Miss Molly Robbins Designs a Seduction (18 page)

***

The solicitor took Molly to view an empty shop on Bayswater Road near Oxford Street.

“Can I afford it, Mr. Hobbs?” She tried not to show too much excitement.

“The lease is quite within the budget, Miss Robbins, and there is a very pleasant room above, which would make a little retreat for you, some additional living quarters.”

“I would not wish to leave Mrs. Lotterby. I am among friends there.”

“Naturally, but if I were you, I would furnish the room above and use it for consultations with some of your elite clientele. Far less wear on your boots, not to be dashing about town in all weathers.”

“But my clients expect to be waited on, Mr. Hobbs. What will they think of having to come out to see me, rather than the other way about? They will think it most irregular.”

Mr. Hobbs gently reminded her that the upper classes were an easily influenced lot who liked nothing better than to get “one up” on their friends and neighbors. “You need only convince them that this is the new, fashionable idea, and that if they do not come, they’re missing out on something. They will converge upon the place in no time. The sign of true success, Miss Robbins, will be making them come to you. It will become a mark of status to be brought
upstairs
at
Miss
Robbins’s shop
.”

“I suppose so,” she muttered doubtfully, still wondering if she could afford the place, trying not to get ahead of herself with too many grand ideas. But Mr. Hobbs was a man of sound business sense, and it was well worth listening to his advice; certainly it would be favorable to have a tidy, clean, dry room in which to meet clients. Meanwhile, the room on the ground floor of the shop would be the place where all the work happened. She would have no more clutter in her lodgings at Mrs. Lotterby’s and could invite her friends for civilized tea and chat without making them sit among scraps and pins.

“Imagine the sign above this window,” Mr. Hobbs urged: “Miss Robbins’s Designs for Discerning Ladies. Yes, I can see it now in gilt paint. Very tastefully inscribed on a black oval, I think. Don’t you?”

Oh yes, she could see it clearly too as he described it.

Thus Molly was persuaded to lease the shop. With Mr. Hobbs’s assistance, she acquired furnishings for the new space, but kept it fairly sparse and open, preferring clean lines and airiness to greet her clients, rather than too much decoration that would detract from her designs. The walls were white, creating a simple background upon which she could show a few samples of fabric from the nearby haberdasher. Beside the swathes of silk, satin, and muslin, she hung sketches of her designs, and around the room there were small, carefully arranged groups of comfortable chairs where clients could sit and ponder their choice, or read a magazine while awaiting a consultation.

Her assistants were ecstatic.

“As much as I enjoyed the coziness of your other lodgings,” said Emma, “I think this workroom will be far superior.”

“No more wailing baby below,” added Kate, hands clasped for joy. “No more unholy stench rising up from the alley on warm evenings. No more Arthur Wakely tut-tutting at us while trying to see up our skirts as we mount the stairs to your room.”

“Should have kicked dust in his eye. That’s what I always did. Oh, and once I threatened to drop an iron on his foot.”

The girls laughed.

“In any case, he seems to have disappeared for now.”

“Good riddance.”

Despite Mr. Arthur Wakely’s tiresome existence and the inevitability of his return one day, Molly had grown to love Mrs. Lotterby’s house and the other people in it. They were, in a sense, her new family, and so were these two young girls whom she thought of as her angels. They’d laughed with her, worried with her, and celebrated with her, surrounding Molly with their warm-hearted light until she, too, glowed with it.

Standing in her new shop, Molly looked around and felt as if she ought to pinch herself. How could so much good fortune and success have come to one poor, plain little girl from Sydney Dovedale? From hard work, a determined spirit, and good friends, that’s how, she told herself with a firm nod.

But she couldn’t help fearing it might not last, that someone, somehow would decide she didn’t deserve this and take it all from her. For when a person went up and up, sooner or later they had to come down. The Molly Robbinses of the world were not meant to find their way up into such lofty heights.

***

Whenever she had a moment to spare, she sat for Frederick’s painting. Although he seemed pleased by the progress, he refused to let her view his work. “When it’s complete, you may see it then,” he assured her grandly.

She asked if he’d ever considered painting Mrs. Bathurst. “Now there is a lady with character in her face. An entire lifetime of expression.”

“True. But who would buy a painting of Mrs. Bathurst?”

“Who would buy mine? I sincerely hope you don’t think to sell it.”

