They’d been passing the Philpot cottage at the time and Daisy had lowered her voice to a hiss, neither of them interested in catching Hector’s attention.
“I’m paying you to behave like a respectable guardian,” Mel reminded her after they’d scurried past unscathed. “Why else did you think I wanted you here? For a quick frig and a ride on that dirty mouth of yours?”
Daisy muttered something under her breath.
Mel stopped and grabbed her arm, pulling her to a halt. “What did you say?”
Daisy yanked herself away. “I said maybe that is exactly what you need. When’s the last time you’ve had anyone between your legs, man or woman? If you ask me, what you really need is a proper fuck to sort you out and get you out o’ this black mood you been in for months.”
“Well, I didn’t ask you.”
Daisy crossed her arms. “No, you didn’t. You don’t ask nobody nothin’—you’re too much smarter than the rest of us, aren’t you? But let me tell you somethin’, Madam Melissa Bloody Griffin, you ain’t fooling me. You’re miserable and heartsick and no amount o’ church or dressin’ prissy or movin’ to the country will help you get away from yerself.”
Melissa worked her jaw from side to side, willing herself to calm down. She refused to do this—to argue with an employee. Because that’s what Daisy was: her employee. They’d been friends and equals once, long ago, but that changed the day Melissa purchased the brothel. Now, Melissa employed eighty-one people; that was eighty-one livelihoods she held in her hands—eighty-one futures that relied on her making the right decisions.
And all the while she was making sure people got fed, paid, and housed, there were other people—men, mostly—who’d like nothing better than to take away what was hers. And there were other men—moral men—who just wanted to shut her business down. And then there were those in authority who wanted a piece of the pie to keep their mouths shut. And then there were her own qualms that woke her in the middle of the night—yes, in her empty bed—about making her money off the backs of others.
The old arguments she’d always used—that at least she gave whores a safer, healthier, and more prosperous place to do the job they did—well, those arguments were as frayed around the edges as a ragged blanket that no longer offered comfort.
But, at the end of the day, all of that was just so much philosophical dithering that she couldn’t afford. A woman like her had two options: either being alone at the top or being used and abused at the bottom. Melissa knew she would take the first of those options every single time.
She looked up at Daisy, who stood a good five inches taller than her. “If you don’t want to play the part I’m paying you to play then say so and you can go back to London and I’ll send for some other aunt. And don’t think I haven’t noticed you twistin’ Jenny and Sarah’s tails and makin’ them behave badly, too.” Jenny and Sarah were two of the younger whores Mel had brought along to act as domestics in this farce. They were good girls, but this was the first time they’d been out of London and they were both eagerly, and easily, led into mischief. “I know it’s been you encouragin’ them to sneak out at night, Daisy.”
Just like Daisy, Mel let her own St. Giles accent slip into her words when she became excited or annoyed; all those years of careful practice gone in a heartbeat.
Mel shook her head in disgust; Christ, give her anything but a whiney whore first thing in the morning.
“You do what you want, Daisy. I’m going to church.” Mel set off without looking back. Only when she heard a scuffing sound behind her did she know Daisy had followed.
They trudged for a while in silence, Mel slowing a bit, until they were walking side by side again.
Daisy was the first to speak, just as they’d both known she would be. It wasn’t because Mel employed her; no, Daisy spoke first because Mel’s ability to carry a grudge was legendary. It wasn’t something she was proud of, but she had to admit that she’d die of thirst rather than open her mouth to ask for a glass of water if she was angry enough.
“I’m sorry for getting the other girls riled up.”
Mel grunted.
“And I’m sorry about the way I’ve been riding you. I’ll do better about being . . . aunt-ish.”
“Good.”
After that Daisy filled the walk with chatter, knowing better than to expect too much in response. Another thing Mel wasn’t proud of was how long it took her to shift her mood back once she’d gotten angry. But by the time they arrived at the small church—late, by the look of it—she’d calmed down enough to ask Daisy how she looked.
Daisy tweaked a hair into place, adjusted her hat a fraction, and smiled. “You look bloomin’.”
Mel smiled up at her. “So do you.”
And then Melissa entered a church for the first time in her life.
***
Ten minutes felt like ten hours. The bench was hard and unforgiving, Reverend Heeley’s voice droned on and on, his sermon was achingly boring, and the other parishioners far too interested in Melissa for her comfort. In fact, the only good thing about the entire ordeal was Mister Stanwyck sitting right up front like a prized ornament on a mantelpiece. Her brain hadn’t exaggerated his handsome, angelic looks; he deserved to be sitting up front and visible.
Mel entertained herself by wondering what he was thinking. His handsome features were fixed in an expression of thoughtful attentiveness, as if every word that fell from the vicar’s lips—and there were a lot of them—was of the utmost importance.
But his eyes betrayed him. They found Mel again and again and again.
At first, she pretended she didn’t feel the weight of his stare. But just once, she let their eyes meet and lock. Daisy had finally needed to nudge her in the ribs.
“Oye,” she hissed. “You’ve stop breathing.”
