Chapter 9

Stacia set her skates back with the others, cast a look of yearning at the braziers and mountains of food under the big tent, but then forced herself to head back to Wych House.

She nodded at a trio of younger people heading toward the pond, their fine clothing proclaiming they were yet more of the visitors who'd been pouring into Wych House over the last few days, rather than the humbler village denizens.

Skating with Lord Shelton had been…fun. And fun was something she'd not had in longer than she wanted to admit. She felt a stab of resentment that he'd been so quick to leave her company, but she was not exactly surprised. The Lowery twins and their cousins—especially the divine Arabella—were exactly the sort of beautiful girls who'd attracted Shelton's attention in the past.

Well, what had she expected? His taste in company would not have suddenly changed merely because he had apologized to her.

His apology—which had been unexpected—had blunted her anger toward him, but it had done nothing to soothe her injured pride. It would be a long time, if ever, before she forgot either his dismissive words to Lady Kathryn or the fact that he recalled Mr. Bunch-and-Stuff and not Stacia.

She made her way back to her chambers without encountering any of the guests. Thanks to Lady Needham, she had a full afternoon off and didn't intend to waste the opportunity.

She took the smaller of her two valises from the dressing room. Inside it were the tools of her second, almost more lucrative, trade. When Lady Addiscombe had told her that they would be coming to a big house party Stacia had splurged some of her small savings to purchase more of the expensive gold leaf that she employed in her paintings. She had produced some additional fans, reasoning that if she did not sell them in the little village of Little Sissingdon then she could offer them to the modiste in Bath who usually bought her wares.

This close to Christmas—and with so many wealthy guests at Wych House—surely somebody would buy the fans. In any event, it was worth the effort.

After she'd paid a visit to the village dress shop, she could post notices about the little dog.

Stacia removed all the fans, hesitated, and then put two back, the one with the poem by Mary Chandler, To Mrs. Moor, A Poem on Friendship , and the other—the best thing she had ever done and could not bring herself to part with—which had a lovely illuminated ‘H' and several lines from Shakespeare's Sonnet 29.

Last night in the drawing room Lord Needham had mentioned there was to be a secret gift giving once the rest of the houseguests had all arrived. Evidently there would be a name drawing and people would not know who their secret St. Nicholas was. Anyone —that included servants, amazingly—who wished to join only needed to drop a slip of paper with their name on it into the big crystal bowl in the drawing room and names would be chosen and distributed with enough time before Christmas that people could secure gifts.

Lady Addiscombe had said it was foolish and that the servants, whom she'd complained were already cheeky, would only become worse if Needham continued to treat them as if they were equals.

"They might be his equals," she had proclaimed loudly to another of the guests—the sweet, rather vague, Baroness Mixon—"but they most certainly are not mine ."

Not for the first time had Stacia wanted to disappear into a crack at something the older woman had said.

She chewed her lip for a moment and then sat down at the small desk in her sitting room, took out a sheet of paper, and neatly tore off a corner before writing her name. Just because her employer did not wish to join the gift giving did not mean Stacia could not.

Of course she would not tell the countess that.

And so, before Stacia went to the village, she made a stop in the drawing room and dropped her name into the bowl.

***

Without Miss Martin to entertain him Andrew found the skating party rather flat.

He was going to return to Wych House when he realized his right glove—from his favorite pair—had a tear in. It wasn't too bad now, but if he left it the glove would be irreparable.

Little Sissingdon was too small to have a glover, but he'd seen a clothing shop. Perhaps somebody there could repair it.

Rather than go back for Drake he decided to walk the short distance. He passed clusters of people heading toward the pond. Needham, true to form, appeared to have invited the entire town. Or county, even.

It would be very easy to envy Needham, and not just because he was wealthy. The man was also an excellent steward of Wych House and the surrounding area. It had been a fortunate day for the denizens of the area when he'd decided to put roots down here.

Unlike Andrew's own people.

He grimaced at the thought, shame heating his face at how long he had pursued his revenge at the cost of his family estate.

Andrew knew he had no choice but to take a wife, and a wealthy one, at that. If he was serious about restoring Rosewood, he would need far more money than his stud farm or inheritance would provide.

But the thought of marrying a woman for her money was simply too depressing to think about right now. He would have plenty of time to contemplate it after Christmas, when he joined Chatham in London for yet another Season.

Yes, later. He could think about that later.

Little Sissingdon was bustling with pre-Christmas business, not just the shops, but there seemed to be some sort of activity on the village green that involved a great deal of hammering and shouting.