He looked smug. “We’ll see.”

Molly drew the conversation back to Mrs. Bathurst. “She is a dear old lady and admires you very much.”

“Of course she does. Everyone adores me. I am adorable.”

There was something in his expression that reminded her of Mrs. Bathurst. The more she looked, the more evident it became. “You said you have no family still living, Frederick. Where was the workhouse in which you grew up?”

“St. Giles Cripplegate. Why? Do sit still. That’s the third time you’ve fidgeted, and it’s not like you at all.”

Molly fixed her gaze on a point above his easel. “Would you like to meet your mother?”

“My mother? What for? I’ve nothing to give her. I’m not a fat, rich, famous artist yet.”

She sighed. “There is such a thing as love, Frederick. It comes free of charge, but it seems to be so easily dismissed in this town. Folk are too busy for love.”

“Love does not pay the bills or put food on the table. Unless it’s the sort of love sold in a dark alley outside a gin shop for sixpence.”

“Frederick!”

He laughed. “And you’re a fine one to criticize, Miss Molly Robbins. What time do you spare for love, eh?”

She dismissed it with a haughty shake of her head, but he was right, of course. If she was not careful, she would become as hard-hearted as the other people there. Had she not closed her heart inside one of those boxes? She meant to guard it, protect it from harm, but it longed to be set free, to love where it wanted, where it needed. Keeping her heart shut away was as cruel as it would be to keep a lively creature like Lady Anne Rothespur trussed up and locked in a room. It might keep the young lady out of trouble, but it would surely cause her pain and change her for the worse.

Pensive, she wondered what had become of Carver lately. She hadn’t seen him since that day in the park. Had he given up his pursuit at last? Now, when she held his handkerchief to her face at night, she thought his scent was fading. Tears threatened, but she forced them back, felt them scalding the back of her eyes.

Fred promised to unveil her portrait at Mrs. Lotterby’s next dinner party. Despite the nonchalance with which she’d approached the ordeal, Molly was on tenterhooks that evening, wound up with anticipation. However, when they all gathered in Mrs. Lotterby’s parlor, the painting revealed was not of Molly. It was a portrait of Mrs. Slater and her son.

Curbing her disappointment, she declared herself glad that he’d finally followed her suggestion and painted the young widow. “You did great justice to her eyes, exactly as I knew you would, Frederick.”

“It was damned hard to get the boy to sit still,” he muttered to her as they sat at the dining table. “I had to bribe him with treats. Aren’t you going to ask me what happened to your picture?”

“I assumed it came out so badly that you burned it in Mrs. Lotterby’s fire,” she replied curtly.

“No. I sold it to an admirer.”

“Frederick Dawes, don’t fib! Who on earth would buy a picture of me?”

“A gentleman who desires to remain anonymous. As if you cannot guess his name. As if we do not all know it by now after his midnight visit to your room.”

Molly’s face was now warm as toast and could have melted butter.

“He paid a high price, or I would not have parted with it. Now I can pay off all my debts and still have coin with which to celebrate my first sale. He was most generous. For an aristocrat and an old man.”

“Oh, Fred. I wish you had discussed it with me before you sold my portrait.”

“Why? You said many times that you didn’t want to see yourself.” He shrugged, utterly unconcerned. “I don’t know why you fret so.”

She couldn’t put it into words, but somehow the thought of Carver Danforthe being in possession of her picture felt rather scandalous. It was almost as if she could feel his eyes studying her closely, as if part of her soul was captured in that portrait and was now his prisoner. There was no mistaking who had bought it, of course; she didn’t need to hear his name.

“Can’t imagine what you see in him,” Frederick added slyly. “Apart from the coin, of course. I suppose I can’t blame you for that. He’s been very generous to all, because of you. Because of his desire for you.”

“What can you mean? Generous to whom?”

The others were all seated now, and her pulse was too brisk, her breathing unsteady. Frederick looked pointedly around the table, and she followed his gaze. Mrs. Lotterby had put on a large spread that week. In fact, all her dinners that past month had been more extravagant than usual. Ever since the mysterious bequest left to her by a never-before-mentioned relative.

Frederick was very smart that evening in a brand new waistcoat. Molly had not noticed it earlier. Occasionally he checked the time on a new fob watch, the gleam of gold bright in the corner of her eye. As wine loosened his tongue, he flirted with a blushing, giddy Mrs. Slater, who had come out of her shell since the welcome, unexplained disappearance of her brother.

