Miss Molly Robbins Designs a Seduction

by Jayne Fresina

  His eyes were black, cold, looking away from her. She thought of all the improvements she’d seen and heard of him making over the last few days. “But you will make your mark,” she said. “You have already.”

  “Have I? I daresay my father would be surprised to see the place still standing.”

  “Well, you are not him. We all try to live up to our parents’ expectations, but we still have to make our own way in the world. If we did not, if everything always remained the same and we never learned anything from our time on earth, there would be no point in us being here, would there?”

  Finally he turned his eyes back to her, and they warmed slowly, steadily. Until they were almost pure silver, polished and shining in the afternoon sun that lit that comfortable parlor.

  Molly felt another sudden burst of nausea. She’d meant to smile back at him but found she couldn’t. That fluttering sensation deep in her belly did not go away. Later, she managed to slip away to the privy, and there she purged her sickness without anyone knowing.

  It soon returned.

  She hoped it would go away, but with a steady, inexorable rhythm, the heated waves of sickness continued. She sat in her chamber, fingers screwed tightly around his handkerchief—which was never far from her possession these days—and tried to quell the panic. Molly Robbins, fallen woman, was now, almost certainly, with child out of wedlock. Molly had done her best to conceal the truth from herself, but she knew enough about pregnancy, having witnessed her mother’s constant toil, to recognize the signs that heralded a new brother or sister. Her descent into the abyss was complete. Frederick Dawes had warned her, had he not? The sinful Town would get her in the end. And so it did.

  But it was too late for weeping and thrashing her pillows about. The problem must be faced with a practical mind, a steady hand, and a straight stitch.

  Carver had made his feelings plain on the matter of unwed women keeping their babies, but she knew at once that she could never give hers away. If she discussed the matter with him, they would argue. It would spoil their last few days. Molly did not want him to think she expected his help or more of his money. She was old enough to know what she risked when she signed that contract with him.

  The next day, when she expressed a desire to stay in rather than ride out with Carver, he seemed mildly disappointed but accepted her choice without pushing the issue. He kissed her forehead before he left, and Molly went back to her basket of mending.

  She took another tour of his house, this time by herself, wanting to keep a picture of the place in her head, hoping that when she was far away she would recall every corner. Sadness almost overwhelmed her at the thought of leaving, but she had to put aside her own feelings and remember that life would go on. His life without her, and hers without him. They’d had this time together, and it was better than nothing. It must be.

  Twenty-four

  “The young lady was most determined, my lord.” The housekeeper hurried along at his side. “I did advise her against it, but she had the idea in her head and could not be dissuaded.”

  “I’m sure you did your best, Mrs. Martindale. She’s a stubborn creature.” They came to the attic steps, and he called up them, “Miss Robbins, kindly come down here.”

  No reply. He took the candelabrum and slowly mounted the steep, narrow steps. The attic of the house stretched the entire length of the oldest section. The rafters rose in a low point, requiring that he bend his head to fit under, and as he stepped cautiously along the old beams, he took care to steer around the thick, straggling spiders’ webs that swayed in the drafts. There he found her, with a solitary candle, kneeling among the dusty old coffers and hampers, looking at some faded baby clothes and broken toys.

  It was inevitable, he supposed, that the Mouse should seek this place out. She was not afraid of the dark or spiders, and thumbed her nose at the idea of ghosts. Supernatural spirits should probably be more fearful of her, he mused.

  “Good Lord.” He hunkered down beside her as she found a doll with no arms or legs. “I believe that was my sister’s. She was very hard on her toys, as you can see.”

  “At least she played with them.” She tilted her head. “I understand you weren’t allowed to play with yours.”

  Again he was struck by how much she knew about him, things no other woman ever bothered to find out. “Some of them. I didn’t have much of a boyhood. It was expected that I follow my father about and learn how to manage the estate. There was never much time for games.”

  “How sad.” Her gentle sigh teased the flames of his candelabrum as he set it down on the flat lid of a trunk.

  “I made up for it as an adult. It sometimes seems as if I’ve done nothing but play games ever since I turned eighteen.” He added dryly, “As I’m sure you’d be the first to agree.”

  She nodded. “If your older brother had lived, he would be the earl.”

  “Indeed.”

  Suddenly she reached out and took his hand. Her slender fingers knitted through his larger ones. It was almost as if she feared he might run away from her. “You don’t remember him?”

  “I was born after he died. I was the replacement heir. It was the only reason they had me.”

  Her wide eyes looked wet. She seemed pale and fragile today. “It is tragic when a child dies so young. It must have been terrible for your parents.”

  He did not usually talk of these matters, but with her clever fingers so tightly wound around his own, he felt calmer, better able to view the past without flinching. “Yes,” he admitted softly. “They adored him, by all accounts. I’m afraid I turned out to be a very sorry substitute.”

  Margaret shuffled around on her knees. “Don’t say that. I’m sure they loved you just as much. Why wouldn’t they? You were their son too.”

  But he doubted they ever felt the same for him. He knew his parents must have been wary of loving another child after their tragic loss. That was one way to explain his mother’s distance and his father’s resentful manner, which—thanks to a violent temper—too often descended into cruelty.

