Miss Molly Robbins Designs a Seduction

by Jayne Fresina

  Lady Anne paused her bouncing and collapsed like a tower of cards, laughing breathlessly. “Now I shall always think of Danforthe as a great, silly old bear at the circus, showing his claws and growling.” The laughter continued as she gave Molly a tight hug, dispensing with formality and proper reserve, then hurried to the door with her usual speed. As happened on all her visits to Molly’s lodgings, Lady Anne’s governess awaited her outside with the carriage, not wanting to enter the building and having fruitlessly tried to discourage her charge from doing so. Halfway to the door, Lady Anne suddenly spun around again.

  “Oh, Miss Robbins! I almost forgot! I meant to ask if you ever attend concerts at Vauxhall Gardens. There is one on Thursday, and I am eager to go, but my brother refuses to take me. He says I cannot go without a chaperone, but my damn governess says concerts give her a headache. I wondered if I might persuade you to come with me?”

  “Well, I have never—”

  “Do say you will, Miss Robbins. I will be dreadfully crushed and sent into an abysmal state of depression if I cannot go. I have thought of nothing else but the concert for three nights together, and you will be very good, steady company. Danforthe says you are the most pious person he knows.”

  She sincerely doubted he meant to flatter her when he said that, but the young lady was adamant, her eyes so innocent and beguiling that Molly hesitated when she should have made a polite excuse. “I’m sure you must have someone to escort you there, Lady Anne.”

  “Not a soul, I swear! Please say you will come. Miss Forde is to sing. Although I would rather see a magician or Madame Lamotte’s feats on the flying wire, I am told Miss Forde is very good. The walks there are very pleasant, so I hear, and we need not sit and listen to the orchestra if you would rather view the pavilions. There is art by Mr. Hogarth and Mr. Hayman. You will appreciate the elegance of the sculptures, Miss Robbins. It will inspire your work.”

  She laughed at the young girl’s eagerness. Lady Anne, as she’d already seen, paid little heed to conventional manner or to the division of class. Her behavior was unapologetically rambunctious, her excitement for life quite infectious. Although Molly had wondered at first why the girl was not reined in as others of her status would be, she soon came to realize it was all good-natured, unaffected spirits, and really, who would have the heart to crush them? Her brother must be the kindly and patient sort to put up with her tireless bouncing. Indeed, nothing bad was ever said of Sinjun Rothespur. Molly had heard members of his household staff refer to him as an honest and fair fellow. It showed that Carver did have some good judgment in the people with whom he spent his time.

  She glanced again at the vase of flowers he’d sent her. Perhaps she had been too harsh, too quick to take offense when he sent his mistress to her for a gown. He had merely been trying to help her.

  And apparently she was not his first case either, if what Lady Anne had told her about Carver defending her brother against school bullies was true.

  The grumbling old bear had a soft side after all. She’d always suspected it, but never dared place much hope behind the thought. There were many ideas she had about him that were no more forged in reality than Mrs. Bathurst’s tales of princely lovers and rumpy pumpy in the maze at Hampton Court. But as long as they remained merely in her head, they could do no harm.

  Her imprudent fondness for the rakish and reckless Earl of Everscham must remain like the interiors of Mrs. Bathurst’s boxes, hidden away where only she knew they existed. A secret in her heart.

  “Please say you will come to the concert, Miss Robbins!”

  “Very well. I suppose I can go as your chaperone, if it is agreeable with your brother.” Molly had no other social engagements, and although she was busy with her work, a few hours off would do no harm. Besides, she was curious about the gardens, of which she’d heard much, and there would be fashionable people there to watch.

  “Of course it is agreeable to Sinjun!” Lady Anne rolled her eyes dramatically. “Anything that gets my brother out of chaperoning me is more than agreeable to him! I shall send the carriage for you at half past five on Thursday. What fun we shall have! Oh”—once again she paused on her way out and came back to where Molly stood—“and do bring that sweet young man who lives here. The artist fellow.”

  “Frederick Dawes?”

