Page 11 of A Potion for Passion

Chapter Seven

Lawrence undid the flap and glanced around in dismay at the state of his wagon. Last night, he’d had to eject the Widow Matthews with a certain amount of…persuasion, and had lacked the energy—or the inclination—to tidy up after she’d gone.

He’d made it quite clear last year there could never be anything serious between them. He’d even avoided bringing his medicine show here to East Town for many months in hopes of avoiding her. But when he’d tried setting up his show at Fortuneswell instead, she just walked there from East Town and continued to plague him. It seemed he couldn’t avoid her, wherever he went.

There was nothing wrong with Sally; he simply didn’t want to be associated with any woman in particular. It was bad for business. Ladies liked the idea that he was available, whether they acted on that knowledge or not. And he enjoyed the flirtation, which ofttimes led to something more. Which, in her case, it had.

But he belonged to no one. And he never would.

Picking up his jacket and neckcloth from the floor, he replaced them on their pegs, set his medicine bottles straight, and tidied the books into a corner. He carefully patted the cushions back into place on the bench where Miss Flora Hartington had sat yesterday evening.

How demure she’d looked, her hands folded in her lap, politely hating him for having ruined her hair. Or so she thought. He was of the opposite opinion. Red hair suited the lady’s pale complexion and light blue eyes, even if the color was possibly a bit too strident to be natural.

What would it take to turn her into a scarlet woman, he wondered, to create a character to match her hair? She was no doubt a virgin, but he knew how to deal with that, even though most of the women he’d taken his pleasures with had not been innocent. Miss Hartington was no young schoolroom miss, but of an age to be firmly on the shelf. Perhaps she’d enjoy experiencing the pleasures he had to offer. She’d receive the full benefit of his skills, honed during a life on the road—a life which gave him access to lonely and frustrated females. He always left them with smiles on their faces.

Hopefully, there was little chance of Flora Hartington being as voracious in bed as Sally Matthews was last year. No wonder that lady’s poor husband had met an early end.

Lawrence had already done his morning ablutions in his room at the inn, but had forgotten his comb, so he ran a hand through his tangled hair. Spying a half-empty cider flagon under the table, he pulled it out and took a long draft, then stared at his coat, which hung from a nail above.

Reaching into the pocket, he withdrew a piece of paper he always kept there. It was limp from much handling, and the ink was fading. He read the words out loud, even though he already knew them by heart.

“America, land of opportunity. Throw off the yoke of monarchy, and trade freely until your fortune is made. Passage on board the Silver Ducat, sailing out of Portsmouth, only thirty guineas to New York. More temperate than India, fewer diseases than Africa, fewer criminals than the Antipodes. A new life awaits the brave in America!”

He doubted any of that was true. And there were other perils. Hostile natives, vast areas of lawless wilderness, boatloads of immigrants competing for few jobs. And disease was, indeed, rife, as his friends had learned to their great cost.

A sharp bark from Charley brought him up short. Tucking the advertisement away, he lifted the wagon flap. “What is it, Charley boy? Aha!” Jud Creasey was standing next to the dog, ruffling his ears. Lawrence smiled mirthlessly. “What are you doing out when you should be at your lessons?”

The rascal studied him from beneath his thatch of sandy hair. “I just wondered, sir, if you had any more jobs for me to do?”

Was he serious? With a single leap, Lawrence was out of the wagon and on the cobbles of the yard. “Come here, you wretch,” he growled, grasping Jud’s shoulder. “You have a good deal to answer for.”

The boy paled, and the freckles on his face stood out like a rash. “I ain’t done anything wrong. Have I, sir?”

“Only labeled hair dye as hair tonic, you scoundrel. You’ll have me in the poor house with your tricks. I thought you told me you could read?”

“Well, I can read a bit, sir, like my name and the names in the Bible. Well, some of them. What Mrs. Carboys teaches us at school in Fortuneswell.”

“In other words, you can barely read at all,” Lawrence snapped.

Lifting the boy by the collar, he dangled him two feet off the ground and gave him a shake. Charley strained at his leash excitedly, desperate to join in the game. “You little miscreant! I’m going to shake you until your teeth rattle!”

“Dr. Campaign!”

He spun around, still holding the struggling Jud. “Miss Hartington! Good morning.”

“Unhand that child this minute,” she demanded, jutting her chin at him. A delightful, elfin chin, which accentuated her heart-shaped face.

Grinning, he lowered the boy slowly to the ground, but didn’t release him.

“Are you sure you want me to?” he enquired with pointed politeness. “This is the future jailbait who wrongly labeled the hair dye. I was just pondering what his punishment should be. Birch rod? Horsewhip? Horse trough, even? What do you say, ma’am?”

“Oh.” She looked taken aback. Ah, what fun it was to tease this woman. The prim and proper Miss Hartington was such a contrast to the brash, demanding Sally Matthews. What had he ever seen in that harridan? Ah yes, an easy conquest. Well, he’d learned his lesson on that score.

Miss Flora Hartington exhibited a soft femininity to which women like Sally could never aspire. He rather liked it.

“I’ll let you administer the punishment, shall I? Since you were the victim.”

“Oh!” she said again, coming closer, her hands twisting together. “You didn’t tell him, did you? Now the whole village will know.”