Page 12 of A Potion for Passion

“I did not. Not specifically. But he won’t breathe a word, will you, Jud? Not if he knows what’s good for him. Now,” he said, lifting the boy up again so their heads were on the same level. “Apologize to Miss Hartington, right and proper. Because of you, the poor lady got a lotion she wasn’t expecting, and a result she loathes. Step forward please, ma’am, so young Jud can do the gentlemanly thing.”

Like a fox skirting around a trap, she edged forward, and he held the boy out to her.

“I’m very sorry, miss, truly I am. I did make a royal mess of things, a right royal mess, and I hope you won’t mind, and we can be friends.” Then, much to his astonishment, Jud reached out, grabbed the unfortunate lady’s bonnet strings, and planted a noisy kiss on her cheek.

As she started back in alarm, Lawrence laughed so hard that he lost his grip on Jud. The boy scurried off down the back streets like a panicked cony.

Ah, well. Lawrence couldn’t blame him for taking the liberty. Miss Hartington looked eminently kissable this morning. Wiping his eyes, he offered the flustered lady a deep bow and stepped back, indicating the wagon steps. “Please, come inside.”

For an instant, he thought she was about to bolt, and wondered at her reluctance. He wasn’t used to a woman being unaffected by his charm. However, after a quick look around to be sure there were no observers, she headed up the steps and sat down on the cushioned bench inside. As he settled himself opposite her, he saw she was smiling.

“You weren’t really going to whip the poor boy, were you?” she asked softly.

“Of course not. There are more ways than one to teach a child a lesson.”

“Good.” She wriggled in her seat, then prodded at the cushions.

He winced.

“More concealed weapons?” she asked tartly.

“No, no. It’s just very badly stuffed,” he lied. Devil take it. Would she find all his hidden secrets?

“I’m sure I could do a better job with the stuffing. Would you like me to?”

Panic flashed through him, but he made sure not to show it. “No need,” he answered with a smile. “I’ll be doing it myself soon enough.”

“A man who sews and stuffs cushions?” She looked surprised. Not to mention impressed. It pleased him.

Thankfully, he’d drawn her attention away from the cushions. If he were going to make a habit of entertaining people in the wagon, he’d have to find alternative hiding places for his weapons and his stock.

“Are there coves who don’t? I mean, men?” He mustn’t forget he was talking to a gentlewoman. She wouldn’t understand the cant he used with his equals. “What do they do when a button falls off, or something needs mending?”

“Why, they ask their wife to do it. Or pay a seamstress or laundress.”

“Ah. Well, I learned to sew of necessity. In my profession, I’ve stitched up many a bleeding wound. Cushions are easy by comparison.”

“Oh, dear. That sounds…messy.”

“Believe me, if you don’t have a strong stomach, you’ll want to be quick about it.” At her look of distaste, he rushed to say, “Your pardon. I don’t mean to be indelicate in front of a lady.”

She was gazing at him intently from those pale blue eyes, which seemed to have a luminous glow of their own. “I’d hardly call myself a lady. My sister keeps telling me I’m not. In fact, I have a very strong stomach and can deal with most things—except fleas. I can’t abide those. And I detest it if anyone…um…casts up their accounts.” When he raised a questioning brow, she said quickly, “Vomits.”

“But you don’t mind the sight of blood?”

She shook her head. “Not really. I like mending things. And that includes people.”

He was even more impressed. When his roving family tried teaching him how to skin and gut conies and hares, he’d been too nauseated to attempt it, and was beaten for his weakness. His so-called parents had always been harsh to the point of cruelty. Little wonder he’d left them for the theatre troupe as soon as he was old enough to escape.

No, not his parents. His kidnappers. Who his real kin were, he had no idea. The couple, who’d stolen him to beg and steal for them, claimed they didn’t know.

Miss Hartington glanced at him uncertainly, as if expecting a nasty rebuke about not being a lady.

“Good for you,” he said instead. “Myself, I hate gore of any kind, which makes it hard in my lay.”

She blinked. “Lay?”

“My profession.” He shuddered at the thought of the next tooth pulling he’d be asked to perform. There was always too much blood involved, and it trickled out of the patient’s mouth in a genuinely revolting way. “I could use someone who doesn’t blanch at the sight of blood,” he muttered. What he’d give for an assistant with a strong stomach. “But never mind that. What brings you back here?”