Fortune seemed to have turned lately in favor of her friends. Mrs. Lotterby’s sudden influx of coin for repairs and a new roof was just the beginning of it, and where did it end? Was even the delightful absence of Arthur Wakely part of this same pattern of fortuitous occurrences?

Finally to be considered, there was Molly’s new shop in the Bayswater Road. Mr. Hobbs had assured her she could afford the lease there, in addition to her rent at Mrs. Lotterby’s, with only a few small adjustments to her budget. But how could that be? She had been blinded by her own excitement and a willingness to believe in miracles.

Blind to a great many things.

She’d even begun to wonder about the provenance of her “angels,” those two young parson’s daughters supposedly from Aylesbury and sent to her by Mr. Hobbs. Was anything in this town ever what it appeared to be?

That evening at dinner, Molly went through the motions without hearing a solitary word anyone said. She knew she had to do something about this. Better take charge of the situation—of him and of her heart—as best she could, before he sneakily took all the control out of her hands.

She strode boldly up the front steps of Danforthe House the next afternoon and tugged hard on the bell cord. Richards opened the door and almost toppled backward to see her standing there at the main entrance.

“I’ve come to see the earl,” she said calmly. “I trust he’s out of bed by now.”

“Robbins, you cannot just—”

Molly pushed her way by him and into the house. “Please fetch him. I’ll wait in his”—she turned slowly, considering—“his library.” And with that, she marched into his lair, leaving a complaining, irate Richards in her wake. As she’d said to him before, let the sullen butler pick her up and toss her out into the street. If he dared. She knew his back would never take the strain.

The library curtains were open, afternoon sun streaming across the earl’s empty desk. A faint scent of candle wax, old leather, and wood smoke lingered.

Her gaze rummaged over the shelves of books with their gold-patterned spines. So many words of wisdom. Had he read any, or were they only for show?

It seemed a lifetime had passed since she stood before him in this room, her boots leaking, her feet wet, asking him to sign her contract. Trying her damndest to ignore those pangs of desire for him. Thinking they might go away.

The fireplace was dark today; an embroidered screen was set before the hearth with a hunting scene leaping across it. Above the mantel was a painting of the earl’s mother, a handsome woman with copper curls the same as her daughter’s. She looked down at Molly, a very slight smile lifting her lips, green eyes hard and bright but not very warm. The background was full of sweeping strokes and not much definition. One got a sense of a nervous, rushed artist hurrying to capture that face, as if he knew his subject was too impatient to sit for long.

Behind her, the door opened, and she turned.

“Why did you do it?” she demanded at once.

He stood inside the door in his shirtsleeves, evidently fetched in haste and sparing no time to put on a jacket. Slowly, he closed the door. “Do what? What am I accused of now?”

“All those things for my neighbors. I know you gave Mrs. Lotterby money for repairs, and you bought my painting from Frederick Dawes.” She paused. “Perhaps you got rid of Arthur Wakely too.” She wouldn’t put it past him. “Where is my painting? What have you done with it?”

“Come with me, and I’ll show you.”

“Come with you where?” She straightened her spine.

He laughed and shook his head. “Trust me, I’m not going to corner you in a dark cellar.” His eyes gleamed with a sudden flame. “Not today, in any case.”

Striding to the bookshelf, he pressed one of the fat tomes, and there was a sharp click. A small door opened to reveal a secret chamber beyond. All her years in that house, and she’d never known of its existence.

“This is where I keep my treasures,” he said. “A man has to have some place to keep his secrets and go where no one can find him.”

He led her into the little room. It was shadowy, dusty. Since he had no candles, the only light came from the library window, and that barely reached. But there she saw her picture. It took her a moment to be sure it was her, but she recognized the old gray pinafore first, and the pincushion tied around her wrist. The face did not have much likeness at all, she thought. The expression was quite mischievous and naughty. Not at all serene and sensible, as she’d expected—or as she saw herself. Mrs. Bathurst was right; it was unsettling to see how differently she was beheld by others.

“As you say, he’s quite talented, your painter.”

She looked at Carver. “He’s not
my
painter.” How small her voice sounded suddenly.

He bent his head toward her, and she thought he looked vulnerable, younger. “Good.”

