Bemused, standing by her window, Molly watched the young lady being gently chided by a thin-faced, elderly woman—probably the disapproving governess she’d mentioned—and then the two figures climbed into the Rothespurs’ carriage and departed. She’d never expected clients to come to her lodgings in that decidedly less-than-fashionable part of Town, but clearly Lady Anne was too young and inexperienced yet to know all the proper etiquette. The governess must have her hands full with such a lively charge.
That day Molly also received a card asking her to attend the Baroness Schofield at her house in Grosvenor Square. The baroness was a young widow with portrait-worthy beauty and a curvaceous figure. She had come out of mourning six months before and was now making up for it. There appeared to be no budget to restrain her, and not much in the way of taste either. Indeed, the baroness had to be reined in, for her extravagant ideas were not in keeping with Molly’s designs.
“I can assure you, madam, the fashion for too much trim at the hem is soon to pass,” she told the lady. “The wide silhouette of the gigot sleeve has also had its day. You will be ahead of the trends with a less cluttered design.” And she showed, by way of a sketch, how a simple cut would lengthen and lighten the figure, while also flattering the best features. Whenever she had the chance to talk of fashion and design, Molly enjoyed a burst of confidence and completely forgot to be reserved or timid. She loved to talk of fabric and trimmings, for in these subjects she was fluent, having amassed a vast amount of knowledge over her years of friendship with Lady Mercy. When she spoke with authority on her favorite subject, people listened to her for once, as if she had something of value to share and did not simply exist to do their bidding.
The Baroness Schofield, however, was not easily convinced. Like many, she was accustomed to following whatever style was taken up by members of Society’s elite, even when it was not necessarily suited to her size and shape. She was also excessively proud of her fine bosom and showed it off at every opportunity. When Molly gently suggested that the baroness need not display herself to be noticed, the remark was treated with the same indignation as might be faced if she told a war hero that he wore too many medals on his uniform.
Eventually, after much careful handling and subtle persuasion, the client sulkily allowed a pared-down design. She reminded Molly of a pedigreed, self-contented cat. If she possessed a tail, it would definitely be up as she walked. Molly was quite relieved when the meeting was over and she could leave the lady’s purring, humorless laugh and suffocating perfume behind. But as she passed through the hall on her way out, she turned her gaze to an elegant little console table with cabriole legs and, while her designing eye admired the softly curved lines of the craftsman’s work, noted a man’s scarf dropped in a crumpled snake upon it. Recognition was swift. She had sewn those initials upon it herself some six months ago for the Earl of Everscham.
She imagined her mother looking down from heaven and shaking her head.
Molly’s sigh was so loud and gusty that the footman charged with showing her to the door threw her a wary look. She simply shook her head and walked out into the sun.
Soon after this, Lady Cecelia Montague sent for her to discuss a new gown, and once again Molly donned her best coat and bonnet to travel across town in a hansom cab.
After a few stiff pleasantries and inquiries into the health of Lady Mercy Danforthe—which they both knew was merely an attempt to find out why Molly’s former mistress remained in the country—Lady Cecelia informed her that she would condescend to hire her services. “We approach the fashionable season, as you know, Robbins, and I need a number of new gowns. I do not like to burden my regular seamstress with too much work. I suppose”—and here she paused while giving Molly’s coat a disdainful perusal that stopped just short of a sneer—“I suppose I can give you a trial.”
As she knew it would, the patronage of Lady Cecelia granted the necessary mark of approval for other women to seek her services, and Molly became happily busy. It was important she begin dressing herself with more style, as everywhere she went she was an advertisement for her own business. In the past, her skills and services were reserved for her mistress—a good servant was not meant to be seen or heard. Now, however, Molly could no longer hide in the wall paneling, hoping to be forgotten. A transformation must take place if she was to be welcomed into those grand houses and not endure every footman and lady’s maid looking down their nose at her.
***
“I want you to round up as many of those able lads as can be found and, if they show interest, send them to the Sussex estate,” Carver explained to the startled Edward Hobbs. “They can join the other boys there.”
“More children, my lord? The estate has already taken in a large number of orphans since you became earl. As it is, Phipps struggles to find work for all of them until the harvest.”
“Then Phipps needs to use his imagination and initiative. The boys can learn valuable skills on the stud farm, or around the house if they are not working the land. I’m sure many of these children show aptitude for other lines of work where they can earn a wage. They need a fresh start, away from these streets where bad influences are rife.”
“There are indeed a great many homeless children running about the streets of London,” Hobbs replied steadily, and yet with a tone of weary acceptance, as if he knew the pointlessness of his own words. “I hope you do not think to help them all.”
“I mean to help as many as I can. I’ll get Rothespur involved. I’m sure he could find work for a few hands on that massive estate of his. Someone has to start somewhere, or nothing will ever be done. We must move forward, Hobbs, and stop merely discussing the problems. Change is the essence of life.”
The solicitor shuffled his papers worriedly. “Indeed, my lord.”
“Since parliament takes so bloody long to move its feet, someone has to take matters personally in hand.”