Andrew paused to watch for a moment. "What is this for?" he asked a man who was prying the lid off an enormous crate.

"The Christmas fete." The older man's eyes slid over Andrew's person, assessing him. "Lord Needham bought a brand-new tent." He gestured to the crate which held familiar blue-striped canvas. Andrew smiled at the sight of the pavilion. The man really did have his finger in everything.

"Any idea where I can get a glove mended?" he asked, holding up his hand to exhibit the rip.

"Aye, that be a fine one—don't want Mr. Oliver on that. He be the cobbler," the man explained. "Go to Mrs. Johnson—she who owns the dress shop. Mostly she has finery for women, but Mary Finley works for her. Right clever with a needle."

"Thank you," Andrew said, and then turned toward the dress shop.

Only to see the door open and Miss Martin come strolling out.

Interesting.

Andrew was about to hail her when a man approached her—Captain Walker, Crewe's son—and the two commenced talking.

He dropped his half-raised hand and watched as they turned and headed across the street to a tea shop.

Andrew stared for a moment, his mind strangely…frozen.

He blinked rapidly and shook himself. So, what if she had left skating with him to come and meet Walker?

Andrew was nothing to her; she could do whatever she pleased. With whomever she pleased.

If she preferred Walker to him, what of it?

It took him a moment to identify the emotion he was feeling as rejection.

He firmly put Miss Martin from his mind and strode toward the dress shop.

A bell tinkled when he opened the door and he was immediately assaulted by an almost oppressive blast of floral perfume—more than one sort of flower, if his nostrils served him correctly—and the hum of feminine chatter. Which stopped abruptly when heads turned toward him.

Andrew smiled and shut the door behind him.

One of the women, an attractive dark-haired female who was probably a few years his senior, hurried toward him.

"I am Mrs. Johnson, proprietress. How may I serve you today, sir?" she asked, her sharp eyes sweeping his body appraisingly—not once, but twice.

"I was told you might have somebody who could repair my glove?" He held up his hand.

She leaned forward and took his hand in both of hers.

Andrew's lips twitched as she examined the glove with far more thoroughness than it required. After a long moment she looked up at him through her thick eyelashes. "Indeed, yes—I can have this repaired. We even carry a few sizes of men's gloves here—if you need something to wear in the interim."

"Thank you." He gently removed his hand from hers. "Yes, I will take another pair to wear home today if I can leave these."

"Of course, of course. Right this way."

And then Andrew startled himself by asking, "Was that Miss Martin I saw leaving a moment ago?"

A lightning-fast look of chagrin flickered across her face before a sly smile replaced it. " Tut, tut ! You should know better than to pry into a lady's personal matters, sir."

"I should know that," he agreed, already regretting his question. "Perhaps you might show me the gloves you have available."

Mrs. Johnson suddenly leaned forward, pressing her rather spectacular bosom against his arm while beckoning him closer with one finger.

Andrew found himself leaning forward out of courtesy. "Yes?"

"It wasn't buying that Miss Martin was doing here today. It was selling."

"Is that so?" Andrew said. He suddenly recalled her sitting with her basket, needle, and colorful threads in the drawing room. Perhaps she sold her embroidery or cross stitching or whatever it was she worked on every evening.

"The lady paints," Mrs. Johnson said.

Andrew looked around the crowded little shop. "Er, you sell paintings?"

She gave an earthy chuckle, and his gaze naturally dropped to her quaking bosom. "Not paintings. Fans ."

"Indeed?" he said, not sure what else he could say.

" Mmm , very lovely ones."

Well, that was…interesting.

Andrew realized the shopkeeper was staring up at him, still pressed against him.

"Er, the gloves?" he reminded her.

She quickly hid her disappointment and escorted him to her small selection, leaving him when another customer pulled her away with a question.

The choice was easy because there was only one pair that fit. They were dark brown and he preferred black, but it was bloody cold, and a functional pair was better than no pair.

He took his purchase to the counter and waited while she finished another transaction. He noticed the discreet sign advertising alterations and repairs and thought about the missing buttons on his favorite doeskin breeches, and a few other articles of clothing that needed some mending. He knew Chatham's valet would gladly do the work, but he did not like imposing.

He took out his notecase and handed her the money for the gloves. "If I send over a few other items that need mending will your seamstress have time to do the work before—say, a week from now?"

"Certainly, she will."

"I will have a servant run them over."

"Or you could bring them by yourself. Later tonight."

