A Figure of Love

by Minerva Spencer

  My father passed quietly in his sleep last week.

  She laid a hand on her throat. “Oh, Joss.”

  As you know, it was a happy release. He’d become little more than a vegetable these past months and my sister was working herself to the bone.

  Although she will go to Joseph, her betrothed, soon, I wish to spend a week with her before she marries. I have convinced her to take a brief holiday at the seaside. Please let me know if you would feel uncomfortable if I left Laura and Hugo in charge while I was gone for ten days.

  Uncomfortable? No, that wasn’t the word she’d use. Terrified was more like it; terrified that there might not be anything to go back to. But that was hardly Joss’s fault. He’d only offered to help manage the business so that Melissa would agree to this stay in the country. He had his own life and expecting him to sacrifice it for the health of the brothel wasn’t fair. Especially not when she had two managers who were supposed to operate the business.

  She sighed and glanced down at the bottom of the page.

  I miss you and hope you are well. Say hello to that spitfire Daisy from me and tell her that more than a few men are mourning her absence.

  Your friend,

  Joss

  She folded up the letter, her mind on Joss’s comment about leaving Laura and Hugo in charge: tantamount to leaving the inmates in charge of the asylum. The two whores were the worst possible combination: Laura was willful and rarely stopped to take other people into consideration.

  And as for Hugo?

  Just thinking his name made her head pound. Hugo was a force of nature. He was, quite frankly, the most sexually attractive man she’d ever met. It was boggling how much fascination he held for both genders—especially considering he wasn’t good looking at all. His whipcord lean body, coal black eyes, and thin, cruel lips should have made him downright ugly. But there was something about him that drew and held the eye; a person would always notice Hugo in a crowded room.

  He was the only employee who’d never refused a customer’s request. When it came to sex, Hugo would do anything.

  Leaving him in charge of her business would be putting the proverbial fox in charge of the henhouse. A fox who might ransack the building, sell all the valuables, and then set the whole thing on fire just to watch it burn.

  “Melissa?”

  She looked up to find Daisy standing in the doorway. “Yes?”

  “Where were you? I called your name three times.”

  “Just thinking and relaxing—what I came here to do.”

  “Well, the time for relaxation is over—you’ve got visitors.”

  “At this time of day?”

  “It’s past noon, luv.”

  Mel looked at the clock on the bedside table. So it was. “Who is it?”

  Daisy’s full lips curved into a wicked look that had made her a lot of money over the years. “I’d hate to spoil the surprise.”

  Chapter Three

  “Would you like another scone, Mrs. Pilkington?” Daisy had changed into a dress Mel had never seen before—a demure, high-necked pale blue gown with long sleeves. It should have made her look more “aunt-like” but it didn’t.

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Trent.”

  Mel hid a smile at the Pilkington woman’s pointed tone and stare. She was like a bloodhound that could scent something but couldn’t quite get the trail. Daisy’s act wasn’t fooling her for a second. They would all need to be careful around Mrs. Pilkington.

  “The Summer Fête is in just three weeks,” Mrs. Heeley said, blissfully unaware of any undercurrents in the room and accepting another scone, her fourth, Mel noted.

  In addition to the vicar’s wife there was Mrs. Pilkington and her three downtrodden daughters; Miss Agnes Philpot; her improbably named sister, Gloria; and two other women whose names Mel could not recall at the moment. An entire church committee, apparently. It seemed like an odd way to call on a complete stranger, but what did Mel know about such things?

  She realized everyone was looking at her and waiting for a response. What the devil had they all been yammering about?

  She looked at Daisy, who mouthed the words summer and fête.

  “Ah, a fête.” Mel cleared her throat. “I’m afraid I’ve never attended such a thing.” They continued to stare. “At least not at our church in London.”

  Mrs. Pilkington’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that so? And to what parish do you belong?”

  Mel opened her mouth but couldn’t make anything come out of it.

  A knock on the door saved her.

  “Yes, Jenny?” she said, wanting to kiss the curvy young maid who appeared as guileless as a cherub but in reality, had whipped a sizeable portion of the ton with a riding crop.