Molly felt her pulse fluttering wildly. She swallowed, stared at his lips, and murmured, “Why did you buy the painting? He told me you paid a great deal of coin.”

“Until I can have the person herself, the image must suffice. It was some comfort.”

Slowly she opened her reticule and took out the folded contract. The one he’d amended. His gaze drifted down to the paper in her hand and then back up again. “Is that—?”

“Hush.”

A slow smile lifted one side of his mouth. “Margaret—”

“I didn’t say I signed it, did I?” She had to let him know he couldn’t have it all his way. Since watching his lips tempted her own to misbehave, Molly looked instead at his flannel waistcoat, at his hands, his shoulders—anywhere but his face. “What happened to Arthur Wakely?” As much as she disliked Arthur, she wouldn’t want to think anything too desperate had occurred.

“He’s enjoying an extended stay at a sanitarium on the coast of Kent. For his foot.”

“Oh. How clever of you to know.”

“I’m much more clever than I look. And you’re much less stern than
you
look.”

Molly glanced again at her picture. Was that really her? The woman in the portrait was very composed and sure of herself. “I don’t see any other treasures in here,” she remarked. “Is this all you have?”

“I threw the others out to make room for you. You are the only treasure I need.”

She tried not to be too pleased.
Remember
,
Moll,
this
is
how
he
seduces
women. He’s good at it, well practiced. Don’t think this is anything out of the ordinary for him.

But how funny he was with his little secret room. It reminded her of Mrs. Bathurst with her “magpie’s nest,” as the landlady called it. After a few moments, her eyes grew sore from staring in the dim light, and Carver led her back out into the library.

“I’ve done many things in my three and thirty years that I shouldn’t, Margaret,” he said softly. “Let me have this one thing I needn’t regret. This one good thing in my life. You.”

There was nothing she could say to that and, fortunately, the contract would suffice as her answer, since words failed. She put it slowly into his waiting hand.

Carver didn’t open it immediately to see whether she’d signed his amendment. Instead, he clasped her fingers, drew them to his lips, and kissed her knuckles. “Whatever your reply to me, Margaret, my feelings for you, my desire for you, will remain.”

It was still unbelievable to Molly that he should feel this way for her. But why did she think herself undeserving?

She was no longer a girl; she was a woman free to make decisions, free to look at all the colors in the clouds. And she had a heart that persisted in wanting above her station, inconvenient as it might be.

Suddenly Carver put his hands around Molly’s face and lifted it for a kiss so full of want that the battered remains of her virtuous shield crumpled.

***

He’d known she would come to him sooner or later, to argue about his “meddling” again. She was too clever not to realize he was behind it all eventually. Never before had he put so much effort into a seduction, but he liked doing things for her, and he wanted to keep doing them.

Her sweet lips parted tentatively, and he slipped the tip of his tongue inside until it touched hers. She did not withdraw. Her eyes were closed, dark lashes fanning her cheeks. Her skin was warm silk under his palms. Slowly he moved one hand to her shoulder, spread his fingers, and slid them down to the front of her gown. He heard the hitch of her breath, felt a slight tremble, and then he closed his hand over her left breast. Her heart was beating so hard, in unison with his.

A slight arch of her spine pressed her shape into his hand, and he squeezed gently, cupping the firm apple through her gown and stays. She was small, but a perfect fit for his hand. Heat stirred his blood, raw need mounting quickly, but he must be patient.

She’d come this far, and he didn’t want to chase her away again.

Reluctantly his lips left hers. He drew his fingertips slowly across her bosom and up over her lace fichu to the hollow at the base of her throat. Her neck was so slender. He kissed her there, beneath the line of her jaw, and caught a taste of sweet perfume—rose oil if he was not mistaken.

They did not say another word. What was there to be said? They communicated with their lips, their eyes, their hearts.

When she was gone, he unfolded the contract and looked for her signature beside his amendment, where he had drawn a line through her “No Tomfollerie” clause.

And there was the sweet sight of her name.

Margaret.

***

“What can I possibly wear that won’t make me look like a former lady’s maid?” she demanded of her assistants.

Emma ran to the storeroom and brought out the buttercup gown once rejected by the Baroness Schofield. The two girls held it up to her, and before she could make any but the feeblest of protests, they had proclaimed her, “Perfection.”

