A Proper Mistress (2 page)

Sallie glanced at the note in her hand, mouth tightening. 'Course, odds were that Molly wouldn't see it that way. Of all the foolish things for a woman to have in a whorehouse, Molly had principles. Sallie gave a small snort.
Principles!
Well, when it came to keeping her house in style, Sallie had but one principal—her house came first.

So she fixed a smile in place and headed toward the kitchen.

She stopped as soon as she entered, entranced by the rush of enticing aromas—roasting meat, a heavenly mix of onion and curry from a simmering pot, the yeasty fragrance of baking bread. With it came the comfortable chatter of gossip passing around between Molly and the between-maids.

Sallie smiled. It had been a lucky day indeed when she'd met up with Molly Sweet.

Painted a sunny yellow, the kitchen lay at the back of the house. Two sash windows and a door looked onto what was now a kitchen garden, where once there'd only been a square of grass. Molly's doing that. A skylight had been set into the ceiling last year, making the room bright, and a silver chain hung down from it, to open the glass cover and cool the room.

In the far corner, copper pots hung from a circular iron rack that dangled from the tall ceiling. Shelves wound around the room, displaying china serving dishes as well as provisions, the only one of which Sallie could identify was the tall, white cone, ready to be scraped for sugar.

Underfoot, scrubbed stone floors gleamed a soft cream, and just now the room seemed crowded with bodies and noise. For a moment, Sallie frowned as she added up just how much Molly cost her in staff. A white-clad scullery maid sat on a three-legged stool, peeling potatoes. Another, also dressed in white—who also did for upstairs at times—rolled pastry out on the large, rectangular oak table in the center of the room. And young Alice—a girl not yet ten who Sallie had found on the streets six months ago—stirred the steaming pot on the latest innovation, an enclosed brick stove.

The fireplace had also been put to use, roasting a joint of mutton. Robert, the black page boy, sat near the hearth, turning the spittle, his turban gone and an apron over his satin coat and breeches. He stared at the meat as if already concentration on his portions.

Watching all of this, poking into everything, was Molly.

Well, Molly's staff certainly cost a goodly sum, but Sallie had to admit that her cooking also brought in trade—and there weren't anything so generous as a man with
all
his needs met.

With her mouth starting to water from the assault of aromas, Sallie straightened and reminded herself of business first. She hadn't gotten ahead, after all, by letting distractions deter her from her goals. She glanced around once more and said, a warm smile in place, "Molly, ducks, spare a minute will you?"

Turning from the table where she had been supervising the rolling out of pastry by the between-maid, Molly used the back of her hand to push away a red curl that had escaped her white cap. She offered a flour-streaked smile. "Sallie, I hardly expected you so prompt. And I do beg pardon for intruding—I know you were with a gentleman, but I must talk to you about the tarts."

Sallie almost frowned. At fourteen, she had fled a Methodist upbringing, and at times it still seemed to her that Molly's endless smiles were more of a sin than anything else that went on in her house. It just wasn't...wasn't seemly for anyone to be so cheerful. Life was hard. Earnest. But after five years, she ought to be used to Molly always looking for sunshine, even on the darkest days.

She stuffed down her irritation. "Yes, ducks, but the tarts can wait."

Molly gave a shake of her head. "That's just it—they cannot."

Sallie almost let out a sigh. What with her figure and hair, and that sweet voice of hers—quite the proper one, too—Molly could have made a fortune if she'd taken to the other side of business. But she'd had a proper upbringing before she'd been orphaned and abandoned to the world and that showed in more than just her voice. Such a pity to waste her talents in a kitchen, of all the silly things!

Molly dusted the flour from her hands, onto her apron, as she came forward to explain her disaster. "Alice is just back from the market and there's not an apricot to be had—even though it is high summer. I know how particular Lord Alvanley is about them, but do you think we might get away with serving peach tarts instead, and just hope he does not bite into one? I mean, more than half the time, he just wants to see we have his favorite on the sideboard."

"Oh, bother the tarts, ducks. We've other business." Taking Molly's hand, Sallie pulled her from the kitchen.

"But the tarts must go in within the hour, or I'll never have time to finish the rest of the baking!"

"It'll wait," Sallie insisted, and she stopped in the hallway and stood before Molly. She ran her stare down and up over Molly, tapping one finger against her cheek. For a moment, she hesitated at what she was about to do. But she thought of the money—always a good thing to do. Yes, and she'd make it a fair share between them. Fair enough, at least. After all, she was the one who'd met the gentleman and had thought of Molly.

With a nod, she straightened. "The apron must come off. And the cap, too."

She suited actions to the words, snatching the white lace-trimmed cap as Molly sputtered a protest. Spinning the younger woman around, Sallie pulled loose the ties to Molly's plain, starched apron.

"What are you doing?" Molly said, a hand going up to push at her tumble of curls, and baffled by Sallie's actions.

It was Molly's one pride that her hair could shine like polished copper when brushed and arranged. But in a kitchen with open flames, long hair could be a dangerous asset. She hadn't done more than tie up the long curls this morning and stuff her cap on, for she had sleep late. Which is why her baking was not yet done.

And it seemed it might never get done today. Well, life was always interesting at Sallie's house.

Sallie's plump, stubby fingers closed on her shoulders and Molly allowed herself to be pulled around again. But when Sallie tossed apron and cap onto the floor, Molly snatched them back. "Really, now. What has gotten into you?"

"I want you to meet a gentleman."

Molly froze. Anger fired, sizzled through her, warming her skin. She'd thought this business settled at last between them, but it seemed it would never be.