  “You’ve a visitor, Miss Griffin.” The girl’s eyes met Mel’s in a way that most maids probably wouldn’t and she hesitated as if she were about to deliver a wicked surprise. Melissa would have to talk to Jenny about her acting later. The girl wanted to be on the stage, so she’d better learn to embrace her role. “He says he’s a curate.” She said the word the way another person—one who hadn’t worked in a brothel until a few weeks ago—might say “mermaid” or “unicorn.”

  “Please show him in, Jenny.”

  Every eye in the room swiveled toward the doorway.

  “Ah, good afternoon, Miss Griffin.” Reverend Stanwyck’s blue eyes widened as he took in the number of people in the room. “I see I’m interrupting something—”

  “You are more than welcome.” Mel said a silent prayer of gratitude for the curate’s distracting presence. She motioned to Daisy, “You remember my aunt, Mrs. Trent?”

  “Naturally. Good afternoon, ma’am.” He gave Daisy an elegant bow that brought out her carnivorous smile and Mel wanted to groan. Could the woman behave any more like a tart if she tried?

  The arrival of the handsome curate threw the dynamic of the room completely off-kilter.

  Mel leaned close to Daisy. “Quick, what church do I attend in London?” she whispered as the reverend bowed and greeted the cluster of women.

  “Don’t ask me—the only church I know of is St. Paul’s.”

  “Good Lord. Do they even have services there?”

  Daisy snorted. “Why are you asking me these questions?” She gestured with her chin toward the curate, who was sitting in the middle of the flock of women looking far more comfortable than any man had a right to be. “There’s your local expert.”

  Mel gave her a filthy look.

  “Two sugars and milk, please,” Mister Stanwyck said to the elder Miss Philpot, who’d somehow won the competition among the women to serve him his tea when Melissa did not immediately spring to her feet.

  He took the cup and saucer, thanked her, and turned to his rapt audience. “Please, I was serious about not wishing to interrupt.”

  “We were just talking about Saint Botolph’s Summer Fête,” Melissa said, before Mrs. Pilkington could unsheathe her claws again and reintroduce the subject of London churches.

  “Yes, we were speaking of the bazaar and what we had assembled thus far.” Miss Gloria Philpot was staring worshipfully at the curate and had scooted all the way to the edge of her chair, until only the tiniest sliver of rump was keeping her from falling on the floor.

  “I’m not sure I understand what a bazaar is,” Daisy said, as if she were genuinely interested.

  “It is the same as a fair or market, just with a more varied selection of items rather than vegetables and such. We set up booths in the park and people sell different things. At the end of the day all the money is counted and the booth that earns the most gets a surprise gift. All the money goes toward the church windows,” Mister Stanwyck said.

  Ah, the church windows again. Mel really must see them.

  “Mister Stanwyck has a booth where he does the loveliest portraits,” one of Mrs. Pilkington’s daughters piped up—the oldest, Melissa thought.

  All eye
s were on the man in question, who was eating his biscuit, the elegant angles of his face darkening slightly. So, this was something that embarrassed him.

  Melissa couldn’t resist teasing him. “Ah, you are an artist, Mr. Stanwyck.”

  He took a sip of tea and set down his cup and saucer before shaking his head, his lips curved in a half-smile. “No, artist is far too strong. I am a. . . dabbler.”

  The women broke into a chorus of “no’s” and “you’re too humble’s.”

  But Mr. Stanwyck was determined to change the subject. “Tell me, Miss Griffin, do you have a special talent that might earn money for the windows?”

  Daisy choked and spewed tea into her lap. Mr. Stanwyck was immediately on his feet, hovering over her with an expression of concern on his beautiful face. “I say, are you quite alright, Mrs. Trent?”

  Mel leaned close to Daisy and smacked her on the back. Hard.

  “I’m fine,” Daisy wheezed, lurching to her feet. “Please, excuse me.” She clamped both hands over her mouth and fled the room. Mel imagined her collapsing with laughter in the kitchen and entertaining the others with the curate’s innocent question.