“Yes, my lord, that was what you said ten years ago when you began the enterprise. The estate has now helped a great many more than one child, but they all enjoy it there so much they seldom move on. Where Phipps manages to put them all, I can’t imagine.”
“Nonsense. It’s a six hundred-acre plot of land, Hobbs.”
“The last time Lady Mercy paid a visit, she was increasingly perplexed by the number of small children running about the place. Phipps was obliged to make up some outlandish stories about a spate of sudden births in the village. And I believe it led to her lecturing quite a few confused inhabitants on the subject of abstinence.”
Carver laughed at that. “Yes, well. I can’t have her knowing what I’m up to. She’ll only try to meddle and tell me I’m doing it all wrong.”
Hobbs sighed. “No doubt.”
“I’m sure you and Phipps can find somewhere to put them all.” Carver waved his hand through the air, dismissing the counselor’s concerns. “You can do anything, Hobbs.”
“If you say so, my lord.”
“And I’m thinking about a school too,” Carver muttered, rubbing his chin. “Somewhere these children can go for a basic education, but not in subjects like Latin, that will be of no use to them.”
This was far enough for poor Hobbs, who had been caught in the midst of his breakfast. “My lord, your father would never have condoned a school for the poor.”
“Exactly. My father was stuck, Hobbs my good fellow, in the past.” And he was not. Not anymore.
Six
She came to him at the end of the month. Carver had just returned from a ride with the Baroness Schofield and had not yet wiped the mud of Hyde Park off his boots. Or grass stains from the knees of his breeches. As he marched into the drawing room, she stood from the chair in which she’d waited and gave the usual bob curtsy.
The butler’s warning had prepared him, of course, but he was still startled by her appearance in a jaunty green bonnet and matching coat. Today she had shaken off the guise of a servant. Cheerful spring sun, beaming through the tall window, cast
her in a far better light than the gloomy, rain-patterned shadows of their meeting in his library.
Everything improved in sunlight, he supposed, searching for a reason why she should cause his pulse to quicken, his hands to lose their grip on his riding crop so suddenly. That warm shade of her emerald coat and the hint of verdigris lace inside her bonnet made her small face glow today.
“Miss Robbins.” He set his gloves over the seat of a nearby chair before she made him drop those too.
“Your lordship.” He caught her glance at his muddied knees, and then saw her lips squeeze together in that familiar way, while her impertinent right brow rose half an inch. She never missed a chance to look at him with scorn. The burden of carrying that halo around must make her head hurt.
Carver straightened his shoulders and snapped, “To what do I owe this dubious honor? Are you allowed on this side of Town, Miss Robbins? It seems a trifle unfair, if I am not allowed on yours.”
Her response was crisp, no-nonsense, ignoring his comment. “As promised, I have brought the first payment in person.”
She could have left it with Richards, but apparently it was important to her that she put it directly into his hands. Since he did not reach for the notes in her hand, the Mouse finally placed them reverently on a small table by the window. She looked at his knees again, wayward sparks finding their way out from under her lowered lashes.
“Did you suffer a fall, your lordship? I hope you did not hurt yourself.”
Carver scowled at her. He still hadn’t forgiven this woman for leaving his household and forcing him to seek her out on the other side of Town, just for a glimpse of her damnably doubting face. “No,” he snapped. “I was not hurt.” The Baroness Schofield always provided an adequately soft landing.
“Those breeches should be tended to at once with white vinegar to remove the grass stain.”
He wondered why the state of his breeches should concern her, since she was no longer his employee and clearly relished the fact. Bloody woman. “My valet will see to the matter.”
Her gaze lifted to his, brown eyes apparently saved from the sun’s glare by the peak of her bonnet. “I shall return the rest of the loan to you in due course. As stated in the agreement.”
“Hmm.” In truth, he could not remember much about that agreement. Except for one clause and the annoying Mr. Tom Follerie. She stood before him in a streak of sunlight, waiting for something, hovering on the tips of her toes. Any minute now she would turn and walk for the door. Who knew when he might see that frowning face again? He thought desperately for some way to delay her exit. “You recovered from your cold, Miss Robbins.”
“Oh yes, your lordship. My landlady, Mrs. Lotterby, makes an exceedingly beneficial chicken broth. She looks after me very well.”
Perhaps the landlady’s broth was responsible for putting more color in her face and that extra curl in her hair. Margaret “Molly” Robbins bloomed with the spring, he concluded. “Business is going well, it seems,” he muttered gruffly.
“Indeed, your lordship.” Her face very solemn, she curtsied again and moved toward the door. Suddenly, she stopped and turned to him. “It was not necessary to involve your mistress, the Baroness Schofield. I am capable of finding my own clients.”
“What makes you assume—”
“Do please credit me with some sense, your lordship. I may be a country wretch, raised by simple folk rather than among the grand sophisticates of Town, such as yourself”—she appeared to bite down on a chuckle, while her eyes once again studied his dirty knees—“but I am not naive. I have also borne witness to your high jinks for half my life.”
He should have been angered by that remark, but something about her funny little face and her fascination with his breeches made it impossible to lose his infamous temper. Yet. A dent in her lower lip was in danger of absorbing his attention for too long. “Half your life?”
