by Deb Marlowe
“Sounds macabre to me,” the landlady said with a shiver. “I was just wondering if you were both ready for a bit of sticky pudding?”
“Thank you, but no, Mrs. Beattie.” Caradec tossed back the rest of his wine. “I promised to escort the lad home, as the hour is late. But I shall be up early for breakfast.”
“As you wish.” She nodded at Francis. “Good evening to you both, then.”
They stared at each other when she’d gone.
“Tomorrow,” he said fervently. “We are going to find ourselves some privacy.”
Chapter Nine
The glittering courtesan came up with a plan. She had an artist friend who would take me in, a Frenchman living in Brittany. I packed my bags immediately.
--from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
The people of Edinburgh were an industrious lot. The hour was early, the sun still hung low in the sky, but the streets were busy and the mood seemed generally light. Rhys’s humor matched it. He’d asked Francis to be ready early and his insides had all gone airy with anticipation. He’d also asked her to wear her skirts, which might have a bit to do with his eagerness.
He pulled in close to the place where he’d left her last night and shook his head yet again. A shop for ribbons and notions? Not where he would have imagined her dwelling.
He set the brake and motioned with a hand. The skinny boy who’d come with the rented gig—to act as his tiger—moved forward to take the reins. Rhys stood—but the door opened and Francis emerged before he could descend to the pavement.
His breath caught.
She twinkled back at him, her face alight. She wore a walking gown of soft rose pink that should have clashed with that strawberry blonde hair, but made her look fresh and alive instead. It brought out a blushing sheen to her skin that had him making a noise of appreciation—and mentally mixing paint in his head. The white pelisse she wore over it was everything correct—and yet it was cut to highlight the pleasing curve of her bosom. She looked . . . delectable and tantalizing.
And he was developing an appetite that had nothing to do with his gut and everything to do with the ache in his groin.
“Good morning to you, Miss Headley,” someone called as he hopped down. “Heading out so early?”
Rhys turned to see an older man, rail thin and impeccably dressed, standing outside the music shop next door. He held a broom in his hand and smiled at Francis. “I wanted to tell you that I ordered that Russian waltz music,” he called.
“A good morning to you, Mr. Fritz. You should have luck with that waltz.” She smiled as she straightened her gloves. “It’s all the fashion in London right now.”
“That’s all I’ll have to say, to insure its popularity,” he called. “Thank you for the hint.”
She nodded and turned to Rhys. A charming, small hat perched askew atop her curls, its darker pink ribbons matching the trim on her pelisse.
“You look ravishing,” he said, taking her hand to assist her into the gig.
“So do you,” she returned.
He’d made an effort, abandoning his comfortable, paint-stained garb for a rust-colored, embroidered waistcoat and a deep green coat. Mrs. Beattie’s kitchen lad had polished his boots until they shone in the morning light.
“A ribbon shop?” he asked, nodding toward the place as he climbed in on his side.
“Owned by a friend,” she told him. “A new establishment, but already making a name for itself.” She glanced back to smile at the tiger. Looking at the basket at the boy’s feet, she glanced further around. “Where’s your case?”
“Only my sketchbook today,” he said. “I’d prefer to concentrate on you.”
He enjoyed the slow flush of color that crept upward into her cheeks. The sight of it tugged at his heart—and his conscience. It had been a long time since he’d spent time with one so innocent. The prospect was both delicious and daunting.
“Actually, I realize I’ve been remiss.” Her flush triggered a thought. “I’d planned a picnic for us.”
“That sounds lovely.”
“Yes, Mrs. Beattie’s weather sense assures me that there will be no rain today—so I meant to show you something . . . special. But it’s outside the city. A forty-minute drive into the countryside. I should ask first—are you comfortable with the idea?”
She glanced back at the boy.
He gave a shrug. “Actually, I promised him a day off.” And a shilling besides, but she didn’t need to know that.
A wry grin tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Without your master’s knowledge?” she asked the boy.
The lad turned as red as his hair and ducked his head.
She laughed.
Rhys was tempted to touch her. To reach out and absorb some of her quick, good humor. He did not. He ought not. But he did meet her gaze and ask, his tone low and questioning, “Will you trust me?”
She gave a little shiver, but didn’t answer right away. He could see her considering the question. Considering him. He was glad, because he didn’t know the particulars, but in some ways she was not innocent. She’d seen some of the sordid, evil things the world had to offer. She knew what she was risking.
“Yes.”
His chest swelled. “Thank you,” he said tenderly.
She held up a hand. “I’ll agree, if you’ll agree to stop by the palace on our way out of town.”
It was out of the way, but he would have done far more. “Agreed.”
He wove the gig through the streets, trying to keep his focus on the traffic and not the curve of her cheek or the closeness of his knee to hers, or the sweet memory of her kiss. It wasn’t easy—but it was necessary. The crush of traffic grew as they neared the end of the High Street.
Suddenly she reached out to touch his arm.
He only just stopped himself from flinching. It was just a touch, through gloves and layers of clothing, yet the small warmth of that little hand threatened to flood his senses.
“If you’ll just pull over there, I’ll only be a moment.” She indicated an open spot ahead.
