A Proper Mistress (29 page)

She glanced at the paper—it gave the names of the East India merchant ships docking in London. "The
Armiston
? But I sailed on the
Carmathen
."

Her cheeks paled and she looked again at her uncle's letter. She wanted to sit down. It had all been a mistake. A dreadful mistake. The wrong ship met, for with her uncle's scrawling hand, even she could barely make out the proper name of the ship.

Eyes swimming and throat tight, she looked up at Theo. At least it had come right—years late, but not too late. "I'm her goddaughter, you said?"

He grinned and nodded.

With a scowl, she pushed the papers at him. "I suppose that makes me tolerable now! So that's why you could bear to come to see me. Now that you know I've got decent blood in me, I'm good enough, am I? Well, you may just take yourself off again!"

Turning, she stalked around the table, intent on leaving, her cheeks burning. Of course he hadn't wanted her when she was just a cook in a bawdy house. But did he have to come to her now that he thought her nearly acceptable and tempt her with himself?

He rounded the table before her and placed himself between her and the door. "I've not had my full hour yet! And I've not had what I came for—which is you, my sweet Sweet."

"Oh, stop calling me that."

"Then what should I call you?" he asked, advancing toward her. "My Molly-may? My delight? I've come to London for you and I'm not leaving without you."

"Why?" she demanded, hands on her hips.

He stopped and blinked at her. "Why what?"

"Why have you come for me and why do you want me? Is it because you think I'm almost respectable now that I have Lady Thorpe for a godmother?"

"Of course not! Blazes, as if I would!"

"Well, then why?"

He glared at her. "You're going to make me say this, aren't you?"

She let out a sigh and rolled her eyes. "Of course I am. I spent enough time with you Winslows to see how you like to keep unsaid all the things you ought to be saying—you expect everyone to just know. Well, I want more. I want to hear you say for yourself why you—"

"Because I love you, damn it!"

She stared at him and began to smile. "You do?"

"Of course I do!" In two strides he had hold of her hands. "Why else would I spend all that time with Lady Thorpe—enough, I may say, that Bedlam was starting to seem a nice place to visit! I wanted to bring you something—something you'd value. And I couldn't think what you'd want more than to know that someone tried to meet you—that someone wanted you."

"Oh, Theo!"

His eyes darkened. "I want you as well."

She stared up at him, trembling inside, feeling as she had years ago on the London docks with an unknown world waiting for her. "I—I want you as well. But you can't marry a cook who dreams of owning an inn."

"And why can't I? Buy your inn, if you like. Blazes, buy a dozen of them—Lady Thorpe'll probably leave you enough for it. Or make your own fortune by writing one of those fat books on cookery like that one that jeweler's widow put out."

"What do you know about cookery books?"

"I'll have you know that I know a good deal—Sylvain Harwood's sister married a fellow who prints books. Poetry mostly, and Sylvain's forever saying they make nothing on them, and keeps telling them to put out books on animals, travel, or cooking." He grinned. "I like the thought of
Domestic Cookery
by Mrs. Winslow."

"Mrs—?"

His grin widened and he pulled her into his arms. "Yes, Mrs., if that's your wish. Marry me, or be my mistress—whatever suits your fancy. I'm the one who's unworthy of you—you said it yourself that we wouldn't suit. But I want us to. For I like how you fit in my arms. And—well, before you came along, I had no idea what love even was, or how it was lacking in my own life. I don't want to lose that. I don't want to lose you. So what must I do to have you?"

She stared up at him, wanting to believe in this and in him, and half-afraid of it. But hadn't she just promised herself that with the first fellow who showed interest, she'd find the interest, too?

Still, she had to settle one thing more.

"But with my past—what of the scandal? And I won't come between you and your father!"

He tightened his hold on her. "You won't—he swears you make an excellent panda. Just what in blazes is a panda?"

"It's a drink—and why did he say that?"

"Because he just about told me I'd best come and fetch you back. I'm not the only Winslow you've enslaved. I think he might even curb his temper a little for you—but only a very little, so don't get your hopes up there. But I do fancy having a wife who looks lovely with flour on her cheek."

She put a hand to brush at her face. It came away clean. "I haven't, you wretch!"

"Then let's put some there." With a wink he turned her, pushing aside bowls as he lay her down on the kitchen table.

She gave a laugh, and said, nearly breathless, "Theo, you can't!"

"I can—my hour's not gone, and Sallie promised me I'd not be disturbed. Besides, you wanted scandal."

"I didn't!"

"You did—you said 'what of it.' And it's best you get accustomed to it now anyway, for don't you know by now that the Winslows are always the talk of the neighborhood."

"You are a wretch," she said as he began to nuzzle her neck. She let out a sigh and her eyes drifted closed with the pleasure of it—of him.

"Yes, I am," he muttered just before his lips found hers.

And he settled in to show her just how scandalous a Winslow really could be.

In the era of sailing ships it could indeed be tricky to know the exact day a ship might dock. Passenger lists were not always regularly kept, so it seemed quite possible that a girl, without someone to claim her, could slip into the workhouses of Regency England.

Researching the food and recipes for this book was a much brighter spot and I'm indebted to two main sources—an 1814 edition of
Domestic Cookery
by Mrs. Maria Rundell and
The Art of Cookery made Plain and Easy
by Hanna Glass, published in 1765. Mrs. Rundell, the widow of one of the famous jewelers of the Regency era—Rundell and Bridges—included in her book not just recipes but menus, advice for dealing with servants, and wonderful household tips such as "to dye white Gloves a beautiful Purple" and "to prevent the Rot in Sheep." Amazing what a woman had to know.