  “Would you like to go after her and—” Mr. Stanwyck began, his brow furrowed with concern. “Help her?” he finished lamely.

  Mel gave him a grim smile. “I daresay she’ll be fine. Tell me,” she said, adopting a softer tone, “what do some of the other booths sell?”

  “Mrs. Heeley sells some of the jams and jellies she makes during the year.” A pregnant silence followed this declaration.

  “One year Farmer Sinclair brought ice and we had raspberry ices—in the middle of summer!” This was Emily Pilkington, the youngest of the three girls and by far the least like her mother.

  “My sister and I sell wool stockings.” This from one of the women whose name Mel didn’t know.

  Mrs. Pilkington made a derisive sound. “My daughters and I will be selling various needlework projects, such as antimacassars.” Her expression was virtuous—as if God preferred chair covers to wool stockings.

  “Lady Barclay donates cut flowers from her hot-houses,” Miss Philpot added, not to be outdone by Mrs. Pilkington, a woman she clearly viewed as her nemesis.

  Mel wondered where Lady Barclay was today and why she hadn’t converged on her with all the others.

  “Sir Thomas and Lady Barclay have not yet returned from London,” Mrs. Heeley said, as if Mel had spoken out loud.

  “They go every year for the Season.” Mrs. Pilkington bristled with pride, basking in the reflected glow of her august neighbors.

  “Last year Agnes and I sold potted herbs.” This from Miss Gloria Philpot, whose pronouncement earned her a repressive look from Mrs. Pilkington. A tense silence settled over the room.

  Mr. Stanwyck cleared his throat. “Ah, distribution from each unto every man according to his—or her—need, as it were,” the curate interjected when the two formidable women engaged in a staring match.

  Miss Philpot and Mrs. Pilkington turned to Mr. Stanwyck but Mel couldn’t help noticing that neither woman looked entirely convinced by his aphorism.

  “Is that from the Bible?” Mel asked, amused by his attempts to restore peace.

  Once again, she caught a glimpse of unholy humor in his heavenly blue eyes. “Yes—from Acts.”

  Mrs. Heeley gave the young curate a possessive, motherly smile. “The vicar always says he’s never had a curate with such extensive knowledge of scripture as Mr. Stanwyck.”

  The other women clucked with approval—even the two combatants settled their feathers—while the man in question squirmed.

  “How very commendable, Mr. Stanwyck.” Mel had to bite her lip to keep from laughing when he gave her a narrow-eyed look.

  The rest of the visit passed quickly, with each of the women vying to out-extoll the curate’s virtues.

  Daisy resurfaced just as the visitors were taking their leave, dexterously thwarting Mrs. Pilkington’s efforts to time her departure with the curate’s.

  As a result, Mel and Mr. Stanwyck were the last two in the entry hall while Daisy strong-armed the Pilkington brood into the back garden under the laughable pretext of needing advice about local flora. The closest Daisy ever came to nature was the silk flowers in her monstrous hats.

  Mr. Stanwyck held his hat in his hands as he looked down at her, smiling. “You were wicked to have challenged my biblical knowledge while I attempted to smooth the waters earlier, Miss Griffin.”

  “Oh? I don’t know what you mean, sir.” Mel knew she could do innocence as well as a vestal virgin—whatever those might be. Perhaps it was in the Old Testament and Mr. Stanwyck might spend some time instructing her . . .

  “You don’t fool me for an instant.”

  Mel chuckled. “I’m sorry, that was wicked of me. But you have to admit you deserved it. All that petting and stroking can’t be good for you—you’ll end up with an insufferably big head. Look what so much praise has done to Hector?”

  “Did you just compare me to a rooster, Miss Griffin?”

  “I would never do such a thing. But if I had, I would’ve thought you’d treasure such a comparison given Hector’s titan status in the community.”

  “Touché.” He gave her a smile that did something odd to her chest. Melissa was trying to figure out exactly what it was when he asked, “By the by, you did an excellent job of dodging the question of what you might do at our fête.”