  Shortly before the end of his life, his father had warned Carver never to give all of himself in a relationship. Only a glutton for punishment leaves his heart unguarded. All these years later, Carver remembered those words, but now they seemed more bitter than wise.

  He squeezed her hand and then feared he might have crushed her bones. He was a great clumsy oaf. Should never have—

  Suddenly, Margaret leaned forward and placed a warm kiss on his cheek. With that one small gesture he was lost and found, all at the same time.

  Nothing else mattered at that moment but her happiness.

  “Margaret, I—”

  “Look,” she said. “There is a large box here, and I can’t get it open. Will you try?”

  Try? He would have broken it open with his own thick head for her, he mused. But that was fortunately not necessary. After he wrestled with the lock for a few moments, the lid broke free, and they gained access to contents that must have been hidden there—by the thick lacing of cobwebs—for thirty years or more. At least as long as Carver had been living.

  With all the determination of an intrepid, fearless adventurer, Margaret eagerly dug around inside, her entire top half disappearing for several moments. Then, with a cry of delight, she brought something out into the candlelight, cleaned it on her skirt, and held it up for his perusal. It was a wooden box with an intricately carved lid.

  “Must have belonged to my father,” he muttered.

  She stared at it for a moment and then very slowly eased the box open, as if afraid something dreadful might spring out at her. Inside was a colorful pattern formed of miniature tiles, like a Roman mosaic.

  Carver explained, “He used to collect them. I’d forgotten, but now I recall seeing boxes like this when I was very young.”

  Margaret bent over the box in her lap and was silent.

  “What is it?” he demanded.

  Slowly she turned it to show him th
e interior. “Love birds,” she whispered.

  “So it would seem.” He smiled, but she still stared at the box. “Margaret, your spectacles need cleaning.” They were wet with tears and smudged with dust. He hated to see her cry, and he’d told her this many times, but she continued to defy him.

  She handed the box to him and rooted around inside the large chest, where she found two more similar boxes. Each one brought a small gasp of amazement from her lips.

  “If you like them, you can have them,” he said, trying to understand what made her so excited. They were pretty enough, he supposed. For boxes with nothing inside but pictures. He would rather have found something real inside.

  At last she took off her glasses and wiped them on her sleeve, but she was very pale, her hands unsteady. “Where did your father get these?”

  “I don’t know. His travels, I expect. Why?”

  She shook her head. “Mrs. Bathurst has some just like them. Just like them.”

  “The old Cyprian living in your boarding house?”

  “Yes.” She took a deep breath. “Her lover gave them to her. She called him a princely lover. Perhaps I took her too literally.”

  “Well, that’s odd. But I suppose there were other boxes made.”

  Margaret raised her eyes to his. “I suppose so.” There was such gravity in those three words that he held her gaze for even longer. “This house keeps a lot of secrets,” she whispered.

  “Yes. I’m sure there are dusty boxes all over this attic.”

  Suddenly she said, “Have you ever been to a workhouse, Danny?”

  He didn’t answer directly, because he didn’t want her to know yet that he’d visited the institution at St. Giles Cripplegate, in search of her friend’s lost son. Since he had no results yet to report, he said nothing. Instead, he took her hand and kissed it. “I suppose you would love me more if I wasn’t an earl. If I was born in a workhouse.”

  She was looking at her hand where his lips had been. “No,” she said softly. “It wouldn’t be possible.”

  Although he would like to imagine she referred to the impossibility of loving him more, Carver got the sense she was thinking of something else entirely and not listening to him at all. That was the trouble with women who thought. One could never be sure exactly what was in their mind. One could certainly never control it.

  ***

  She placed the boxes on the dresser in her chamber. It could be nothing. Mere coincidence. But those coincidences were building up.

  Carver looked a lot like his father; nothing like his mother. Mrs. Bathurst had said, quite clearly, that she saw her son recently—knew him after thirty-odd years—with a fine lady in a carriage. How would she have known him, unless he looked just like his father? And Mrs. Lotterby had never actually admitted to taking the baby to the workhouse for her sister. Now that Molly thought of it, that had been a story all of her own making after hearing Frederick’s tale put thoughts in her head. All Mrs. Lotterby had said was that, “We did what was best for him. The only alternative. It was the only thing to be done.”

  Had his father, afraid the countess would never bear another child after the death of the firstborn, taken his illegitimate son and raised it as his legal heir? Lady Mercy was born a decade later, and she was, by most accounts, a surprise to everyone, but as a girl, she could never have inherited from her father. If anyone knew Carver was bastard-born, he could not inherit the title or fortune either, so the deception must have been very carefully covered up. It would take great secrecy and the care of devoted servants. Like Edward Hobbs. Who had known of the boarding house and taken her there when she needed a place. It all began to fit.

  Oh, but she shouldn’t think that way. It was wrong to cast supposition on people who were not alive to defend themselves. And what business was it of hers?

  Her pulse was racing. For the first time in days she forgot the sickness that plagued her.

  Carver was the Earl of Everscham, and that was all there was to it. Perhaps it was merely wishful thinking on her part that he was someone else, someone with whom she could have spent the rest of her life.

