A Proper Mistress

by Shannon Donnelly

  This was still the hardest thing she had ever done. To do what was right and true—and take this chance and trust.

  Oh, why did she have to be born for a reckless life? And a reckless man, she hoped.

  Turning around, she glared at the three men, now sulky and silent.

  "You're all throwing away the most precious gifts—each other. And maybe that's what you need to do. Maybe you need to feel how empty the world is with no one to love you, or to love. Maybe you'd rather have your hard pride and your cold anger. I'm only a cook in a bawdy house, right enough, but I've nothing but pity for the lot of you!"

  Head up, she walked out.

  She had to stop at the door for a last glance at Theo. "I always knew I wouldn't do for you." She looked at his family and back to him. "And this won't do for me, either!"

  She strode up to her room, threw her clothes into her trunk, and yanked on the bell pull, her stomach churning. No one came to stop her. Theo didn't come after her, not liked she had hoped he might. The hall was empty as a footman carried her trunk to the front door.

  She stopped there, the hall quiet around her.

  Simpson came forward. "I brought the shooting cart round for you."

  She glanced at him, her eyes stinging. God, don't let the tears spill now, please, she prayed. She nodded, glanced up the empty stairs and swallowed the hard lump.

  "Thanks—-ducks."

  He bowed. "A pleasure, Miss Sweet. We'll miss you."

  That did for her. She could bear with scorn, with hard words, with anger—she had done that all her life. But she had come to like these people, and even to respect the stiff, proper Simpson. Now, the softening in his glance, the sympathy in his voice, the regret that mirrored her own caught at her.

  She tried not to sniffle; tried to keep some dignity and her already faltering hope. But she couldn't do that and meet his stare.

  She couldn't say anything as she turned and found her way to the cart. No one protested her leaving. No one came to tell her she'd been right, and to offer apologies or anything else other than one of the footmen who gave her an open umbrella. She hunched under it as rain pelted down. This had to be for the best. And, still, he might see his way past his pride. But she knew better than to hold to fantasies. One had to look ahead in this life.

  As the cart moved forward, she did not look back at Winslow Park.

  She had not looked back from the ship at India, either.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  What did a disowned son do? Theo wondered. He could ask Terrance he supposed, but just now he didn't want to talk to Terrance. Didn't want to talk to anyone.

  From upstairs, he had watched Molly drive away in the shooting cart—a slight figure, a flash of red hair and stripped dress, and then she disappeared into the rain and dimming light.

  Should he ride after her? Should he not?

  Blazes, but she'd heaped nothing but scorn on them all—and they had deserved it.

  Only a cook. He'd give a good deal just now to be only a cook and not damn Winslow.

  But he was—or at least he was in name, if not by rights. Or he had been. Oh, blazes take it all!

  Settling back in the straw of his favorite hunter's stall, he nursed a swallow from the bottle of brandy by his side and let it go hot and stinging down his throat.

  After watching Molly leave, he had fled the house. With his jacket collar turned up and his head aching and feeling numb inside, he had gone to the stables where the horses didn't ask question or do more than nudge a pocket, looking for a carrot or sliver of apple. He didn't need the brandy he had brought with him for more numbness. No, he was hoping it might instead clear that fog that swirled in his head.

  What does a disowned son do?

  What did he do about Molly?

  George stirred in the stall, snuffled the brandy and turned back to his hay. Theo let out a frustrated breath.

  Truth was, it had been something of a relief to hear that she never had sold her body. He had known, in a way, that she wasn't a real harlot—or at least he could tell himself that. But blazes, couldn't she have told him before today? And why the hell did it rankle so much? Why did it still dig into him deep enough to keep him from going after her?

  Or was it those last words of hers?—this won't do for me, either.

  He glanced at the brandy and rubbed his thumb across the brown glass. The harsh fumes mixed with the sweet scent of straw.

