She smiled. ‘I hope you kept enough for yourself this time.’
Laura had come to his lodgings unexpectedly and found it freezing cold. She had been most indignant that he had given all of his winnings to her and left himself without sufficient funds to heat his room. He had promised he would never do such a thing again.
‘I did. And how is my nephew, the estimable Derek?’ Derek was nearly two years old and the reason Laura had been required to wed so precipitously, despite her father’s insistence that she could marry as he dictated and pass the child off as her husband’s. Or not. He had said no one would care as long as they became part of the ducal family.
Sadly, he was right.
But despite the bullying and threats from her father, Laura had run off with John. And was now cut off from any financial support from that quarter. But John was getting more and more clients and soon would be on his feet, according to Laura.
Avery could not wait for that day to come. Then he would be free to return to his travels. His wanderings, as Laura called them. And yet, unexpectedly, at least for the moment, he was in no hurry to leave London. A certain Mrs Greystoke continued to hold his interest, though he could not figure out why. Perhaps it was the thought of that magnificent figure unclothed and beneath him. No doubt once he had had his wicked way with her, he could move on to pastures green. If the war continued the way it was going, soon all of Europe would be open to travel.
The thought left him feeling hollow. Almost homesick. He pushed the sensation aside. He had no home here in England.
‘Derek is asleep, bless him,’ Laura said, her face lighting up.
The maid brought the tea tray and some shortbread biscuits which Avery wolfed down.
‘Haven’t you had dinner?’ Laura said disapprovingly.
‘Not yet. I thought I’d go to the chop house when I left here.’
‘You will not.’ She rang the bell and the maid returned. ‘Set the table for one and bring Lord Avery some stew.’
‘I can’t eat John’s supper,’ Avery protested.
‘You can and you will. Besides, there is plenty enough for two.’
Avery grinned. ‘Bossy.’
‘Stupid.’
* * *
Once he’d eaten and was leaning back in his chair, thoroughly replete, Laura gazed at him over the top of her knitting. ‘I gather you have a new lady friend?’
His heart stilled. He kept his face bland. ‘I have several friends who are ladies.’
‘Don’t be obtuse, Avery. I’m your sister. A statuesque brunette has been seen on your arm on more than one occasion. I still have contacts among the ton, you know. Who is she?’
Laura had always been popular among her peers because she never put on airs. Her closest friends hadn’t abandoned her, despite her fall from grace, either.
‘One of my shopkeepers fits your description. Perhaps it is she of whom you have heard.’ Laura knew about his other form of income in the vaguest of ways.
Laura frowned. ‘You don’t usually parade shopkeepers in Hyde Park. You really are intent on getting your revenge on Papa.’
Good Lord, the visit to the park had been only yesterday. News travelled fast. ‘Heard about that, did you? She is a lovely woman. Runs a milliner’s shop in Cork Street. You should look in on her. Her hats are true works of art.’
‘Harriet’s godmother said she’s seen you with her twice now. She said the lady was strikingly handsome.’
Good lord. It was a small world. Harriet was Laura’s oldest and dearest friend. Her family had gone against the tide of opinion by supporting Laura’s decision to marry a mere lawyer, despite the ducal fury. And Harriet’s godmother was right, Carrie was striking and quite lovely when she smiled, though the lady herself did not seem to think so. Indeed, he often had the feeling Carrie felt that she was some sort of antidote.
‘I don’t believe I know who Harriet’s godmother is. What is her name?’
‘Countess Longacre. She and her husband are leaving town tomorrow, so Harriet said. They were passing through London on the way to their property in the north and stopped for a few days to visit friends.’
He had forgotten how small London really was, or at least the London of the ton. Everyone was connected to everyone else.
He missed that about England. Until now, he hadn’t realised just how alone he had been these past few years. How lacking in companionship. Being with Carrie had somehow brought it to the fore.
An odd pang pierced his chest. ‘Well, believe me, it is nothing but a business arrangement.’