He took it, then hopped down to help her descend.
“I’ll be right back,” she promised.
He watched her glide away, amazed all over again that this delicate seeming young lady was the same scamp who had scrambled through the rain with him yesterday in breeches and boots.
She reached the corner ahead, waited, then crossed the street with the flow of people heading for the simple, functional gates that led to the Castle.
Finding it difficult to keep her in view, Rhys climbed back up into the gig. There. She reached the far street with a crowd of others.
Rhys glanced back at the boy behind him. “Will you head out now?” he asked. “We can arrange to meet here at sundown, if you like, so you can accompany me back to the livery.”
The tiger’s gaze appeared to be fixed in the same direction that Francis had gone. His mouth pursed and Rhys turned to see that Francis had stopped near the gates. A flower girl stood there, offering her wares to the visitors passing by. The same girl she’d given the violets to yesterday?
No way to tell from here. They spoke for a moment. Francis reached into her pelisse and pulled out . . . a ribbon? Yes. A long, lacy length of ribbon. She wrapped it around the stems of the bouquet the girl held in her hand.
A smile lit up the younger girl’s face as the ends fluttered in the breeze, then spread wider when an older gentleman stopped and bought the bouquet. Francis withdrew several more ribbons and pressed them on the girl. After a few more words exchanged, she turned to come back.
Their gazes met across the distance. His chest felt tight but she smiled and then concentrated on the traffic in the street.
“You got enough food for three in that basket, yer lordship?” the tiger suddenly asked.
Francis had started alarm bells ringing in his head. Rhys ignored them long enough to raise a brow at the child. “I’m no lord, lad. And a Scotswoman packed that
basket. It likely has enough to feed a regiment.” He turned in his seat a little. “Were you thinking to change your mind, then?”
The boy shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind a day in the country—and I promise to make myself scarce at all the right times.”
“It’s a bargain.”
Francis approached. Rhys climbed down, his head awhirl with indecision.
“Miss Headley? I say, Miss Headley!” Again, her name came from another direction, from another man. “It is you, isn’t it?”
Her attention diverted to a young man hurrying toward them, doffing his hat as he came.
“Good day to you!” he called.
“Mr. Larson. How nice to see you.” She dropped a perfectly elegant curtsy.
The gentleman’s bow was just as smart. “I saw you and had to tell you—that collar you helped me choose was exactly the thing!”
She smiled. “I am so glad.”
Rhys’s hackles were rising.
“My wife adored it,” the gentleman gushed.
And all of that completely inappropriate tension in Rhys’s chest abruptly eased.
“I promised to bring her to Mrs. Spencer’s shop before too long,” Mr. Larson continued. “She spends quite a bit time alone while I am working, and the more senior partner’s wives . . . well, they are already established. She’ll enjoy an outing.” He shook his head and smiled. “But in the meantime, may I escort you somewhere?”
“Thank you, but no. Mr. Caradec is waiting on me. He’s been very patient.” Francis smiled at Rhys as he stepped closer. “Mr. Caradec, may I present Mr. Larson?”
Rhys bowed and the pleasantries were exchanged.
“Mr. Caradec is quite an accomplished artist, Mr. Larson. One of his landscape series is right now causing a stir and earning high praise at the Royal Academy showing in London.”
“Oh? Congratulations, sir. Are you here to paint fair Edinburgh?”
“I am,” Rhys said through a suddenly clenched jaw.
“He’s done a fabulous depiction of St. Bernard’s Well, but now my friend the Duchess of Aldmere hopes to persuade him to paint me,” Francis said with shy delight.
“Well! How lucky for you both.” Mr. Larson’s brows rose. “Perhaps when you are finished with Miss Headley, we might discuss a portrait of my wife, sir?” He reached into a pocket and patted fruitlessly. “How unfortunate. I seem to have used my last card. But please, call on me at any time.” He beamed at Francis. “Miss Headley can arrange it.”
“I would be happy to,” she said easily.
“Thank you.” Rhys nodded and swallowed his indignation and irritation. It wasn’t the poor man’s fault.
“Well. Very nice to have met you.” The young man replaced his hat and nodded. “Good day to you both.”
She turned to Rhys with an air of satisfaction, and he managed to hold his anger in check while he handed her up. Using the traffic as an excuse, he eased the gig out, remaining stiff and silent.
Francis waited a few minutes while the silence stretched out. She watched Caradec, but he drove on, his face blank. Eventually, she heaved a long sigh. “Oh, dear. Let’s have it, then.”
He merely grunted at her in reply, pulling the horse up as a clattering cooper’s wagon recklessly passed by.
Once they were started again, she nudged him. “Out with it. It must be dire. Scarcely a man alive could be sullen on a beautiful morning like this, with the prospect of a picnic and the company of a woman who might agree to become entangled with him—but here you are, managing it.”
He shot her an unreadable glance. “How long have you been in Edinburgh, Francis?”
She thought about it. “Nearly a week.”
“So short a time. And yet you’ve made so many acquaintances.”
She nodded. “I’ve made some.”
“So I see. And so many have come to know Miss Headley, rather than the street urchin I’ve known.”