Andrew paused in the act of reaching for the coins she slid across the counter. He raised an eyebrow. "You are open late, are you?" he asked, deliberately misunderstanding her.

"I live above the shop and can always be available for a few...favored customers."

She was an attractive woman. He knew he would enjoy an evening spent with her. And yet…

He smiled politely. "That is generous of you, but tomorrow is soon enough. No, you needn't wrap them," he said when she laid the gloves in tissue. "I will wear them out. Good day to you, ma'am." He nodded and left the shop, pausing outside to pull on the new gloves.

He could not resist glancing toward the tea shop. Miss Martin and Captain Walker were at a table in the window. He watched for a moment as the two smiled and talked, obviously at ease with each other.

Andrew had the strongest urge to foist his company on the pair and see if he, too, could coax something other than a scowl out of Miss Martin.

He snorted at the impulse. Could he really be so vain that when he came across a woman who did not fall all over him, he was miffed?

The door behind him opened and Mrs. Johnson stepped out.

"Did I forget something?" he asked.

"No. I just came out for a breath of fresh air." She paused, and then gave him a look so scorching that Andrew was amazed that his hair didn't combust. "And to enjoy the view."

He laughed, took her hand, and lifted it to his lips, briefly regretting that he was not in the frame of mind to engage in some light-hearted bed sport. "I wish you a happy Christmas, Mrs. Johnson."

She smiled wistfully. "You as well, my lord."

Ah. So, she knew who he was, then.

With a last glance at the tea shop Andrew turned and headed back to Wych House, leaving the two young lovers to their tryst.

***

"Thank you for agreeing to assist me in my time of need, Miss Martin," Captain Walker said.

Stacia smiled. "I am more than happy to help you with your gift selection, although I am sure you would do quite well on your own."

He pulled a face. "I might have, but it is nice to have another artist to consult about a gift for Lady Crewe."

Stacia had seen Aurelia Crewe's work when she had come upon the other woman sketching in an especially lovely and sunny window seat—which had been Stacia's destination.

Lady Crewe had noticed the sketchbook in Stacia's hand and the two had chatted for a full quarter of an hour, sharing their work with each other. Stacia had been awed by the other woman's skill.

"How does one get into reproducing illuminated manuscripts?" Captain Walker asked after they had ordered from the waiter.

"I don't actually do that," she said. "When my father was still alive, he had a large collection." Which her cousin had stolen, but she did not bring that up. "I sometimes made small repairs to his manuscripts."

"He must have trusted you a great deal to do so."

"He is the one who trained me, so he had to."

He chuckled. "Yes, I can see that."

"He stopped doing his own work when he developed a palsy in his dominant hand," she explained. "What I do now is paint for my own pleasure." She hesitated, and then decided to tell the truth. "I also paint fans which I sell."

"Ah, an entrepreneurial soul like me." He leaned across the table, his handsome face creasing in a smile. "Should we keep our grubby trade a secret lest we be tossed out of Wych House, Miss Martin?"

"Considering that Lord Needham is one of the wealthiest businessmen in Britain, I think you and I should be safe."

He chuckled. "You are probably right."

Stacia caught sight of a familiar figure standing outside the women's clothing shop. It was Lord Shelton, and he appeared to be staring right at the tea shop window, although he did nothing to acknowledge them.

"You are friends with the Marquess of Shelton?" Captain Walker asked.

"No." That sounded too abrupt, so she said, "We are merely acquainted."

The owner of the dress shop came out on her front step and Shelton turned to her. Even from a distance Stacia could see the feline smile that curved the pretty shopkeeper's face.

She must have said something that made Shelton laugh. He took her hand, bowed extravagantly over it, and then turned and strode away.

Mrs. Johnson watched him until he was out of sight and then her shoulders slumped with dejection and she disappeared back into her shop.

What was that all about? Why had he been in a women's dress shop?

You know why…

The waiter arrived with their tea and Stacia tore her thoughts away from Shelton and the voluptuous shopkeeper and turned them back to her attractive companion.

Stacia enjoyed her tea and the shopping expedition with the captain. He was charming, witty, and she did not think she was flattering herself that he had some interest in her.

And yet all she could think about was Shelton and his interaction with Mrs. Johnson.

The thought of him taking a lover depressed her.

He had spent time skating with her because he had felt guilty. There was no more to it than that.

Doubtless he had forgotten her name all over again.

And yet, when Stacia returned to Wych House a few hours later she found a handkerchief with the initials A.W.D. sitting outside her door. Carefully wrapped up inside the fine white linen were two oranges.