Page 37 of A Potion for Passion

Chapter Eighteen

Lawrence whistled to himself as he approached the massive iron gates of Orchard House. This was the home of Lady Penelope Butler-Davis, known to her friends as Pen. She was a reliable customer, and also a luscious armful with whom he had romped away many an evening when her husband was away.

Under his coat, in his poacher’s pocket, Lawrence had a package of lilac silk for her, one of the pieces recently purchased from Nathaniel Pryce, cleaned according to Flora’s suggestions. Nat had not yet been paid the second half of the money for his stock, due to that unfortunate incident with the soldiers, but Lawrence knew the wily creature would find a way to sneak back and claim what he was owed.

Climbing stealthily up a buttress which supported part of the estate’s crumbling wall, Lawrence grinned. Depriving Nat Pryce of a tooth to save him from the soldiers had been one of the most hair-raising moments of his life, but also, in retrospect, one of the funniest.

Well, it served the man right for ignoring the plan, and looking so suspect that anyone in authority would want to arrest him on the spot even if he’d done nothing wrong. Nat could have waited and joined the crowd, as Lawrence had advised, and received his money quite openly from Charley, with no one batting an eyelid.

And just now the scapegrace could have landed Lawrence in the mire by drawing attention to him. Those two redcoats now knew the name of Dr. L. E. Campaign, and might take it into their minds to start asking questions.

Damn that Nathaniel Pryce! He’d better not let himself get caught. Nat had sworn the last consignment was flotsam, washed out of a shipwreck and borne to shore on the tide. But what if the ship had been deliberately lured onto rocks? Or what if those sailors who made it ashore from the wreck were clubbed to death so that they could have no claim on the so-called flotsam?

Lawrence prayed no blood had been spilled in obtaining the bundle of silk in his pocket. Murder was a hanging offense.

Well, there was nothing he could do about that now.

He must think about the coins the ribbons would fetch, bringing him another step closer to realizing his dream of sailing for America. He needed to keep his skin whole and take no chances, or everything he’d worked toward would be lost.

After dropping softly onto the turf on the other side of the wall, he made his way through the shadows until he reached the rose-covered tunnel, which afforded the best cover. Usually, at this point, he’d be quivering in anticipation of the sensual feast to come with Pen, but, curiously enough, tonight he wasn’t.

He stooped down, feeling about for the upturned flowerpot he and Pen used for communicating. If Lord Butler-Davis was home, there’d be a rounded pebble underneath, and he’d have to go to their agreed hidey-hole, pick up the purse of money left for him, and conceal the silk there for her to collect later.

If there was no pebble, it meant her husband was at sea, captaining the Emsworth, the ship he commanded as part of the blockade against France.

He found the pot and tipped it up. No pebble.

He skirted the house, knowing the dogs would have been tied up indoors. He found the window she’d left unlatched for him, clambered through, and, in a matter of minutes, made his way across the shadowy ballroom toward the grand staircase, collecting a lighted candle as he went.

Pausing in front of the wide double doors leading to the hallway, he turned and lifted the candle so he could take in the opulence of his surroundings. The light failed to reach the walls of the vast space but glittered faintly off the polished brass chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and the pier glasses placed at intervals along the wall, as well as picking out the pallid faces of the Butler-Davis ancestors peering out from ornate gilded frames.

There were other priceless artworks on the walls, Roman marble statuary in niches, valuable Venetian glass and exquisite porcelain vases on the mantelpiece. A single item would be worth more than his entire caravan. But Lawrence was no thief. A fair price for the silk was all he wanted from Pen.

As his eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom, he gazed around the ballroom again. Why did any human being feel the need to own so much confined space when there was a whole world outside to explore? Why did anyone need to have polished floors when there was good earth to walk upon, or to have high ceilings painted with clouds when all they need do was step outside to enjoy the endless sky? All the delights of nature could be had for nothing.

Did owning so many sumptuous things make people happy?

Not from what he’d seen. The only truly precious thing he owned was the solid gold crucifix around his neck, with its worn coat-of-arms, stolen by his vagabond parents from God knew where, then stolen by him when he ran away. Perhaps one day he’d track Ma and Pa down and wrestle the truth out of them. Assuming they were still alive.

He made his way across the hall, up the sweeping staircase, and stopped outside Lady Pen’s room, where he listened intently for any indication she wasn’t alone. All was quiet, so he rattled the doorknob, a sound which the casual listener would think was caused by a draught.

A soft voice from within called, “Lawrence?”

Grinning broadly, he walked in and closed the door behind him. “Pen. How are you?”

“Lawrence!” Before he could stop her, her arms were tangled around his neck, her supple body pressed against his, her taut nipples rasping against his chest through the thin linen of her nightgown.

It ought to have excited him. Once, it would have.

Tonight, it didn’t.

“Have you brought my silk?” she purred.

He patted his pocket, taking a step back from her. “I have.”

She released him and padded on bare feet across to her dressing table, opened a drawer, and pulled out a clinking coin purse. She returned and held it out to him, as well as a small pair of scissors.

After a brief hesitation, he started to shrug off his jacket, but she said, “No, wait, let me do that.”