Page 13 of The Spinster's Secret Scoundrel
Miss Naughton whirled on her stool, glaring. “What are you doing in here?”
“Looking for you.”
Thierry gave her his most winsome grin. As usual, the only effect upon his hostess was to deepen her scowl.
“And for breakfast,” he added, hastily.
“Give me a moment to clean up.”
“This is why you need all those eggs, isn’t it?” he asked her back. Thick dark hair was piled in a loose bun on the back of her head, with tendrils spilling down her neck. He’d like to pluck the broken paintbrush she was using to hold it up and watch that mass tumble free. Run his fingers through the soft waves.
He would probably lose his hand if he attempted it.
Still, Miss Naughton wasn’t as prickly as she first appeared. She’d insisted he stay the night rather than tromp through the soggy evening in search of lodgings in town. She’d made him breakfast while waiting for him to awaken. Might she have done it out of politeness? Absolutely. She owed him nothing, while he owed her a great deal, right now.
Specifically, money.
Which he did not have upon his person. He needed to deliver his cargo to the Cock and Bull and pay a visit to Mrs. Gosling before he could pay Ada. The two local taverns could only sell so much expensive cognac without arousing suspicion. Viscount Prescott would take a crate or two off his hands, but the majority of his precious cargo was bound for London, where fine gentlemen of Prescott’s acquaintance would bid high at auction for the privilege of possessing the superior bottles Thierry had risked everything to obtain.
Ordinary brandy came across the Channel in tubs to be let down before distribution. Plenty of smugglers over-watered the distilled stuff to maximize their profits. Thierry’s product was of a far superior quality. Nigh as coveted as gold.
The higher the risk, the higher the reward.
Thierry gently turned one brightly painted egg by the bottom. It felt surprisingly solid. Likely a result of the layers of gleaming lacquer. It hung from the tree by a thin silk ribbon threaded through a hole in the top.
“Don’t touch them,” Ada snapped. “Please. To answer your question, yes, I collect the eggs to paint. I sell them.”
“They’re pretty. You are quite the artisan.”
She huffed. “I saw an example in a book once. An illustration of pysanka, from the east. I thought I might be able to make something similar. Mine aren’t as detailed or elegant. A mimicry of true artisanship.”
Ada closed the door firmly behind her, adding wistfully, “I do enjoy making them.”
A faint shade of roses on her cheek tempted Thierry to stroke his knuckle there. He resisted.
“I made muffins, to go with the eggs I collected this morning,” she informed him as they went downstairs to the main chamber.
“It smells divine.”
“I get so tired of eating them this time of year,” Miss Naughton sighed. “I try everything I can to use them up. I learned to make egg pasta from an Italian recipe my neighbor Betsey Briars taught me. Egg pies. Custards. Scrambled eggs. What I wouldn’t give for a nice sausage and mash once in a while.”
“Why not go into town and have a meal at one of the taverns?” Thierry asked, before catching himself. He, with no permanent home, routinely ate meals in taprooms. Miss Naughton clearly lived on a tight budget. Her profits from the eggs, after factoring in paint, lacquer and grain to attract the geese to her property, couldn’t be very much.
How, then, did she afford this spacious cottage? Granted, it wasn’t well-situated, but it was more than a single woman needed, by his estimation. The rent couldn’t be so low that she paid it from her painted-egg money.
Then again, it would be difficult to find a smaller dwelling. Thierry had been in and out of Cavalier Cove for years. If housing were more readily available, he might’ve settled here long ago, but he’d been content to conserve funds by staying with acquaintances and friends, or sleeping aboard theSpectre. He knew this particular house had fallen into disrepair until a few years ago, when the new Viscount Prescott fixed it up to rent out.
“Ladies don’t visit taverns alone,” Miss Naughton informed him with the haughtiness of a duchess. “Besides, I am not very welcome in town. I’m a bit of an oddity, you understand. I need to maintain what little reputation I possess.”
The note of sadness in her voice nearly broke his heart. If he had one to break. Which Thierry didn’t.
“Come with me to the Cock and Bull. I shall treat you to an evening meal. Nary an egg to be seen.” The tavern’s owner owed him for his latest shipment—or would, once he delivered it. The proprietor, Caden Bulloy, probably believed his luxury liquor lay at the bottom of the sea.
Ada threw her head back and positively howled. On the one hand, Thierry found her newfound sense of humor even more attractive than he did her scowling. On the other hand, she was laughing at him, and he wasn’t sure why.
“Why is that such a hilarious proposition?” he asked, indignantly.
“Did you miss what I said about my reputation? Literally seconds ago?”