* * *
Despite being settled beside the hearth with her sisters-in-law around her, Carrie could not stop her mind from wandering back to Avery. Had he gone to the theatre alone, or with someone else? She couldn’t help hoping it was the former.
Petra peered at her over the hat she was decorating. ‘There is something different about you, Carrie. What has happened?’
Marguerite put down the book she was reading out loud and glanced from one to the other. ‘Different how?’
Oh, dear, she might have guessed Petra would suspect something; the girl was just too perceptive for her own good. ‘Yes,’ she said, hoping she did not sound defensive. ‘Different how?’
Petra pursed her lips. ‘You look...happier. There is a glow about you that was not there before.’
A glow? ‘I am just pleased that things are going well with the shop, I suppose.’
Marguerite set the book aside. ‘It is wonderful,’ she said, thoughtfully. ‘I am astonished, to be honest, given how many established milliners there are in London.’
‘None of them have a flair for uniqueness the way you do,’ Petra said. ‘I am not at all surprised.’
Marguerite had the most amazing ideas, but it was Petra who was able to bring them bring them to life. She was an excellent needlewoman.
‘It is not only the hats,’ Carrie said. ‘The lingerie is very popular too. We are nearly sold out.’ Glad that Petra had accepted her explanation, she forced her mind to turn to business. ‘I am guessing we will need double the number of nightgowns next week. Or more.’
‘Oh, dear,’ Petra said. She looked at Marguerite. ‘I don’t see how we can possibly double our output and produce more hats if they are also selling as well as you say.’
The hats were more expensive and ladies usually only purchased one or two per Season, but they were purchasing the nightgowns by the half-dozen. ‘We will need to employ some women from the village to help.’
‘Oh,’ Marguerite said dubiously. ‘So we are to start a factory? I am not sure Westram would approve.’
‘Pooh,’ Petra said dismissively. ‘He never comes near the place. He won’t know anything about it. Besides, they don’t have to come here to work. We can provide them with the materials and the instructions and they can make them in their own homes.’
Carrie nodded. ‘And I cannot see why Westram would object should it ever come to his attention. The additional income to the families will encourage his farm labourers to remain in the village, instead of them departing to work in the factories up north.’ The cotton and wool mills were gobbling up workers across the country, leaving farms with fewer and fewer men to tend to the land.
‘I can also limit the number of gowns sold to each lady,’ Carrie suggested.
Marguerite frowned. ‘Why would we want to do that?’
‘Because then they will pay a higher price for them,’ Carrie said.
‘Or they will go elsewhere,’ Petra warned.
‘No one else will provide what we provide,’ Carrie said with a certainty that caused the other two ladies stared at her.
‘Quality and uniqueness.’
‘The two things that are important to the ton,’ Petra agreed. ‘And for that they will pay outrageous sums, too. We will have to ke
ep coming up with new ideas, though, Marguerite.’
Marguerite opened her sketchbook. ‘I will see what I can do.’ She glanced over at Carrie. ‘I agree with Petra, though. There is something different about you.’ Her expression changed. ‘Do not tell me you have met a man?’
Carrie felt her face heat. ‘I—’
‘You have,’ Petra squealed. ‘I knew it! When are we going to meet him? What is his name? Are you—’
‘Stop!’ Marguerite said, staring at Carrie intently. ‘Can you not see you are embarrassing the poor girl? If she doesn’t want to tell us, that is her business.’ She bit her bottom lip. ‘You will be careful, won’t you, Carrie? Men are such fickle creatures.’
And you couldn’t get more fickle than Lord Avery. Which was why she had picked him. She groaned out loud. ‘I have entered into an agreement with a gentleman. He is part of the reason our business has improved so rapidly. But—’
‘Are you lovers?’ Petra asked.
Carrie’s face burned. ‘No!’
‘But you would like to be.’ Petra’s face lit up. ‘Oh, Carrie, how wonderful. The first of us to have a gentleman caller. I am proud of you.’