"Sallie—" she started, her tone warning, but Sallie was already shaking her head and starting to lead her upstairs, an arm over her shoulders.

"It's not like that, ducks. He's not looking for a tumble. And he's got fifty pounds in his pocket—all just meant for you!"

"I do not care if he...fifty pounds?" Molly stuttered over the words as the sum registered. She did not care to think of herself as mercenary, but she had learned to be as practical as any girl in Sallie's house. And fifty pounds! Gracious, that deserved more than practicality. That sum merited full consideration. But she still had her worries.

Eyes narrowing, she asked, "Fifty pounds for what, exactly?"

"Nothing much. He just wants some fancy piece to act up a bit in front of his family—you know, carry on as if you're enamored with him. Why, you could consider it a holiday, almost. A paid one at that! I wouldn't ask, ducks, but then I thought to m'self, I thought, Sallie, why not just offer our own dear Molly a chance at some of the easiest money ever. You've been good enough to me, ducks, and I'd like to help you get that inn you talked about wanting so dearly."

Sallie grinned.

Molly hugged her apron and cap even tighter. It had been such a mistake to sip too much of that lovely sweet port Sallie had bought Christmas last. That was the one holiday when the house closed, and Molly had always delighted in fixing a proper feast for the girls. But last year, with the candles guttering low, and the smell of pine in the house, and the goose and ham and mincemeat pies and plum pudding eaten, she had sat with Sallie. And she had drunk too much and started to talk about her dream of an inn—a place where she could be mistress and make a respectable name for herself as a cook.

Oh, she never ought to have confided so much.

The next day Sallie had again suggested a means for Molly to double her income. And Sallie had not stopped offering persuasion until Molly had threatened to walk out. However, she knew—and Sallie did, as well—that her threat carried no real weight. Respectable London houses were not like to hire a cook whose only reference came from a house of ill-repute. And life in another house such as this might not prove so comfortable.

But Sallie had relented. At least she had back then.

Chin raised, Molly fixed her employer with a firm stare. "What else does he want for his fifty pounds?"

Sallie started up the stairs again. "That's just it, ducks. He may have the ready at hand, but you have the goods, he needs, so to speak. And what he needs is not a good time between the sheets, but a smart girl who can handle herself well—which means, you name the tune, and he pays the piper!"

A shrewd look had come into Sallie's eyes as she spoke, and Molly knew she had been unwise to show any interest. How could she even think of hiring herself out to some stranger? She knew the answer, however. She still could remember what it had felt like at twelve to be cold, hungry and alone—and terrified. One could do anything, given the right circumstances.

So what would she do for fifty pounds?

She earned twenty pounds a year from Sallie, and with London prices being what they were, she managed to save but five or six pounds a year. Last year she had tucked away a solid nine pounds and six pence. But with fifty pounds in hand, she would have enough at last that she could start to look for that inn she wanted.

Her own place.

Her thoughts spun faster and faster, imagining it—the tidy kitchen garden, a front parlor and a upstairs as well, and a kitchen with windows that looked out to the garden, and room for her own chickens and geese and ducks, and…and they had reached the landing on the first floor and stopped outside Sallie's best parlor.

Sallie smiled at her and clucked a thumb under her chin. "Look, ducks, I've always told you that keepin' company with any gentleman on a paying basis is safe as houses. Set the terms up front, and you can't go wrong. And all this gent wants is a gal who'll pretend to be his bride and mortify his family. That ain't much work for the kind of money he's offerin'."

Molly frowned. "Pretend to be a bride? That sounds a bit daft—or is this some sort of wager?" She might be the cook in a bawdy house, but even she knew that betting occupied a good deal of any fashionable gentleman's attention.

"He ain't touched, ducks." Sallie glanced behind her at the parlor door before she looked back at Molly, her eyes sharp as drops of ice. "But you just look 'im over for yourself afore you make any final answer."

Suspicion chilled Molly's skin. Just what was Sallie plotting?

In truth, she would never call Sallie wicked. Sallie might have the morals of a London stray tabby and be as canny as one, but she had her own sort of code, odd as it was. Molly had never seen her offer any unkindness to any of her girls, and to be fair, she had never coerced any girl into service. From the tales the girls told of other houses, such consideration was not always the case. Still, Sallie had a sly look to her just now, as if she had not been completely honest.

But if she said the gentleman only wanted companionship, perhaps that was the case. And there was that lovely temptation of fifty pounds.

"Come on," Sally urged. "Just meet him at least. What's the harm in that?"

Molly took her lower lip between her teeth and glanced at the closed parlor door. That seemed to be all the hesitation Sallie needed, for she grabbed Molly's hand, saying, "I always knew you for a fly one."

Sallie might think her knowing, but right now she felt quite the opposite. Her chest tight, Molly asked, "Should I perhaps change my gown first?"

"Oh, he won't be looking at that, ducks. And don't you fret that he won't take to you—he's partial to redheads."

Molly's stomach gave a lurch as if she had just pulled a burning pie from her enclosed oven. Just after they had first met, Sallie had introduced another gentleman with a fondness for redheads to her—a florid-faced banker to whom Sallie had tried to sell Molly's favors. A few pungent words from Molly had changed his mind about his preference, and she'd had more words with Sallie until the shouting had gathered the attention of everyone in the house. After Molly had broke every vase in her room, and smashed one chair even, Sallie had agreed to Molly's terms that she worked in the kitchen or not at all. They had gotten along very well on those terms since.