shouldn't tease her this way, but after spending far too long on dull errands on her behalf, he couldn't resist tormenting her a little. She had done nothing but haunt his dreams. And, with his mouth dry and his palms damp, he needed time to gauge her reactions. She'd looked delighted at first to see him, but she'd gone wary on him. Blazes, but did she really have nothing but scorn for him and family?

If she did, he'd change that. It was why he'd come prepared.

She didn't move to touch the money, but stepped over to the other end of the table and picked up a long-handled wooden spoon to stir what looked like a bowl of white fluff. "You don't owe me a thing."

"Don't I just? Well, if you don't want coins—what about this?" He flipped open the book, slapped it down in a bit of open space, and waited. Would she take the bait? She must. She was always curious about everything.

If she didn't, he vowed he'd simply walk over and kiss her senseless. Only that wouldn't really solve anything between them. No, they had to talk this out. And he hated that.

But, for her, he'd do it.

She eyed him warily, but came closer, that wooden spoon in her hand held up like a sword. As she read, her jaw slackened, and finally she looked up at him, her eyes bright. "It's about my father."

Theo's shoulders relaxed. This would work. It had to work. "Captain David Sweet of the King's Thirty-Third. There's more, but I thought you might like to read it yourself rather than have me tell you about it."

She stared at him, her expression puzzled. "And this is all you came to London for?"

With a smile, he snagged her arm, the one that held the wooden spoon. "No, that's not all I've come to London for."

She tried to pull back, but he already had hold of her apron strings now. She slapped his hand away, but he shifted strategy and grabbed the cap from her curls, tossing the white lace aside. She had on a white dress with a yellow scarf knotted about her neck and he was already wondering if it all tied up in front—handy for a fellow that.

"I hate caps," he said. "Come to think of it, I hate bonnets, too, or anything else that covers that glorious hair of yours."

Molly's cheeks warmed. "It's not fair your talking like that."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not able to think sensible when you do!"

He grinned. "And it's important to think sensible?"

"With you it is."

Letting go of her, he put his hands behind his back. "That better?"

Molly tried to retie her apron, but her fumbling hands managed to tangle it with the spoon. Letting out a frustrated breath, she tossed the spoon aside and tore off the apron. "No, it is not better—here you come waltzing in, saying you've bought an hour of my time and I don't know why you're here or what—"

"I'm here because I couldn't stay away."

She stared up at him, her heart beating faster. "Oh."

He stepped closer. "And I would have come sooner, only I didn't want to show up empty handed." She glanced at the leather pouch on the table, but he reached out and turned her chin so that she had to look at him. "Not to bring you money, my Molly-may."

She held utterly still, shocked. "What did you call me?"

Mouth crooked, he dug into his waistcoat and pulled out a folded letter. "Molly-may—it's what you're uncle called you."

Hands trembling, she took the letter and unfolded it to scan the lines. She recognized the scrawl at once, even though it had been years. Her uncle's hand—or at least how it had been after the fever had him and he could barely write.

"Where did you get this?" she asked. She looked up at him, excitement bubbling in her. "Lady Thorpe? She is my aunt!"

Theo shook his head. But at her dismayed, he gave up teasing. "Not your aunt—your godmother. She and her sister, Amy, seem to have been neighbors and best-of-friends with your mother, Amelia, and her sister. I think there's a blood tie of some sort, but I couldn't wade through all that. She had that letter tucked in her bible—it came to her through your mother's sister who didn't dare defy her family and go to meet you herself. And I'd wager, your family were the kind souls who also disclaimed knowledge of your mother and father!"

"But she never did—meet me, I mean. Oh, gracious, was she ill even then and forgetting?"

With a shake of his head, he gestured to the letter. She looked again and saw a torn section of newspaper as he said, "Look what ship is circled."