Back at the house, when she announced that she’d received a formal invitation by messenger to dine with the Earl of Everscham, she expected a barrage of questions. Instead, she received eager donations from all the female residents. Mrs. Lotterby, after an anxious lecture about being sure to eat well and not drink too much wine, was kind enough to loan her the use of the hipbath in the scullery and some perfume distilled by her own hand from rosemary, sage, and damask rose petals. Mrs. Slater dressed Molly’s hair for her, and Mrs. Bathurst happily contributed the finishing touches from her cupboard of treasures—gloves, fan, and a shawl that smelled only faintly of mothballs.

“’Tis a pity you have no diamonds to wear,” the lady whispered as she helped her into the gloves, which were a little big for her slender arms. “But I daresay he will give you those in time.”

“I cannot think what you mean, Mrs. Bathurst,” she replied. “It is only dinner.”

“There is no such thing, my dear, as
only
dinner
, not with a man like the Earl of Everscham.”

A little knot of panic tightened in her stomach. When she tried opening the fan with one flick of her wrist—the way she’d seen it done before—she not only snapped a strut, but somehow managed to jab herself in the eye. Her gloves kept dripping down her arms, and she couldn’t get accustomed to the weight of hair piled up on her head. A simple, braided knot was far easier to manage, but this arrangement made her feel unbalanced and top-heavy. The treacherous slither of pins already warned that her sophisticated new style was not long for this world.

“You must talk to him of current events,” Mrs. Bathurst advised. “Try to avoid politics and religion, however. No man wants to talk with a woman about those subjects. Do you play or sing, Miss Robbins?”

She shook her head.

Mrs. Bathurst looked aghast, and then shrugged in resignation, “Well, I daresay you are resourceful enough to think of some way to entertain him. Good luck, my dear. Come and see me in the morning. I long to hear all about it.”

She wanted to ask so many other questions, but there was no time.

When the carriage arrived, sent from Danforthe House to collect her, she stepped up and glanced back over her shoulder. The three women clustered under the old lantern in the doorway, watching as if she was royalty. As Frederick had pointed out, all the residents in the house had benefitted from the earl’s interest in her. She felt quite a responsibility not to let them down now. It scattered her nerves quite dreadfully.

What did one do with a man? The most knowledge she had of men and what they wanted from women came from observing and eavesdropping on her brothers growing up. But they were always very mysterious, deliberately speaking in terms she did not understand. Once they’d gone to a fair in the neighboring county and paid a shilling to watch a gypsy dancer in a tent. As far as she could make out, they’d watched her spinning about with seven veils, which they’d enjoyed immensely, but to Molly, it seemed an awful lot of nothing for a shilling. And she didn’t have any veils.

Good thing she wore her best silk drawers, she thought as the carriage sped away, taking her into the gathering dusk. She certainly needed them tonight.

***

The footman who opened the door to her was new, and therefore did not recognize her as a former servant in that house, but Mr. Richards, the butler, knew exactly who she was, of course. His haughty, forbidding demeanor trebled with every step as he led her across the tiled hall, opened the drawing-room door, and announced her name in cold, dispassionate tones. Evidently he didn’t mean to look at her at all, and when she said, “Good evening, Mr. Richards. So nice to see you again,” he tripped, stubbing his toe. His eyes flashed down at her, and his lips bent in a half sneer, but he made no reply.

Molly entered the room and found Carver standing with his back to the hearth, waiting for her.

“Thank you, Richards,” he said. “Please tell Mrs. Jakes we’re ready to eat.”

Behind her, the door swept closed with a soft thud, shutting out her old life, and with it, her innocence.

***

Miss Margaret Robbins was a vision cast in gold, a goddess.

The moment he heard the bell, he felt the beat of his heart quicken, and when she appeared, air left his lungs too rapidly. It took him a moment to recover.

She wore a stunning yellow gown that flowed softly around her figure, defying the trend for wider skirts. The color made her skin glow, bringing a sunny summer afternoon into his house at seven in the evening. Her soft brown hair was piled up in gentle curls, some of which meandered down the side of her neck and lay upon her shoulder. Which he intended, very soon, to kiss.

“You came.” What a stupid remark, he thought instantly. For some reason, his tongue had lost its smooth wit when she walked into his drawing room. He must remember he was in control tonight. He had gone to a great deal of trouble for this singularly difficult young woman, and she’d better appreciate it.

“I might have known,” she muttered, looking around the drawing room. “Are there to be no other guests?”