She sighed. “Yes.”
“Then you know I am an unconscionable cad.”
“Yes.” No equivocation there.
“So why would I help by sending customers to you? Why should I care what becomes of an ingrate who abandons a good, steady, well-paid post in my household and has the gall to accuse me of—what was it—high jinks? You can hawk your wares on a street corner and down a quart of gin a day, and it won’t make a ripple in my life.”
“I assume you want your investment returned.”
“Two hundred pounds? Do I strike you as a gentleman in need of it?”
“Do I strike you as a woman who lacks the determination and wherewithal to find her own customers and achieve her own success?”
There was a little feathery seed caught in her hair by her temple, just visible under the brim of her bonnet. Must have blown there in the spring breeze as she walked through the nearby park on her way to Danforthe House. Carver badly wanted to raise his hand and take the seed out for her, but then he would have to touch her hair. It would be soft, warmed by the sun. The curls would twist around his finger. He might not be able to stop there, and he didn’t want his fingers bitten.
He felt a sharp pain, like a toothache. Wincing, he quickly lifted that same tempted hand to rub his cheek, and then it seemed as if she thought he was laughing at her, for the young woman’s anger visibly mounted. When she stepped toward him, Carver could see more color in her face, more detail in the deep, warm, chocolaty depths of her eyes.
“And for your information, sir,” she added indignantly, “I’ve never touched a drop of gin.”
“Perhaps you should. Might make you smile for once.”
“I do not believe in the overconsumption of alcohol. I’ve seen what fools it makes of people.” Her face was pert, censorious. “Like you, for instance.”
Oh, she was getting far too bold now, and he’d let her stretch her legs far enough. It was time he reined her in. “I daresay you also learned a lesson from your father’s misfortune.”
That caused the prissy madam a jolt. Her eyes widened. “What can you mean by that, pray?”
“Was he not the village drunk?”
“He most certainly was not!”
“But he was drunk the night that carriage ran over him. Had he not just been tossed out of the local tavern?”
Her cheeks flushed a dainty shade of pink. “My father was on his way home from market that evening. It was late, and he was tired.”
“And soused.”
“How dare you!”
“It’s true. My sister told me. She heard all about it from Rafe Hartley’s aunt and uncle.”
Her lips parted. Her lashes flickered. Some of the high color in her face drained away.
“Perhaps your mother wished to save you from the truth,” he added, realizing he might have gone too far in his eagerness to put her in her place again.
She turned away swiftly, and the fresh, sweet scent of lavender tickled his nose as the sway of her gown released a soft wave of fragrance into the air. He waited. What could he say now? It wasn’t as if he had any experience in making apologies.
“In any case,” she managed, recovering quickly, “had I wanted meddling in my business, your lordship, I would have asked your sister for a loan. Not you.”
Meddling? Meddling? He was speechless and so annoyed that he forgot his toothache and any thought of apologizing.
Now came the thrust of her sharp tongue, getting her vengeance. “Please do not send any more of your women to me.”
She made it sound as if he kept a tribe of them in the cellar, along with a collection of fine wines. An amusing idea and quite practical actually, when he considered it. Carver always swore he would never devote himself to just one woman. Far better to have lots of Buffers, as he liked to think of them.
After that brief loss when he mentioned her father’s drunken mishap, his assailant was now getting her color back. Had she much bosom, it might have been heaving with the exertion of her temper, but her shape was carefully guarded from his assessment, securely buttoned
up under the armor of her green coat. He considered that first button, imagined his long fingers slipping it free of the hole and then proceeding to the next. And the next.
“Get a hold of yourself,” he muttered. “There is no occasion for hysterics.”
“Clearly you don’t understand the cause of my distress.”
Her distress? Oh, she had no idea. “Well, there does seem to be a blasted lot of it, but then females are prone to exaggeration in general.”
She sucked in her cheeks and stared at him.
“Is your corset too tight?” he offered politely. “That could be your problem.” One he would willingly help her out of.
“Your lordship, let me explain my problem in plain terms. The baroness ordered three day gowns and three for evening. You will pay for those gowns, therefore, paying back your own loan. Which means, your lordship, that this is not a business loan to me at all, but a gift. That was not what I asked from you.”
“So what? So it is a gift.” Laughing uneasily, he rocked on his booted heels. “Most women would take it and be damned grateful.”
“As we already ascertained, I am not most women.”
No indeed, she was not, he thought bleakly. He could neither seduce nor frighten her. There went the jabbing pain in his tooth again.
“I don’t want gifts from you,” she continued. “I don’t want anything I cannot repay promptly. Money may not be very important to you, as it has always been in your possession, but for me it is a serious matter. I certainly do not want anyone thinking I’m one of your women, taking you for every penny while your transitory, puppy-dog attention lasts.”
“Puppy-dog?”
“I came to you for a loan because I thought that you… I mean it…would be simple.”
“Aha! Now that was a slip of the tongue, was it not? You assumed I would blithely give you money and forget about it the next day, because I am too stupid to take an interest.”
Miss Molly Robbins Designs a Seduction Page 6