  “Are you calling me dodgy, Mr. Stanwyck?” she asked, her tone a perfect echo of his.

  “I would never say such a thing,” he mocked, not to be outdone.

  Mel laughed.

  He clapped his hat on his head and bowed. “I’m afraid I must be getting on, Miss Griffin. Please give my regards to your aunt and tell her I’m sorry I could not wait to say goodbye.” He paused at the bottom of the steps and smiled. “You’ve got less than three weeks to come up with something for the fête.”

  Mel admired his tall, broad-shouldered physique as he strode down the walk, suddenly wishing he would stop, come back, and . . . what?

  Just as he reached the end of the walk she called out. “What happens if I don’t come up with anything? Will I end up in the public stocks?”

  Rich laughter filled the emptiness between them. “Nothing quite like the prospect of a public shaming to motivate a person!” he called over his shoulder.

  And then he disappeared around the hedge.

  ***

  Although Magnus couldn’t have said why, he was more than a little surprised when Sunday arrived and Miss Griffin and her aunt appeared in church. She’d not said she was not coming, but neither had she appeared enthusiastic when the vicar had mentioned it.

  They arrived a few moments late and took seats in the very back pew, the one closest to the door, as if they were already planning for their escape.

  It was not his week to deliver the sermon, a fact for which he found himself inexplicably grateful. He’d never felt shy about speaking in church before. In fact, he enjoyed both contemplating and drafting his sermons. So why was he grateful he wasn’t delivering one today? Was it because he could imagine the mocking expression she’d wear while listening to any sermon of his?

  And just why did he imagine she would look that way? She’d given no indication of . . . well, of impiety. So why would he think such a thing?

  The truth was that she’d done nothing to engender such suspicions. No, it was more the way she looked. Magnus felt ashamed just thinking such a horrid thought—as if the way his body responded to her beauty was somehow evidence of her wicked nature, rather than his own lustful imaginings.

  He gave a slight shake of his head; his thoughts when it came to Miss Griffin were very Old Testament in nature and he should devote serious consideration as to why he viewed her in such a light.

  It also bothered Magnus more than he liked to admit that the thought of potential mockery from her—or from anyone, for
that matter—would discountenance him when it came to his faith or his calling. Yes, he would get to the heart of the matter when he next meditated.

  But for now, he tried to concentrate on worthier matters—like Mrs. Tisdale. He liked the cantankerous old woman and knew that being bedbound with a broken leg would likely drive her—and Dori, the poor girl he’d engaged to look after her—to distraction. Even though he knew Mrs. Tisdale would be in a mood, he was still looking forward to visiting her after church today.

  Mr. Heeley gave a sermon on turning the other cheek, a barely veiled reference to Mr. Dawkins and his neighbors, the Misses Philpot, who’d resumed the same battle they fought every year: Mr. Dawkins’s garden versus the sisters’ ever-increasing flock, led by their beloved Hector.

  Magnus’s gaze wandered along with his attention, settling in the same place no matter how many times he wrenched it away. Miss Griffin had been here barely a week and already he believed she appeared healthier. She was still fragile-looking and lovely, but no longer as pale.

  She looked up and caught him staring.

  His chest froze even though the rest of him burned. He wanted to look away; indeed, it was the polite thing to do. But he couldn’t. She held him captive, her green eyes as shrouded in secrets as a medieval forest. In that instant, Magnus felt sure that she saw the images his fertile imagination created when he was alone in his tiny curate’s cottage at night. In his bed.

  The corners of her mesmerizing lips turned up so slightly he wasn’t sure he hadn’t imagined it. And then she looked away.

  It was as if a large fist released him and he snorted air through his nose, just like a drowning man gasping for air.

  ***

  Getting Daisy out of bed, in a respectable dress, and on the footpath toward the church had taken every bit of energy Melissa possessed.

  “I though you came out all the way to the back of beyond to rest and sleep and get better,” the older woman groused, her carefully cultivated accent dropping away in her anger. “If I’d known you’d planned on gettin’ up before the cock’s crow and gettin’ all churchy on me I never would have come.”