Page 161 of Rakes & Reticules
“So, tell me more about Dr. Brooks the urchin and how he pulled himself from the streets as a child.” There was a smirk on her plump lips, and he wanted to kiss it off.
“Ah, the urchin, Sam.”
“Sam?”
“My given name is Sampson. Sampson J. Brooks.” He clicked to the horses after pausing for an elderly pedestrian. “I tried to steal a cane from the wrong man—or the right one, depending on how you look at it—on Christmas Eve. I had only stolen food before, but I was so cold and hungry. All I’d earned went to my parents. My mother was doing poorly.”
“Oh, my. It must have been terrible.” Her hand went to his forearm, and he didn’t want her to remove it.
“It was. But Paddy saw something in me. Instead of calling the constable, he took me home. There was one other boy they had taken in—Harry Walters—and we became fast friends.” He sighed, remembering that long ago night. “Because of the O’Briens, I was able to continue the path my father would have wanted.”
“They sound like special people.”
“Few could surpass them.” He told her of the Peelers and the part he played to help his “second” family. “I was determined to be a solicitor but found the books I pored through on plants and healing held my attention much more than dry legal cases. Margaret, Mrs. O’Brien, urged me to think about medicine. And here I am.”
“I’m glad. You’re a good man, and London needs them.” She returned her hand to her lap and watched the passersby as they made their way to the confectioner’s shop.
“Have you had a prosperous week so far, Mrs. Brown?” he asked, anxious to fill the silence.
“Yes, I’ve begun filling orders for Christmas pudding. Mr. Clatterly has been spreading the word to the patrons. He’s such a dear.”
Sam snorted. “Not to me. However, I did see a genuine smile on his face when a young girl pulled on his waistcoat.” He gave her a side look, hoping she’d indulge his curiosity.
“That’s Violet. I do believe she’s charmed him without a word.”
“That’s hard to believe. Does she get her charm from her mother?” he asked, probing again.
Mrs. Brown shook her head. “I have no idea. Violet doesn’t remember her, and her father and brother are dead. We crossed paths, two females alone in London, and joined forces so to speak.”
Of course, the girl wasn’t her daughter. The woman he’d come to know would have spoken of the lass more. “It seems you have something common with the O’Briens.”
Sam pulled up on the reins and slowed the horses as they came up to the corner of Spring Gardens and Cockspur Street. He jumped down from the curricle and came around to help Mrs. Brown. As she put her foot on the step and reached out for his shoulders, her half boot slipped. He caught her waist with both hands, lifting her and safely bringing her to the ground. Their bodies touched as he lowered her to her feet, and heat rushed from his chest to his groin.
Stifling a moan, he asked, “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head but looked flushed. “N-no. Only my pride. I’m afraid I’ve never had an abundance of grace.”
“I’m happy to catch you in my arms any time.” Her smile made his pulse race. He held out his arm, and she took it as they entered Farrance’s.
“Oh my, it smells divine in here,” she gasped, closing her eyes and drawing in a deep breath. “Thank you for suggesting this.”
They sat at a small table. A man came up and took their order of tea and a plate of various comfits and pastries.
“This tea is superb,” she exclaimed. “And these cakes… I’m trying to determine what is in them. I must try to replicate them.” Her face was flushed from the steaming tea, her eyes sparkling as she tried another candied fruit. “Are you not enjoying the sweets?”
“Indeed, I am,” said Sam, placing his chin on his fist and smiling at her.
“Flummery, Dr. Brooks, but I enjoy it all the same,” she said around a mouthful, then giggled.
“Please, call me Sampson.” He poured them more tea. “Unless you don’t wish to continue our friendship, which would devastate me.”
“Well, Sampson, we can’t have that.” She paused, her gaze holding his, and something changed between them at that moment.
It happened in a breath, but he knew she was finally giving in. Would give him a chance. His heart soared.
“Then you must call me Dorothea, or Dottie,” she said at length. The tip of her tongue peeked out to swipe up a crumb at the corner of her mouth. His breath caught.
When they finished their tea and sweets, she wrapped up the last remaining candied fruit, and tucked it in her reticule, murmuring, “For Violet.” Then they made their way to St. James Park.