Surprisingly, although Petra had seemed so devastated by the loss of her husband, she had been the one to suggest that they might entertain gentlemen once they were out of mourning, should they so desire. She seemed almost anxious for her sisters to enjoy the delights of the marriage bed, as she had called them when they had discussed the matter.
‘I am not sure I am quite ready for that sort of thing,’ Carrie said awkwardly, unwilling to say too much about Avery in case it should all come to naught.
Petra sighed. ‘I can understand that. I am certainly not ready for it myself, but you had so little time with Jonathan. It doesn’t seem right that your youth should be wasted just because—’ She bit her lip and waved a hand. Oh, dear, was she going to cry again?
Marguerite pressed her lips together. She had been more reticent about the whole idea of them being merry widows, but then she was the oldest sister and had very strict notions of propriety. On the other hand, it had been her idea to convince Westram to let them live quietly in the countryside as independent women. And she had agreed that as such they should be able to do whatever took their fancy. Provided they were discreet.
‘Marguerite, tell Carrie about the local squire,’ Petra said. ‘He is a bachelor.’
‘A most disreputable one, too.’ She visibly straightened. ‘I would sooner hear about this man of yours, Carrie.’
Hers. The thought carried a lovely warmth with it. Well, he was hers, for the moment, she supposed. Carrie shared as much as she dared, but said nothing about him being the son of a duke, leaving them with the idea that he was some sort of merchant.
She felt a little uncomfortable about doing so, but they would never meet him and in a few days their little affair would be over. Indeed, it might never amount to much of anything at all.
* * *
Carrie collapsed, exhausted, in her little sitting room. Avery had been right, their brief foray into society together had brought curious ladies to her shop. There had been a constant stream of customers since midday and not one of them had complained about the prices. Indeed, it seemed the more exclusive and expensive the shop, the better they liked the wares. She really hoped Petra’s idea of employing women to help with making the nightgowns worked, or soon they would completely run out of items to sell.
She pushed to her feet, filling her kettle with water and putting it on the hob. Something else unexpected was the way she had looked up with hope in her heart at every tinkle of the shop door bell. And the way her heart had dropped each time when the jaunty figure of Lord Avery had not been the one stepping through her door.
She just wished she had told her sisters-in-law the truth about him. That she had offered him money to become her lover. But how was she to explain that, while he’d been kind enough to pretend take her out to tea and to visit an elephant, somehow she had the feeling he was doing it because he was reluctant to take matters between them any further? He was simply being kind.
One thing was certain, whatever happened in the end, being seen in his company had definitely helped the business. He had certainly earned his finder’s fee and for that she would be eternally grateful.
Tired to the bone, she removed her cap and pulled the pins from her hair, while she waited for the kettle to boil. She removed her shoes and put on the slippers Marguerite had embroidered for her as a Christmas gift.
A knock sounded on the door.
A breath left her in a rush. She bolted upright. Heavens above, was he here now? She glanced in the mirror, realising that her hair was a tangled mess hanging down her back, and her face was pale. She pinched her cheeks to bring a bit of colour to them.
‘Mrs Greystoke? I have your supper here.’
Supper. How on earth could she have forgotten? Mrs Spate cooked her dinner at the same time as she cooked for the Thrumbys. Carrie felt so tired, she simply hadn’t been hungry enough to tell the woman she was ready for dinner. She got up and unlocked her door. The middle-aged cook brought in a tray and put it on the table. She was so thin and angular, no one would ever guess she was an excellent cook, except perhaps the redness in her cheeks from bending over a hot stove might give her away.
‘There you go, ma’am,’ the woman said with a smile. She put her hands on her hips and eyed Carrie up and down. ‘And mind you eat it all. Mrs Thrumby’s orders.’
Her landlord’s wife was a motherly sort and seemed to see it as her duty to keep an eye on Carrie.
Carrie inhaled. ‘It smells delicious. I am starving.’ She was, too. She just hadn’t noticed.