  “Is that his name?” the young lady replied, batting her lashes with all the nonchalance of a fox watching a chicken through the fence. “I saw him on the stairs when I was last here. He seems very amiable.”

  So that was it, thought Molly. The lady had caught sight of pretty young Fred and came up with this scheme to meet him. “I will ask Frederick, Lady Anne. If you would like me to bring him.”

  “Please do. I am so looking forward to it!”

  Molly waved her off. As soon as the merry young girl was gone, she took much of her skipping excitement with her, and a pinch of panic set in. What the devil was she going to wear?

  ***

  “Do pay attention, old chap,” Sinjun Rothespur exclaimed. “This is the third time you seem to have forgotten your turn.”

  Carver pushed himself away from the paneled wall and stared at the billiard table in which he had absolutely no interest. He didn’t even know the score and wouldn’t have been playing had a cue not been pushed into his hand, as it was every Wednesday at approximately eight o’clock in the evening. This game was a standing appointment at Skip Skiffington’s house for three months of every year since he turned eighteen. It was also a form of protest against the hostesses of Almack’s, who insisted gentlemen wear knee breeches instead of long trousers to the balls there in the evenings. Carver had once declared that he would never be seen in knee breeches, and his close group of friends followed suit. Thus they made their own evening’s entertainment on Wednesdays, relishing the wearing of their “unacceptable” trousers.

  “Where is your head, Danforthe?” his host demanded with less gentle cajoling than Sinjun.

  “As you see, it resides upon my neck, where it always is.”

  “Appearances can be deceiving,” Fletcher Covington, Duke of Preston, remarked with a sneer.

  Carver moved around the table for his shot. “Occasionally I have things on my mind.”

  They all laughed, and he felt quite offended by it.

  “Will you ride north with us for the glorious twelfth, Danforthe?” Skip asked.

  “When have you ever known me to participate in the grouse season?” He’d never been much of a hunting, shooting, fishing sort of man. His passion lay in breeding horses for racing, although he kept that mostly to himself. When his friends went off to shoot grouse, he usually traveled to Sussex and spent time at his stud there on the estate. It was really the only thing that took him back to the estate, which he still thought of as belonging to his father. His custodianship was only temporary anyway.

  “We thought you might venture north this year for once,” Skip replied with a playful grin.

  “Oh? And why is that?”

  “Break the usual routine. Hide out.”

  Carver glared at Skip. “I don’t follow. Hide from what?”

  The plump and garrulous Fletcher Covington—puffing out a cloud of cigar smoke—explained with a leer, “From your sister’s fiancé, Danforthe. Lady Mercy’s country adventure is so widely talked about, it will doubtless find Grey’s ears the moment he reaches port. Then there will be hell to pay. Lady Mercy doesn’t appear in any hurry to come back to civilization, does she?”

  Carver let them enjoy their chuckles for a moment. “My sister visits with family friends in Norfolk.” It had become his answer to anyone who inquired.

  “But Grey will be back from his tour abroad by August, Danforthe. Thought you might go into hiding until the storm blows over, once he finds out what your sister’s been up to.”

  “Thank you for your concern, gentlemen. I’ll brave the storm head on.”

  Sinjun, who had not joined in the teasing, now said quietly, “Grey might
not be much to contend with, but his father is an old curmudgeon, always looking to sue somebody.”

  “Let him try.” Carver shrugged. “Hiding won’t help, will it? He doesn’t have to find me to file a suit.”

  “If I were you,” Covington opined loftily, “I’d drag that troublesome sister of yours back to London by the scruff of her neck, whip her backside, and lock her up until Grey fetches her.”

  But Carver wasn’t the sort to strap his sister to a chair and feed her gruel, even if he had threatened it in the past.

  “Your sister should have married me when I asked her,” added Covington, punctuating the remark with a low burp. “I would have tamed her by now.”

  Skip roared with laughter. “She would have had you tamed, Covey! Look how she puts Danforthe in his place and squares him away.”

