Page 71 of A Potion for Passion

She was too agitated to sit still. She began plucking at a loose thread on the cushion. There was a long gap in the seam, and as her nervous fingers slid up and down, they encountered something sharp.

“Ouch!” A deep pinprick from a needle stuck in the upholstery. The needle came away protruding from her finger, and she had to pluck it out. Had Lawrence been sewing?

Immediately, he was seated beside her, his nearness overwhelming, but devastating at the same time. “I’m so sorry,” he said, putting the wounded finger in his mouth and sucking on it. “I should have told you I’d been working on that.”

She dragged her finger away and glared at him angrily. “There are a lot of things you should have told me,” she countered. “Including the fact that you’re going away. And I might have been warned that you’d started welcoming your visitors with a dagger at their throats.”

“Just one of my throwing knives,” he corrected. “Hardly a dagger.”

“That is not the point!” she snapped. Oh, why was she still here? She should have walked out the moment she realized he was leaving. Ungrateful cur! She’d a good mind not to tell him her good news, after all.

He shifted uncomfortably on the seat, and his movement made some of the stuffing peep out through the opening in the cushion. She jabbed a finger at it to push it back in, but he immediately grabbed her hand, saying, “Careful! I don’t want to get blood on the—”

He faltered and looked at her with an expression of mingled guilt and alarm.

She stiffened, all emotion suspended. A niggling fear began to grow within her heart. “What’s in the cushion?”

“Nothing. Nothing but horsehair, of course. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Yet another lie.

Hah! He thought himself such a good actor. But not good enough for one who had studied this man as one might study a favorite painting or book.

Anger erupted afresh in her belly. Before he could react, she stuck her fingers in again and pulled out a length of the stuffing.

Lace.

Not everyday, simple domestic stuff. She could see this was old, a superb Brussels pillow lace featuring an elaborate tracery of foliage and flowers. Reaching in further, she pulled out another handful. More lace, bound around pale cushions of velvet and secured with bronze pins. Enough to make a bonnet-trimmer or milliner green with envy.

“Lawrence?” she asked shakily, her gaze locking with his. “Is this contraband?”

“Shh, keep your voice down. The sides of the wagon are but waxed canvas, and who knows who might be listening. Do you want me to swing?”

Of course, she didn’t. Oh, what an idiot he was! Trading in smuggled lace, risking his neck and rubbing shoulders with criminals. But wait, that meant he was a criminal, too!

And a liar.

And a cheat.

Never mind if he did have noble ancestry—his family wouldn’t want him back. He’d only bring shame on them.

She leaped up to go. The pain of his betrayal was too much, and despite the need to rant and rail at him, she couldn’t bear to let him see how much he’d hurt her.

“Flora, you can’t go. Not like this.” He threw his arms around her and pressed her against his chest.

Flinging her head back, she whispered, “Traitor! Why could you not have told me? Little wonder I was greeted with cold steel. You must be afraid the authorities will be coming for you at any moment.”

“It’s not them I’m worried about,” he said.

“Then whom?”

He caught her hand and refused to release it. “You must tell no one,” he said, his voice very low. “Promise me.”

“I can’t promise anything until you tell me what this is all about.”

“The lace, my silks, and ribbons, are sold to my private clients. Well-heeled, all of them.”

“And you keep them concealed because they were ill-gotten. Oh, Lawrence! Did you steal them?”