‘I’ll send the girl down for the tray later.’
‘Thank you.’
The woman bustled out and Carrie pulled up her chair to the table. It did smell delicious. There was a juicy pork chop with apple sauce, a bowl of clear soup, fresh baked bread, and buttered carrots and parsnips. And a little bowl of rice pudding for dessert. A meal fit for a queen.
She tucked in heartily. She had never been one to pick at her food. Finally, full to bursting, she put all the dishes back on the tray, leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She simply needed a minute or two, then she would put the tray outside the door.
A soft knock startled her awake.
Her gaze took in the tray of empty dishes. Darn. She had not yet put it outside. ‘Coming,’ she called.
The door opened instead.
There, looking elegant if a little damp, was Lord Avery. He grinned.
She gasped and put a hand to her hair. ‘I thought you were the maid from upstairs come to collect the tray.’
‘Sorry. No.’
‘I—Oh,’ She blinked to clear her head.
‘May I come in? Your porter recognised me and let me find my own way.’
‘Of course.’ She got up and picked up the tray.
He took it from her hands. ‘Where do you want it?’
Finally, her brain started to work instead of wanting to drink in his sartorial elegance. ‘Outside the door.’ She certainly didn’t want the maid coming inside to fetch it while he was here.
While he put it outside the door, she ran frantic fingers through her hair, trying to coax it into some sort of order.
He closed the door and gave her another of his beautiful smiles. ‘I am sorry, I should have sent around a note telling you I would call in, but it wasn’t until I found myself close by that I thought of it.’
She was ridiculously pleased to see him, though she wished she had changed into something nicer. She gestured to a chair. ‘May I offer you tea?’
He hesitated, his gaze searching her face.
The bottom dropped out of her stomach. One look at her in disarray and he was wishing he had stayed away.
Then he crossed the room and took the chair. ‘A cup of tea would be lovely.’
Relieved, she stirred up the fire to heat the water more quickly. ‘I am sorry I do not have anything stronger to offer.’ She ought to get something in. Wine or port. Brandy?
‘Tea is most welcome.’
He had such lovely manners, she turned to face him with a smile.
‘I cannot stop long,’ he said, looking slightly uncomfortable.
What? Oh, he had said he was close by. He had not intended to stay. He must have seen from her face how pleased she was to see him and was simply pandering to the gruff widow who had to pay for a man’s company. A pang squeezed her heart. She turned back to making the tea, determined not to show she was in the slightest bit hurt.
‘I have some biscuits if you would like some,’ she said over her shoulder, as she poured the water over the tea leaves.
‘No, thank you. I have a dinner engagement.’
‘Oh, I hope this won’t make you late?’ she said cheerily.
‘Not at all.’
She brought the tray to the table and set it down between them.
‘You look tired,’ he said.
A polite way of saying she looked as if she’d been pulled through a hedge backwards. If only she hadn’t pulled all the pins out of her hair. ‘The shop was extremely busy today. You are going to be very pleased with our increase in profits.’ She hoped she sounded businesslike and not hurt. Fortunately, he was not looking at her, he was stirring the sugar she had put in his tea.
‘I am glad it is going well.’ He looked up, smiling. ‘But you must be careful not to run yourself ragged.’
The hedge turned into a shipwreck. ‘Oh, I am used to hard work.’
He nodded. ‘Still, do not overdo it.’
‘I won’t.’ The man was unusually solicitous. It was part of his charm. No doubt his special ladies really appreciated how attentive he was. She pushed back the jealous thought. She had no right to be jealous.
She wanted to ask him where he planned to go for dinner, but resisted the urge. It was none of her business. Even a wife would hesitate to ask her husband such questions, at least according to her aunt who, on the morning of Carrie’s wedding, had tried to give her some advice about the sort of things a wife might expect from a husband. Leaving the next day for Portugal had not been on the list.
A Lord for the Wallflower Widow Page 11