  It wouldn't do for her. Well, she didn't have to settle for a life here. A disowned son might marry a cook—might he not? But which of his friends would welcome him after such a mésalliance? And how did he take her with him to the gambling hells he'd once thought would support him? Oh, devil take it, she didn't even want him.

  And he could see why she wanted quits from this family.

  He almost did himself.

  Grimly, he smiled, for he half-wished he could blame this all on Terrance. However, Theo knew he had put himself firmly into this disaster. He'd hired her in the first place.

  He'd lost his head over her.

  The stable door creaked and Theo glanced up, wondering if one of the grooms had seen the light of his lantern and come to check. He saw his father and he started to scramble to his feet.

  "Sit down, la—sit down, Theo," the squire said, and Theo sat, a little shocked by the deep lines on his father's face. And even more so when the squire sat down in the straw next to him.

  George came over and snuffled the squire's hair, and the squire reached up to pat the gelding's leg.

  Not knowing what else to do, Theo offered the brandy.

  The squire glanced at it and shook his head. "No, I came to say something to you and that'll only make me forget it."

  Theo nodded as if this actually made sense. Was this where his father tossed him from the Winslow lands and told him not to come back? If so, his father seemed remarkably reluctant. And quiet in going about it.

  That left Theo uneasy.

  "Quite the spitfire, your...your...."

  "My cook?" Theo suggested, the words bitter, though he had not intended them to come out so harsh.

  The squire glanced at him and frowned. "Your Molly."

  "She isn't mine. She has wisely taken herself back to London—or at least Simpson said she'd asked to be driven to the nearest posting house or stage inn." Theo raised the brandy. "To Molly in London, and her happiness."

  The squire scowled. "Are you drunk?"

  "I wish I were." Theo let out a sigh and met his father's stare. "We put on quite a show for her, did we not?"

  Glum, the squire nodded, and he sat straighter. "I'm not used to some slip of a girl shaming me with her words—maybe I ought to be. I have thought of you as my boys—my lads. For too long, it seems. I...I don't think I wanted you grown up and going off to live your own lives."

  "So you send us away?"

  The squire grumbled and plucked at the straw underneath them. He looked up. "Better to send you than have you walk out. Like your mother did."

  Theo sat very still. Had he drunk too much brandy? "My mother?"

  Twisting a slip of straw, the squire nodded. "She...well, she didn't die. Not physically, least that I know. But she left me. So I buried an empty box. Told me she couldn't stand my temper. And I...I let my pride hold me, let it keep me from swearing to her that I'd change, and I vowed not to instead. Hard, your Molly called it. It's that and more—unbearably hard. And letting her go—it's been the regret of my life."

  Theo stared at his father and tried to take in what had just been said. His mother hadn't died. She'd walked out on all of them. Nearby, George munched his hay, a soft sound. The rain beat on the cobbles in the stable yard and drafts of cold air slipped from the outside with a reminder that the warmth inside came from the horses.

  Frowning, Theo finally managed to ask, "So she's alive?"

  The squire shook his head. "To my shame—I don't know if she is still. She left me to live with her people, and I...I could not show my face
to them. She may be. I never divorced her. Never would, though she wrote me once to say she'd not contest it."

  He sat silent a moment, staring at the old hunter who shared the stall with them. "I still miss her."

  Theo leaned back against the wood of the stall, comforting and solid behind him, for the rest of his world spun in his mind as if he had drunk the entire bottle of brandy. His mother. Alive. She had left her boys and her husband. Blazes, but life must have been worse than terrible for her to do that.

  He glanced at his father, at the ragged lines worn into his face and the droop to his mouth and the hurt clouding his eyes.

  What did one say?

  The squire looked up, his mouth firming. "Do you love her?"

  Theo blinked. "My mother?"

  "Your Molly," the squire said.

  Panic started inside Theo. Love seemed an enormous word. Far too weighty for any one man. But he made himself think on it.