She had. But so had he—she’d seen it on his face. She’d also heard him suck in air from all the way in the back of the church.
He avoided meeting her gaze again and the rest of the service was a misery.
When it seemed like things might be over Daisy whispered, “Are we staying to do the pretty? Or do you want to leave now?”
Mel wanted to see him—to talk to him—but she knew what it would be like once the doors opened: a cloud of females as thick as summer flies would descend on him.
So, they’d left early, drawing several scandalized looks from those in the immediate vicinity. Well, that was too bad.
“I’m going home and crawling back into bed,” Daisy said with a huge yawn as they let themselves out the back lychgate.
Mel was too edgy to rest, and if she went home, she’d just fret about what was going on in London, what Hugo and Laura were up to, and a hundred other things that she’d promised herself she’d leave behind.
She reminded herself that she’d made the effort to come all this way to get healthy; she might as well give it a fair try.
What had Joss said to her when he’d seen her off that last day? “Go for long walks, Mel. Even if you don’t think you want to, you’ll be glad you did.”
So Mel said, “I’m going for a walk.”
Daisy stared. “Walking back home is a walk.”
Mel ignored her and turned toward town. If she recalled correctly, there had been other paths; maybe one of them led down to the water. New Bickford wasn’t directly on the water but she knew it wasn’t too far off. She’d been here almost a week and still not dipped her toes in the ocean—another thing Joss had suggested. Mel should have asked somebody the best way to get to the water—some of the surrounding cliffs were far too steep to use—but one had to get to water if one just kept walking, didn’t one?
She followed the path, taking the first left she came to. Almost immediately she found herself in a surprisingly dense stand of trees. Mel hesitated, wondering if she’d wandered onto somebody’s private footpath.
Well, if they wanted her off it, they could tell her so.
>
The wooded area ended abruptly and she came out of the trees into a little clearing. Not far ahead the path ran beside a cottage. Mel paused and looked around. There were no out buildings, no garden to speak of, nothing, just a little house that looked to have sprung from the ground itself. Yet it appeared well-tended, so somebody must live in it.
Mel was about to resume her journey when the front door flew open and a whirlwind in skirts came flying out.
“You—you evil old witch!” the whirlwind yelled into the house, which looked dark beyond the doorway.
Faint laughter drifted from inside the house. The girl slammed the door—which sprang back open and hit the wall instead of closing—and spun around, shrieking when she saw Melissa.
Mel raised her hands in a gesture meant to be calming, but the woman flinched away.
“Are you here for her?” she demanded. But then she turned and spat on the ground, not waiting for an answer. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave without stepping foot into her web.” And with that she stormed past close enough that her skirts brushed against Mel’s.
The little clearing was once again quiet, the only sound that of the door as it softly tapped against the wall.
What had all that been about?
Mel squinted through the doorway into the house; she could see nothing.
Tap, tap, tap.
Mel yelped and spun around. What in the—
Tap, tap, tap.
The noise came from overhead and she looked up to find an old woman peering down from a closed window. She pointed at Mel and made a beckoning motion: come in.
Mel stared and the woman beckoned again.
She dropped her eyes to the doorway the deranged woman had just stormed out of, a picture forming in her mind. The woman upstairs was obviously bedridden and the girl who’d stormed off had been her caretaker. She chewed her lip, wondering what kind of woman could make another woman that angry.
Tap, tap, tap.
Well, it seemed like she was about to find out.
She sighed, picked up her skirts, and climbed the steps.
******
I hope you enjoyed the teaser!
CHECK OUT MY PAGE ON KOBO TO LEARN MORE ABOUT MY OTHER BOOKS
More books by S.M. LaViolette & Minerva Spencer:
THE ACADEMY OF LOVE SERIES
THE MUSIC OF LOVE
A FIGURE OF LOVE
A PORTRAIT OF LOVE*
THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE*
DANCING WITH LOVE*
THE OUTCASTS SERIES
DANGEROUS
BARBAROUS
SCANDALOUS
REBELS OF THE TON
NOTORIOUS*
OUTRAGEOUS*
INFAMOUS*
THE MASQUERADERS
THE FOOTMAN
THE POSTILION*
THE BASTARD*
VICTORIAN DECADENCE
HIS HARLOT
HIS VALET
HIS COUNTESS
THE SEDUCERS
MELISSA AND THE VICAR
JOSS AND THE COUNTESS
HUGO AND THE MAIDEN
ANTHOLOGIES:
BACHELORS OF BOND STREET
THE ARRANGEMENT
About the Author
SM LaViolette has been a criminal prosecutor, college history teacher, B&B operator, dock worker, ice cream manufacturer, reader for the blind, motel maid, and bounty hunter.
Okay, so the part about being a bounty hunter is a lie.
SM does, however, know how to hypnotize a Dungeness crab, sew her own Regency Era clothing, knit a frog hat, juggle, rebuild a 1959 American Rambler, and gain control of Asia (and hold on to it) in the game of RISK.
S.M. also writes under the name Minerva Spencer
Check out www.minervaspencer.com for free excerpts of upcoming books and sneak previews!
A Figure of Love Page 38
