what ails ye. But first off, I want you to ’ave a look at little Steve. He’s the new baby. Ain’t been taking the breast like he were meant to.”
Three hours later, he was grateful for Chandelle’s wisdom. Hard work had indeed cleared his thoughts. He’d looked at nine patients in all, only sending for the doctor on one—Steve’s mother. The babe likely sensed that his mother was dying and wouldn’t drink from her. So he’d tasked Chandelle with finding a wet nurse. And while Chandelle had done that, he’d changed bed linens, made the special foods that two of his patients required, and yes, he’d even taken care of the bedpans. After three hours, he felt refreshed and productive, as if he’d fought a hard battle and won. It didn’t matter that the fight would continue tomorrow or that by week’s end, he’d need to find a new mother for little Steve. For now, he felt good. So he was whistling as he left the Chandler, his mind emptied of everything but the tasks he had performed this day.
Sadly, other tasks would hit him the moment he returned home. He was due for another visit to his father’s thrice-cursed mine. He had to study the latest suggestions from the steward at the seat of the earldom. And who knew what sort of scolding would come from Gwen and his mother the moment he walked in the door. Which meant now was the perfect time
He looked at his watch and realized he would arrive at the dress shop just in time for a late tea. It never occurred to him that she would have customers. As a rule, ladies shopped during the morning, not the afternoon hours. But then he crossed the street to the shop door and was nearly bowled over by a thin woman with a pinched nose and a worried expression.
“Oh! Excuse me, sir!” the woman gasped as she veered out of his path.
He recovered easily, grasping her bony elbow when she might have fallen in a puddle. “Entirely my fault,” he said, because that was what a gentleman said even though she was the one who had run into him. “Careful of your step!”
“Lord Redhill!” cried Mrs. Mortimer from the doorway. She had obviously been showing her customer out, only to be startled by his presence. He smiled at her, his gaze taking in her new attire. No longer was she dressed in padded black, but in a flowing gown of soft green. She looked like a young tree right before its first full season. Her figure was mature, but her body and her face still had some youthful innocence. Her curves were not so much ripe as modestly covered and yet ready to burst free with just the right touch. It was an odd thought to have about a woman, but he could not shake the impression. Nor could he stop imagining how he would undress her slowly, peeling away the bark, so to speak, until he reached the tender, sweet wonder beneath.
“M-my l-lord?” stammered the customer, who was still caught in his grip.
He forced his attention back to the unknown woman. “Have you found your feet then? I am sorry I startled you.”
The woman gaped at him as he gently let go of her arm. Meanwhile, Mrs. Mortimer stepped into the conversational breach. “Mrs. Richards, may I present to you Viscount Redhill.”
Mrs. Richards’s eyes widened even farther. “G-good afternoon, my lord. I-I hadn’t realized…” Her voice trailed away as she looked at the dressmaker with dawning speculation.
“His sister is Lady Gwen, one of my customers,” she said rather coldly. “He is no doubt stopping by on an errand from her.”
A lie, of course, because Mrs. Mortimer obviously wanted to make clear that he was not visiting for any salacious reason. And since he saw no reason to broadcast his private affairs, he cheerfully agreed. “Some bother about yellow silk,” he drawled. “It shall just take a moment.”
“Of course, my lord,” she answered.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Richards curtsied to him. “I have met your sister,” she said. “A lovely woman.”
“Thank you,” Robert murmured, uninterested in prolonging the conversation.
Thank God the woman took the hint. “Well, thank you for your time, Mrs. Mortimer,” she said. “I shall return next Tuesday with Francine for our fitting.”
“We will be ready.”
Given the dismissal, the woman had no choice but to nod and depart, though her gaze lingered as long as possible on him. But eventually she disappeared around the corner, and at that moment, Mrs. Mortimer released her breath in a long, heavy sigh.
“She will think the worst of me. Indeed, I believe you have merely locked in her poor opinion of my morals.”
“But why?” he asked. “I am merely here about the yellow silk.”
She snorted. “You are a terrible liar, you know. You should have made demands regarding a bill or the like. That she might have believed. But to discuss fabric? A viscount on behalf of his sister? Never.”
He pursed his lips. She had a point. He would never have come here on a task from his sister. “Why does she already think the worst of you?”
“That was Francine’s mother.” When he didn’t readily place the name, she gestured with her hands, indicating a large woman. “You remember, the girl with the lush figure.”
Robert finally placed the girl in his memory, but then he compared her to the stick-thin, prune-shaped woman he’d just met. “That can’t be her mother!”
She laughed. “Francine takes after her father in her body’s size.”
“He must be—”
“Have a care, my lord,” she warned before he could finish his thought. “Francine is my friend and I dislike certain words, especially when applied to my friends.”
He immediately moderated his tone. “Of course. I merely meant that Francine’s father is likely a man of some stature.”
She snorted. “He is at that. Tall and broad and fair-minded. It is her mother who is less charitable in all aspects.”
“She doesn’t like how you have dressed Francine.” He couldn’t blame the woman. Her daughter had been gowned in an entirely inappropriate fashion, in his opinion. Too lush by half.
“She will come around,” Mrs. Mortimer returned calmly. “She loves her daughter and wants her to be happy. The right clothes can only help with that.”
He didn’t argue with her because what she said was correct in principle. And as she already knew his opinion of the gown—he’d made that quite clear before—he saw no reason to be contentious. So, feeling very virtuous, he simply nodded and gestured to the inside of her shop.
“May I come in? I’d like a moment of your time, please.”
She didn’t budge from her position in the doorway. “My lord, it has been a long and tiring day.”
“Tea will be the perfect restorative.”
“My lord…”
“Please. I owe you an apology, and I would prefer not to deliver it on the street.” She had no choice but to let him inside now. Good manners demanded as much, and so she gave in. She dipped her chin and stepped aside. He followed as close as he could manage, lifting her arm and escorting her to a chair. He gave her no time and no space to thwart him, and in a moment, she was exactly where he wanted her to be.
“First, allow me to apologize. I did not understand the situation at the warehouse, and I fear I have made things worse for you.”
She didn’t answer. She had no desire to think about the disaster that awaited her if she ever returned to Johnny Bono’s warehouse. And she had no idea where else she could buy fabrics. Irene was a miracle worker—or had been as a girl—but she had never tried to purchase things on the scale of what a dressmaker’s shop would need. And she had already sent around a note saying the task was harder than she expected and would take more time. Perhaps after Lady Gwen bought clothing at other establishments, things would be easier. Merchants would advance her some small amount of credit. Or perhaps Francine’s payment would help, assuming her mother could be convinced to approve the dresses…Her mind spun on with possibilities and dangers, and all of it stopped cold at his lordship’s question.