  Warmth spread through him as he thought of holding his Molly, of her laugh, of how irritating she could be with her questions, and how delighted she had looked the first time she had sat a trot without bouncing. His sweet Sweet. The woman who'd duped him.

  "She's a cook!"

  "And she makes a damn fine panda, but that wasn't the question," the squire said, irritable.

  Theo frowned and struggled to be honest. If his father could confess that his mother was still alive—where in heavens?—he could return the truth. At last he said, "I don't know."

  The squire rose stiff to his feet and said, voice gruff, "Best find out, lad." He added, his tone softening, "I ought to be proud I raised sons who don't need anyone else to order their lives, but I'll still give you advice—pride ain't only hard, it's a damn poor bedfellow."

  He put a hand on Theo's shoulder before he let himself out of the stall.

  Theo sat there, thoughts and feelings churning.

  His mother. Alive.

  God, this must be how Molly felt, wondering if somewhere in England she had someone who might love her and miss her as much as wanted to love that someone.

  And with that his mind began to turn.

  #

  "Those egg whites was done five minutes past—you beating them into cement?" Edna asked.

  Molly stopped her whisk and pushed a stray curl back with her wrist. She glanced at the egg whites. They were meant for meringues, but had gone past being stiff peaks. She had beaten the moisture out of them.

  Distressed, she glanced at Edna, feeling the tears ready to tear loose again. She pushed them back. It had only been a fortnight since she'd left Winslow Park, but it seemed years. She'd let go the faint hope that Theo would come after her. He hadn't. Now she forced a smile. "We'll just have to start fresh."

  Edna gave a nod and took Alice with her to go back to the street stalls for more eggs, leaving Molly to pull herself together.

  Sitting down on one of the high-backed wooden chairs, Molly put her forehead in her hand and rubbed. She had to stop thinking about Theo, stop this wondering about his family, stop these wretched "if only's."

  At least, after that first night back, Sallie had not asked a question nor said anything.

  There had been the start of a dreadful argument between them, when she came back with only what was left of her ten pounds in her pocket after she had bought her ticket to London on the Bath mail coach.

  Sallie had started in on her, asking what she was thinking not getting her payment, demanding to know what had happened.

  And Molly hadn't been able to take one more argument.

  She had turned and started to walk out the door.

  Sallie had grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back in, taking her to the kitchen and ordering tea, and rubbing her hands.

  She had said nothing more.

  And Molly had said nothing about the fifty pounds Sallie had had from Theo.

  That put them even, she figured. A paid holiday Sallie had once called it. Well, it had been that. And a good lesson, too.

  She knew now that the reason she'd never had a beau wasn't due to her being too particular. She had been terrified to let anyone get close. She'd lost her parents, her uncle, and had been left unclaimed on the docks, and she'd lost her first real friends in that fire, as well. Looking at Sallie's now, she saw what a safe world she had made for herself—friends with a madam who knew how to keep her heart under lock and key, and living in a house where love and smiles were sold for a good price.

  She'd made herself into one of those hard women without even having the physical pleasure in it—for now she had an idea now just how much pleasure a man's body could give a woman.

  Oh, she had kept herself safe, and all without even realizing it. Until she saw the Winslows doing the same thing—pushing love away.

  Well, she was done with that.

  She was already looking for an inn for sale at a price she could afford. And the next gentleman who took an interest in her, well, she'd take an interest, too.

  But it would take some time to forget Theo. And that faint hope she'd had. A good long time.

  Sitting up straight, she put back her shoulders. Well, no sense dragging over more "if only's." What was done, was done. And if he couldn't see his way to her now, well....

  The tears stung her eyes again, and she got up to cut onions even though she didn't need any cut. It helped to have some excuse to cry.

  #

  "Coo, you're early in the day for a bit o'sport!"

  Sallie glanced into the entry hall to see Barbara leaning over the stair railing, blond curls tousled, and her almost falling out of her dress as she smiled at a dark-haired man who had a book tucked under his arm and his hat in his hand. Odd, that book, but Sallie started forward, her smile in place, ready to do business.