She tilted her head at him. “Well, there are more hours in a day than the ones I’ve spent running around after you.”
“And you’ve put them to good use, I’m sure you imagine,” he said coldly. “Not content with a nod good morning or pleasantries exchanged, are you? You’ve progressed straight to Russian waltz music, ribbons, dress collars. Do you look at everyone you meet as a charity case, in need of your interference?”
She stilled. “No. I do look carefully at everyone I meet, though. There are a great many sorts of people in the world. Some are worth knowing. Fewer have the potential to become friends. But I like to be helpful to those who might appreciate it.”
He snorted.
“Come now, out with it. What have I really done to offend you?”
He shot her another dark look. “I am more than capable of obtaining my own commissions,” he ground out.
“Of course you are,” she answered simply. “I know that.”
“Your coarse attempts to procure one for me would lead me to think otherwise. And do you think me so desperate for work that you must blot your copybook with such a lie?”
“What lie?” she asked, bewildered.
“The one about your dear friend, the duchess.” Almost, he sneered. Not quite.
It was the not quite that saved him. Otherwise she’d be tempted to plant him a facer.
“Brynne Russell, the Duchess of Aldmere, is one of my closest friends,” she told him. Icicles might have hung from her words.
“Mmmph.”
A completely male, utterly irritating response. Did he not believe her?
He rounded on her before she could ask. “Do you have any family, Francis?” He asked it intently, as if the answer was important. “Anyone waiting at home while you are pursuing your good works here?”
“No.” She waited a beat. “Unlike you.”
“No.”
One savage syllable that spoke volumes.
She let the silence stretch out a moment. “I’m sorry if I offended you. I only meant to help.”
Her apology only seemed to anger him further. “Is that what you thought you were doing with that flower girl?”
Now Francis’s ire was beginning to flare to life. “You can’t be offended because I gave a flower girl a bit of ribbon?”
“Oh, I can, let me assure you.”
“How?” She blinked. “Why?”
The dense cityscape had begun to give way as they’d approached the western edge. Buildings stretched out a little, giving each other some room. She wished she could take a step or two away, get a new perspective on this cranky version of Caradec.
He heaved a sigh. “It’s clear that you are Hestia Wright’s creature,” he began.
He shook his head at her when she would have spoken.
“You don’t have to say a word. You obviously share her damnable impulse to fleetingly interfere in everyone’s business.”
She drew herself straight. “There are multiple untruths in that statement.”
“I beg to differ. I know you think you helped that girl today, but such interference can do more harm than good.”
She blinked. “You think I’ve harmed her?”
“No, but you think you’ve helped her—and I think you should look closer.” He shook his head. “So many people think they are helping. A gentleman throws a coin in a crippled veteran’s cup. A temporary easement, at best. The man needs employment and independence. Or at least care and a feeling of worth. Society ladies gather pennies for orphans, when those children truly need a home, support, and the love of a family. Pennies and ribbons don’t accomplish anything. It’s just hubris.”
“Hubris?” she asked incredulously.
“It means pride—”
“I know what it means! I just didn’t know that you think so little of me.”
“That’s not it, precisely.”
“I’ve harmed her with few bits of scrap ribbon and the idea to brighten up her bouquets? Pray tell me how?” She was growing frustrated and wanted desperately to understand—both his
reasoning and the darkness she suspected lay behind it.
“A stripling lad helped that girl yesterday. A young lady, today. Perhaps you’ll even come up with something for tomorrow. But what of next week? Next month? You’ll be gone back to London. And she’ll be waiting in vain for the next person to help her when she should have been learning all along to rely on herself.”
A tangle of negative emotions lodged in her chest, stealing her breath. Everything she knew, everything she was, pulsed with rejection of his words. “There is no shame in offering help. And none in accepting it, either,” she forced out. Where would she be if that were so? Dead, likely. Or on her back in a hayseed brothel.
“No, but there can be harm in coming to expect it. That child likely has many trials ahead. Hunger. Cold. Hell, a blight on blooms could set her sorely back. It sounds harsh, but in the long run, she will do so much better learning to count on herself to solve such issues.”
Francis groped for calm. Their views were so entirely opposite, they might never come to agreement. And if he would only look closely, he’d see that child faced far worse threats than the ones he’d named. “Let me tell you what I’ve accomplished, with just a couple of conversations with that child. I’ve learned quite a bit about her. I’ve discovered that she’s clean and well spoken and honest. She didn’t tell me, but I know that she is indeed often hungry and often cold. And I’ve seen that she has someone who watches over her, at least part of the time that she’s out in the streets, but not all of the time.”
“Your ribbons will help none of those conditions. I’m sorry, but I know that to truly make a difference in someone’s life, it requires a serious commitment of time, effort and emotion.”
“I agree—and sometimes that even isn’t enough.”
He mulled that over a moment. “I can see that that might be true. I suppose that some people cannot be helped. But more often than that, I believe that the lack comes from the other direction. Flitting in and out of someone’s life can cause more harm than good.”
“I’ve never flitted in my life,” she insisted.
“I’m just trying to explain that a half-hearted commitment can lead to a great deal of pain.”