  “Too late now, in any case. She missed her chance with me, and when Grey throws her over, she needn’t come begging for another chance at the wicket. I don’t want her after she’s been rolling around the farmyard with her peasant lover. Who would? You’ll be landed with your sister now for the rest of her life, Danforthe. Should have been more vigilant. We all told you.”

  A pall of uneasy silence descended over the billiard table. Everyone present, possibly including a drunken Covington, now knew the conversation had gone too far beyond teasing.

  “My sister knows what she does,” Carver muttered, passing the cue chalk to Sinjun. “If there is anything I’ve learned about women over the years and particularly of late, it’s that they do have minds of their own. For better or worse.” He studied the table, preparing his next move. “I’m sure she can handle Grey.” Mercy was a formidable force when in motion.

  “I suppose you have other matters to tend,” Skip muttered slyly. “Like your dowdy little seamstress, eh?”

  “My what?”

  “Your sister’s former maid, Danforthe. We all know what you’ve been up to with her, bridging the class divide.”

  Carver glanced over at Sinjun, who looked apologetic and then turned away guiltily to chalk his cue.

  “I was shocked when I caught a glimpse of her,” Covington proclaimed. “Cecelia Montague pointed her out to me on Oxford Street. Not what I expected at all. Not your usual pursuit. Quite a mopsey.”

  “Miss Robbins is merely a business associate,” he replied, low.

  “Really?” Covington snorted. “She must have turned you down then.”

  “Certainly not.” Carver leaned over the table to aim his cue, took his shot, and landed a ball in the side pocket.

  “Well, how about a wager, Danforthe?”

  “A wager?” He looked up, his attention caught on the sharpened edge of Covington’s tone.

  “Get the grim little seamstress into bed by the end of the month. If you can.”

  “If?” he scoffed.

  “Should you fail in your mission, let’s say…you give me your new barouche. If you win, I’ll give you that hunter of mine you’ve been admiring.”

  Sinjun had strolled around the table, and now he whispered behind Carver, “Don’t do it, old chap. He’s not worth the aggravation.”

  But Carver’s temper was pricked. “Is that all you want of mine, Covey? I rather got the impression I had something else you wanted. Not still after my sister, I hope. Not still licking your wounds from her?”

  The other man’s eyes narrowed. “No. That smart carriage will suffice. In addition to the dent in your obnoxious pride.”

  Carver noted his opponent’s puffy fingers and bloodshot eyes. “I’m afraid it’s out of the question,” he said.

  “Aha! So you know you cannot win.”

  In past pursuits, he’d never actually been in any doubt of his chances. But this was new, different. There was nothing predictable about it, nothing safe, nothing usual. He’d begun to want sight of her each day and to feel cheated when he failed in catching a glimpse, for then he wondered where she was and with whom. Was it because of the challenge she’d laid down in her contract? She’d told him he couldn’t have her even before he gave it any thought. But whenever she stood before him, her calm eyes drew him closer and hinted at more passion brewing inside, waiting for him to drink. He grew hot when he thought of their kiss, when he remembered the sweet taste of her soft lips. The clean scent of her soap, the fresh air caught in her hair, the light blush of her cheek. Even her knees, always hidden from him and kept in a tight grip, had become objects of fascination to him lately.

  He wondered at the strength of his desire for her. Very strange, very troubling. They were all right—Covey, the baroness—she was absolutely the very antithesis of the women he usually pursued. Truth was, she’d impressed him with her gumption. Few people ever rendered Carver speechless and powerless. Few people ever left him wanting more of their company, even if they would only take the opportunity to insult and shout at him.

  “Miss Robbins,” he muttered finally to his waiting friends, “is a woman deserving of respect. She has more determination and purpose in her than you’ve ever known or will know. Leave her out of your wagers.”

  “Getting all honorable, eh?” Covington scoffed. “It seems your sister is not the only Danforthe with a taste for humbler dishes.”

  “Shut up, Covey,” Sinjun muttered.

  “Gentlemen,” exclaimed Skip wearily, “can we turn our attention to the game at hand?”

  Carver shrugged it off and took his next shot. It failed, and the ball bounced off the side baize. Covington’s face was smug as he prepared for his own turn.