  She heard his voice, low and pleasing. "Sorry—I'm partial to redheads."

  He turned, and Sallie bore down on him. Blue eyes or no. Fine shoulders or not. No gentlemen trifled with her girls. Not even with her cook.

  "You're not welcome here, Mr. Theodore Winslow," she said, arms folded and glaring at him.

  Cool as could be, he lifted his eyebrows and she hesitated about calling the two prize fighters she paid to keep order in her house. He pulled out a fat purse from the tail pocket of his coat, and her anger with him eased.

  A heart might lead one to disaster—she knew it had for her Molly, poor mite—but, still, he'd come after her, he had. That might be a good sign.

  And weren't those just the longest black lashes he had?

  She took his arm to lead him into her parlor. "Molly won't see you, you know."

  He didn't budge, but stayed rooted where he was. She had to let go his arm. She also began to reconsider. This wasn't the young gent who had come to her earlier this summer. No, he'd become a far more interesting fellow. Blue eyes started down at her, something fixed in them.

  "She'll see me. I've an account to settle with her, after all." A smile crooked his mouth at last. "So where's your kitchen and how much for an hour with her?"

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  At the sound of boots on the stairs, Molly looked up from dabbing at the onion-tears from her cheeks with her apron.

  It wasn't Tuesday, so it couldn't be Mr. Goslin come to fill the milk pitchers. It wasn't.

  Theo stepped into the room, and she stared at him, thinking herself a disaster and that she'd never seen anything so wonderful in her life. Even with him in dusty boots and breeches and a shadow of beard darkening his jaw.

  She pulled in a breath and let it out with her words, "Hello, ducks."

  He came forward, putting a book down on the kitchen table. Molly gripped her apron tighter to keep herself from flinging her arms about him. She wasn't sure just where they stood with each other.

  After glancing around, he looked at her. "I bought an hour with you."

  She straightened and dropped her apron. "My time's no longer for sale."

  Mischief glinted in his eyes. "You should tell Sallie that."


  She glared at him. "How much now?"

  "Less than what I owe you." Theo tossed a leather pouch on the table. Coins clattered as the pouch hit the wood.

  Theo knew he shouldn't tease her this way, but after spending far too long on dull errands on her behalf, he couldn't resist tormenting her a little. She had done nothing but haunt his dreams. And, with his mouth dry and his palms damp, he needed time to gauge her reactions. She'd looked delighted at first to see him, but she'd gone wary on him. Blazes, but did she really have nothing but scorn for him and family?

  If she did, he'd change that. It was why he'd come prepared.

  She didn't move to touch the money, but stepped over to the other end of the table and picked up a long-handled wooden spoon to stir what looked like a bowl of white fluff. "You don't owe me a thing."

  "Don't I just? Well, if you don't want coins—what about this?" He flipped open the book, slapped it down in a bit of open space, and waited. Would she take the bait? She must. She was always curious about everything.

  If she didn't, he vowed he'd simply walk over and kiss her senseless. Only that wouldn't really solve anything between them. No, they had to talk this out. And he hated that.

  But, for her, he'd do it.

  She eyed him warily, but came closer, that wooden spoon in her hand held up like a sword. As she read, her jaw slackened, and finally she looked up at him, her eyes bright. "It's about my father."

  Theo's shoulders relaxed. This would work. It had to work. "Captain David Sweet of the King's Thirty-Third. There's more, but I thought you might like to read it yourself rather than have me tell you about it."

  She stared at him, her expression puzzled. "And this is all you came to London for?"

  With a smile, he snagged her arm, the one that held the wooden spoon. "No, that's not all I've come to London for."

  She tried to pull back, but he already had hold of her apron strings now. She slapped his hand away, but he shifted strategy and grabbed the cap from her curls, tossing the white lace aside. She had on a white dress with a yellow scarf knotted about her neck and he was already wondering if it all tied up in front—handy for a fellow that.