“Mrs. Mortimer. Her shop is—”
“I know it. And I know ’er.” She waited another moment, chewing her lip as she looked at him. Finally she frowned at him. “So you be looking at the lower orders now for your girls? Fed up, are you, with the society women?”
He considered lying for a moment. He could pretend that Gwen’s dressmaker meant nothing to him. But this was the one place in the world where he did not need to pretend, and so he tucked away the urge and opted for honesty. “I don’t precisely know what my interest is.”
“But you are interested. In Mrs. Mortimer, and not the pretty seamstress.”
He smiled. “Not the pretty seamstress, whomever she may be.”
“But the lady?”
He shrugged, turning away to climb the stairs when he grew uncomfortable with Chandelle’s stare. What he felt for Mrs. Mortimer wasn’t up for discussion. At least not until he had an understanding of his own motives. But then again, that was exactly why he came to this place, wasn’t it? To sort out his thoughts. That usually meant talking with Chandelle.
“She makes me think,” he finally said.
Chandelle surprised him with a burst of laughter. “More thinking ain’t wot you need, Robert. Swiving is more like it.”
He grinned. “Well, she makes me think of swiving, too. Does that help?”
Chandelle blew out a low whistle. “So you found ’er.”
Robert slowed as he topped the stairs. “Found who?”
“A woman to match yer brains and yer brawn.” She thumped his arm. “But does she match yer heart? She’d have to have an awful big heart to meet you there.”
He frowned as he shook his head. “I don’t know,” he finally admitted. “She’s a businessman…er…woman. Reminds me of you in that. I admire her strength.”
Chandelle snorted. “She ain’t the one for you, then. Strength is one thing, boy, but a heart is something else. Your woman gots to ’ave heart. A right big one.”
He grimaced, wondering if she was right. Not about wanting a woman with heart. Of course he did, whatever that meant. But about whether the dressmaker lacked something essential. He had no idea. “I asked her to be my mistress.”
Chandelle let out a low whistle. “She turned you down, eh?”
He gave her a wry look. “Down flat.”
“So you came ’ere to lick yer wounds. Want to do some doctoring for women who’d be grateful.”
He raised his eyebrows. Was that what he was doing? Salvaging his wounded pride?
“Ain’t nothing to be ashamed of. No one likes the word ‘no,’ least of all you lords.”
“But—”
“Tut-tut,” she said as she grabbed his arm and hauled him toward the main ward. “We got a whole house full o’ women who’ll say yes to you. And there’s a couple bedpans to be cleaned and that would make me right grateful.”
“Bedpans?” he said in his most haughty tone. “I am a lord, you know.”
“And a right good one, you are,” she said, knowing his protest was halfhearted at best. “Hard work will fix 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 not to go home, but to begin his seduction of one feisty dressmaker.
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.”