  Molly Robbins, Carver realized, had affected him deeply. At first he’d thought this was merely a flirtation like any other, the thrill of a challenge and a chase, but he knew now it was something beyond that. Here he was standing up for her, wanting to protect her, defend her.

  His anger had mounted not at Covington for the foolish wager challenging his pride, but at himself for letting this fancy get beyond his containment and his comfort.

  He must get to the bottom of this fascination somehow, or it was in danger of making him look a fool. The dissolute Earl of Everscham had a reputation to maintain.

  Ten

  Hard at work by the light of two sad candles, Molly was almost startled out of her drawers that evening by another impromptu visitor.

  Shown up to her rooms by a ghostly white, unusually mute Mrs. Lotterby, Carver Danforthe appeared in her doorway, fully clad in evening clothes. “Good God, woman,” he exclaimed, wasting no time on pleasantries, “how can you possibly sew by this light?”

  She squinted at him until the black-and-white blur slowly transformed into his familiar tall shape. “I conserve candles,” she explained shakily. “Do come in, your lordship.”

  “Can’t stay long,” he muttered, striding forward and sweeping off his hat. “Thought I’d better investigate the workshop in which I invested.”

  “Well, this is it.” She waved her arm about. “As you see, it is quite ordinary. Like me.” Her pulse scattering like spilled pins, Molly made some attempt to tidy her table and then gave up, realizing the futility. This time, it seemed, the street outside was not enough for him, and he came all the way in. She could not keep him out.

  He shot her a dark look and began a slow promenade of the room, his footsteps loud on the old wood and not much muffled by the threadbare carpet she’d purchased. He was too large for the space.

  “Although I am not an expert in matters of propriety—being only a simple country girl—I have also been under your sister’s tutelage for some years now, and I do believe it would not be considered wholly proper for you to be here, your lordship.” Mrs. Lotterby had withdrawn, but there was no doubt she waited in the hall or at the foot of the stairs, listening for snippets of their conversation.

  “What?” he snapped at her, still moving up and down the room.

  “For you, a single gentlemen who is not a relative, to visit me alone.”

  He gave a quick half shrug, half shake, dismissing her qualms as if she
were being ridiculous merely to raise the thought. “Don’t you have help with the sewing? You cannot possibly manage every stitch yourself.”

  “I can assure you I do manage.” She had no choice. An extra pair of hands would take money from the profits, and she was not yet making enough to afford it. Why try to explain, she mused. The Earl of Everscham would never understand the concept of working oneself into a state of exhaustion out of necessity. “Mrs. Slater, a lady who lives below, occasionally lends a hand.”

  He didn’t appear to be listening. Finally he came to a halt and stared at her cluttered worktable. Then he looked at Molly, his hard gaze inspecting her so thoroughly she felt as if she’d fallen prey to an extremely effective pickpocket. “I thought this was a boarding house for young ladies only. It seems there are men residing here.”

  She was surprised he’d bothered to find out. “Mrs. Lotterby was unable to lease all her rooms, and it left her purse light. When Mr. Frederick Dawes inquired about lodgings, he was quite desperate, so she took him in. He is a very kind and gentle man. He’s an artist, an excellent painter. The only other male here, excepting the landlady’s good husband, is the brother of another tenant.” Since she had nothing good to say about Arthur Wakely and his foot, she kept silent on that score.

  He frowned. “I shall speak to Hobbs about this. What could he be thinking to send you here? Even worse to imagine I would condone it.”

  “But you did.”

  “Only because the situation of the place was misrepresented to me.”

  The late hour, the shock of his visit, and a steadily increasing headache made her short-tempered. “Indeed it was not. How could it be misrepresented to you when you asked me nothing about it? You had ample opportunity.” She wondered why he made such a fuss about it.

  “I asked Hobbs if it was all ladies, and he deliberately equivocated. Yes, now that I think of it, he was most evasive when I asked for details of the place. Acting very shiftily about it. Anyone might think he kept a treasure chest of stolen loot here and didn’t want me to find out.”