Page 13 of Harpy of the Ton
Four…
“But children need a mother. A fine, hardworking man like yourself—there’s plenty sensible, practical women who’d do for you. My niece, for one—if she wasn’t already walking out with young Luke.”
“Luke?”
“The ostler at the King’s Head. Lovely lad, he is—dotes on my Sara. His sister is Lady Arabella’s maid, worse luck for her. There’s a young girl in the village—the baker’s daughter. Ever so polite, and uncommonly pretty. Tilly, her name is. Her pa sends the boy to deliver the bread, but I could ask him to send Tilly instead on Thursday.”
There it was—before he’d reached the count of five, she’d not only determined that Lawrence needed a wife, but she’d selected the most suitable candidate, and was on the brink of having the banns read.
Lawrence glanced at the stale slice of bread, and the cook blushed.
“That came last week,” she said. “The bread’s fine when fresh. Tilly bakes it herself, you know. A wife needs to cook, does she not?”
Heavens!This must be how the condemned man felt. The skin around Lawrence’s throat itched almost as if he could feel the vicar’s noose around his neck.
“I should be getting on, Mrs. Broom,” he said, rising.
“Won’t you stay a while longer?” she asked. “You’ve eaten hardly a thing. Or perhaps a glass of ale? We’re not supposed togive it to tradesmen, but what Mr. Head don’t know won’t hurt him. At least, unlike the bread, or the cheese, the ale won’t go off.”
“I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble on my account,” Lawrence replied. “I’ve a lot to get done if I’m to get those shrubs in before sundown. I prefer to take my ale in the evening, after work—not in the afternoon, instead of it.”
“Lord bless you!” She laughed. “You’re a fine man. I don’t doubt you’ll have all the young girls hereabouts clamoring at your door before you return home.”
Thanking the cook, Lawrence rose and exited the kitchen.
What had she said?
If you’ve any sense, get them to pay you something now, lest you find yourself out of pocket.
Surely Dunton would pay him? Though the man had a reputation for taking what he wanted from doxies without payment—perhaps he applied that principle to tradesmen as well, which explained the lack of edible food in the place.
It was almost enough to make Lawrence pity her. That haughty creature…
The woman with a body ripe for the taking, who’d yielded in his arms when he kissed her.
Did he invade her thoughts in a similar unwelcome manner to that by which she’d invaded his?
Was she, perhaps, waiting for him in the garden?
A wicked voice whispered of his desire to see her again—to see those blue eyes darken with need. But when he returned, she was nowhere to be seen.
Neither were his tools, or his notebook. He’d left them beside the pair of rosebushes that he’d set out for planting.
A thickset man in a footman’s livery appeared at the archway to the back garden, behind which the bonfire still crackled, sending a plume of smoke into the air.
That fire should have died down by now—that final pile of clippings wouldn’t have taken long to burn.
“You there!” he cried. “Have you seen my tools?”
A sneer crept across the footman’s lips.
“I left my shovel here—and a rake,” Lawrence added, gesturing toward the soft earth that showed the mark where he’d driven the shovel in. “They were here, together with my jacket.”
“Oh.”
Oh?Was that all he could say? Why did he look so damned pleased with himself?
“And my notebook,” Lawrence added, indicating the size with his hands. “It was so big—contains all my plans.”