  ***

  The next day Carver sat at the desk in his father’s old study and unlocked the top drawer. He took out a small leather box and lifted the lid. A diamond-and-sapphire ring gleamed up at him from the dark velvet lining. It had been his mother’s, passed on to her by the women in her family. Since her death, it had sat in that box, in his father’s desk, waiting to be placed upon another living finger. Carver had always thought he would give it to Mercy one day, but she wouldn’t want it now; a ring like this was not made for the hand of a farmer’s wife. It was fit for a countess. His wife.

  Marriage. He’d seen good men fall to it before and sworn he never would. He had an ongoing bet in the book at White’s that said Sinjun would be the first of their small group to marry. He’d wagered ten guineas on it.

  Good Lord, he was sweating!

  With trembling hands, he snapped the box shut. He couldn’t do it. He would not subject himself to permanent, chafing bondage. But after closing the drawer and locking it again, he tapped the small brass key in the palm of his hand. Couldn’t seem to put it away.

  He got up, walked around the desk, and sat down again.

  It was a momentous decision, the most important one of his life. No one else could make this one for him. Not Hobbs, not Mercy. Certainly not his father’s ghost.

  No rush, was there?

  Still twenty-four hours left.

  ***

  The last night was upon them. They dined on lamb and minted potatoes—one of Molly’s favorites. The conversation was light, neither apparently having much to say, but both feeling the importance of not falling into ominous silence, and so searching for easy, frothy subjects.

  “You must be looking forward to returning to London and your business,” he said to her finally as the candles burned down and it was impossible to avoid the passing of time, the slow, inexorable march toward their parting.

  She smiled. “Yes.”

  Molly had seen his fingers toying with a small box he kept in the inner pocket of his coat. Her good-bye gift, no doubt, she thought gloomily. Did he not know her well enough by now to realize she seldom wore jewelry? But Carver Danforthe was a creature of habit. Naturally he would present her with some gaudy piece of jewelry to send her on her way. She hoped he would forget about it. In fact, the entire thought of saying good-bye was likely to bring her out in a nervous rash. Her arms already itched in anticipation of the dreaded moment. If there was any chance of doing so, she would much rather simply sneak away at first light and sidestep the wretched formal adieu.

  Oh, there went his hand again—sneaking inside his coat to feel for that little leather box. She couldn’t bear it.

  In a desperate move, she flung out her arm and knocked over her glass of wine. “Oops!” She leapt to her feet as a blood red stain bloomed on the tablecloth. “How clumsy of me.”

  A footman hurried over to remove the glass, and Carver was very calm, assuring her there was no need to clean the stain immediately.

  “Oh, but there is,” she cried. “Wine will stain irreparably if it is not tended at once.”

  “Please sit, Margaret. There is something I—”

  She began removing dishes and plates, carrying them to the sideboard.

  “What are you doing, woman?”

  “The cloth must be removed and cleaned.”

  He reached for her hand and caught it. “Margaret. Sit.”

  “I am not a foxhound.” She tightened her fingers into a fist so he wouldn’t feel the perspiration on her palm.

  “I have something to give you.”

  Her heart was beating so hard she couldn’t breathe. “No.”

  He frowned. “No?”

  “I don’t want it.”

  His eyes darkened, as if puzzled by her reaction. His grinding jaw told her he was frustrated too.

  “I don’t want it,” she repea
ted, softening her tone. “Don’t make this harder than it is, I beg you.”

  ***

  Carver watched the footmen folding the cloth and removing it. He had released her hand, and she returned to her chair. Her face was pale, her eyes wary.

  He’d always known her business was important to her, but surely she would not reject his proposal. Or would she? He knew how determined she was to succeed and make her own way in the world. She’d run away from one wedding already, so what made him think she would agree to another?

  The idea of marriage was not something he had fully embraced yet—he knew only that he didn’t want her to leave him, and an engagement was surely the proper thing. A solid commitment.

  Ah, commitment. That word was enough to strike a bolt of panic through his heart. Perhaps he was merely feeling desperate. It must pass. Surely.

  It did not take much to discourage him from the idea of proposing, and her ambivalence about marriage did not help disperse his own fears. In the past, Margaret had proven herself sensible and intuitive. If she shrank away from marriage, it was probably for the best. She was dedicated to her work, but the woman he married would become the Countess of Everscham, and it would be most unusual to find a countess running her own business. He hadn’t thought things through enough. Probably, he thought morosely, because he’d never been in this position before. Never been in love.

  It was a wretched state.

  The woman who held his foolhardy heart and all the cards in her hands sat meekly waiting for the syllabub, her eyes averted, her face solemn again. It was dangerous to give one woman so much power over him and his happiness. How did it happen that he became enamored of her? Over the past five months she had turned his world on end, but where it began he couldn’t say. Although he’d been a stranger to gallantry for most of his life, he understood now that loving her as he did, respecting her talent, he must let her return to London and live as she wanted. Keeping her trapped at his side would not make her happy, and therefore it would not make him content either. He wanted what she wanted, even if it would cause him pain to let her go.