As for prostitution during the Regency, it had grown right along with London's population; there were indeed guides to brothels and to the various women for hire. Such activities were illegal. However, since there was no organized police force (Sir Robert Peel's "peelers" or "Bobbies" came along in 1829), it was difficult for the law to keep up with enforcing any sort of morality, which included illegal gambling, boxing, and other forms of vice.

In the Regency, really, it was not so much what you did as that you had to do it with style and discretion. Which is why it is not so much that Terrance runs off with the vicar's daughter that upsets his father, it's that he makes it into a public mess by abandoning her and not being the least repentant. Since a daughter was considered a father's property, a father could sue for damages to his daughter's person and reputation, as well as for breach of contract if a marriage was promised and not fulfilled. Terrance being Terrance wouldn't give a hang about such details—and all that's going get him in even more trouble in his story,
Barely Proper
, a title which pretty well sums up his character.

For more information on the Regency and other novels by Shannon Donnelly visit sd-writer.com.

A Proper Mistress

Copyright Shannon Donnelly © 2003, 2010

Romantic Times Top Pick - 4½ Stars

ISBN: 978-0-9831423-2-4

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Paths of Desire

London, February 1807

I can’t do this
, Thea decided, her fingers cold and fretting the ties of her brocade dressing gown. She pulled in a breath, made her hands relax, as she had so many times before going on stage. She hated that. She hated this more. But what else could she do? Fade like poor Mary Robinson into debt and an early death? Or end on the streets? She clenched her robe tighter. Even Dora—the great Mrs. Jordan now—even her, for all she was a duke’s mistress, still she moved from part to part, town to town, knowing the next play might be the last coin to be had. Always a step from killing poverty. That was no kind of life—and Thea knew she could get herself better than that. She’d promised herself. On her brother’s grave she had.

Lifting her chin, she pulled in another breath. She had on her stage makeup, and it made a good mask: kohl-lined eyes and rouged cheeks and rice-powdered skin.
Just like the stage
, she thought, trying to calm the tremors in her stomach.

She’d once hoped for more from those tattered dreams, as faded now as the room about her. She’d dreamed of so much, only to have the truth dashed in her face like a hard slap. She lacked talent. Oh, she looked well enough decked out in breeches, as some roles needed. She glanced down at herself. The breeches clung to the curve of her hips and tapered with her legs, showing enough to pull any man’s gaze. But Richardson had been honest with her when she’d come back two months ago.

“It’s not rememberin’ your lines that matters, it’s the saying of ‘em,” he’d said, his words only a little slurred from drink. “And you’d best face it, luv. You’ve only a parrot’s trick of imitation.”

Even in memory, the words cut. But at least he’d been straightforward with her. She’d had only excuses from others. And while she hadn’t thanked him at the time, she could now. He’d opened her eyes, and she hadn’t liked what she’d seen—what she could see tonight.

The other actresses in the company, with their eager eyes and fresh looks, they’d drawn the attention on stage, and still drew it. The loudest cheers had been for young Doris. The tiny blonde had a crowd of young gentlemen around her. And Thea could see how it would go from here.

Fewer parts. A struggle to live. She’d already been invited to leave one company. And when her looks faded...

But they hadn’t yet, and there was still one role she could play. She’d time enough for that.

She knew her lines. She’d gone over them this morning before the cracked mirror in the shabby room she let off Queen’s Street. So she smiled and strolled forward, the flutter in her stomach settling to a quiver. The doubts she stuffed down with the memory of what it was like to have a stomach so empty it ached and hands so cold you couldn’t feel your fingers. Those years weren’t far enough behind. She intended them never to come again.

And that meant playing her part here in the foyer of the Haymarket Theater.

Candles flickered overhead, their light caught in glass drops hung from the chandeliers but not quite reaching the walls. Smart fellow, Richardson. He bought good beeswax tapers, but didn’t use enough of them to show the faded silks, nor the shabby gold braid tacked onto worn burgundy velvet drapery. Theater tricks, to know what looked best in what light for no money at all. She knew about that.

The rich silver threads on her midnight-blue dressing gown glowed under the lights, and the tiny mends she’d made after buying it at the Charing Cross street fair didn’t show in the least. She’d thought about changing for the opening night gala—most of the others had. But she decided if she couldn’t compete in youth, she’d make herself stand out another way. With the brocade dressing gown thrown carelessly over a white shirt and boy’s breeches, she drew the eyes of every man here. In the theater, youth had its advantage, but so did knowing how to upstage others. And she had a few tricks yet in her.

Taking a glass of champagne from a silver tray, she sipped at the edge to keep the color on her lips instead of on the glass. Richardson served the good wine early and the watered later. The man in black-and-silver livery carrying the tray gave her a wink and she winked back. Mick also painted scenery and handled the ropes to arrange flats on the stage—his white gloves covered callused hands. More illusion there.

But the gentlemen who came to Richardson’s parties seemed to want illusion. Perhaps the fantasy drew them, making the old feel young and the pasty-faced feel handsome and the green lads who didn’t look old enough to shave feel full grown, what with pretty women to hang on their arms and gaze at them. And go to bed with them.