Page 7 of A Potion for Passion

“Let me see.”

He reached up and removed the pins holding her bun, so her hair cascaded over her shoulders. Until this point, the only notable thing about it had been its length, reaching to below her waist. But now, after all her frantic washing, it was completely out of control.

She tugged at a lock in disgust. “It’s horrible.” Never before had she seen such a violent, fiery shade of red.

And if Campaign couldn’t fix it, she’d make him shave it off and buy her a wig.

He crouched by her feet and combed his fingers through her tresses, examining the strands. She shivered, despite the warmth of the evening.

It was soothing, having one’s hair toyed with and stroked. As he’d known it would be, no doubt. Did he do that to all customers who complained?

All his female ones, at least.

“You’ve done a laudable job, ma’am,” he pronounced eventually, rousing her from her semi-daze. “The color’s very even. No one would know it wasn’t natural.”

She blinked, then jerked her head away with a hiss of annoyance. This touching was all highly improper—and was getting her nowhere. “Anyone seeing it in daylight would not be of that opinion,” she said. “Tell me you can undo the damage.”

“Damage, you say? But you look quite dazzling. You’ll be the envy of all your friends.”

“Don’t try to flatter me, sir—”

“To you, Miss Hartington,” he said with a disarming grin, “please, I’m simply Lawrence.”

“I thought you were called Ephraim?” A man who changed his name from one year to the next? There was something decidedly odd about that.

He cleared his throat. “Yes, yes, I was. But I go by my first name now. I ran into some difficulties—but I won’t sully your ears with the details. I beg you to forget that name.”

He wasn’t in a position to do any begging. “I suppose you’re going to tell me next Campaign isn’t your real name either.”

“Not just beautiful, but intelligent, Miss Hartington. No, it’s Campion. But ‘Campaign’ looks far better painted on the side of a wagon.”

None of this was to the point. “Now listen here,” she snapped. “I’ve learned enough about itinerants, and mountebanks, and players and so forth, to know when I’m being soft-soaped and bamboozled.”

“Bamboozled?” He raised an eyebrow and his dark eyes twinkled. “But I’m telling the honest truth. Your hair is beautiful. I could definitely use you to demonstrate the superiority of my hair tonics and dyes.”

The cheek of it! “No one wants to dye their hair flaming red,” she blustered. “It isn’t at all the thing.”

He looked undaunted. “Fashions change.”

She flung up her hands in despair. “I’ll be a laughing stock if you can’t change the color back. I’ll never hear the end of it from the Daniells. Or Lucinda, when she finds out.”

“Lucinda?”

“You remember Mrs. Allston? My older sister, who used to live with me.”

“I do, indeed. But she’s moved out, you say?”

“Yes, because Charlotte, my niece, married the Earl of Beckport late last year. But you’d already left the area, so I suppose you didn’t hear the good news.”

“Ah. Well, it strikes me that, if she’s gone, you may ignore your sister’s opinions.”

Flora frowned down at her fiery mass of hair. He was trying to distract her now, which just wouldn’t do. Sitting up very straight and trying not to be perturbed by the various weapons in the wagon, she warned, “If you don’t help, I’ll denounce you in front of everybody.”

It wasn’t like her to threaten anyone, but in such dire circumstances, it was unavoidable.

Campaign—Lawrence—frowned at her, then reached into his waistcoat pocket.

She froze. Not another concealed weapon, surely? Could she get out of the wagon before he disabled her?

If his slender muscularity was anything to go by, the answer was almost certainly no.

She pressed her eyes tight shut and prayed she hadn’t been incredibly stupid in coming here alone.