Page 50 of My Kind of Scoundel
Being a man who always rose to a challenge, Mr Chance rubbed his muscular thighs and said, “Then the baker’s shop will be our next call.”
“And we must visit Emily.” Eleanor wouldn’t rest until she knew why the girl had helped herself to the material. She turned to Jules. “Emily arrived with her father and removed bolts of silk from the shop. I pray her actions were not self-serving.”
The corners of Jules’ mouth sagged. “It ain’t her father. He’s dead. I saw Emily at the burial ground on Shoemakers Row, weeping at her mother’s grave. She said her father fell off a barge and drowned in the Thames.”
“When?”
“A year back.”
How odd. Emily spoke about her parents often. A few weeks ago, she took work home so she could have supper with them. Why would she lie?
“Who does she live with?”
And who had helped her remove the silk from the shop?
Jules shrugged. “I asked her as she walked away, though she mumbled something. I ain’t sure I heard right.”
Eleanor sat forward, unable to shake a deep sense of trepidation. “What do you think she said?”
Jules paled. “I thought she said she lived with the devil.”
Chapter Eleven
Breadwell’s was the prominent bakery Jules had mentioned. Located on The Strand, its reputation for excellence meant the place was thriving. The queue was out the door, and an impatient crowd hogged the oak counter.
Many were servants sent to procure sweet treats: Chelsea buns, Belgian buns, Eccles cakes and scrumptious fruit tarts.
Miss Darrow licked her lips as she gazed upon the plum pies with lattice crusts. “Do you think I might purchase a pie before you harass the baker? Instinct tells me this won’t end well.”
“You may have whatever your heart desires.” Theo bent his head and whispered, “In some cultures, plums are an aphrodisiac. Though if you need to eat a pie to find me physically pleasing, I shall have to join a monastery.”
She laughed but didn’t look at him. “An aphrodisiac indeed. It seems you’re desperate to flap your wings and cluck like a chicken. You already owe me one forfeit. Now it’s two.”
Had they been in the privacy of his bedchamber, hewould have willed her to turn her head. Their lips would touch, and like a spark to a hay barn, a fierce passion would ignite.
“It’s the truth. Have you never read Greek Mythology? Aphrodite invented the plum tree as a symbol of passion and pleasure.”
“I know the story of the golden apple,” she said in quiet challenge. “Paris gave Aphrodite his apple in exchange for Helen of Sparta. And I know the pomegranate is sacred to her because it represents?—”
“A woman losing her virginity,” he said, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear. He imagined her sprawled naked in his bed, the pretty nightgown tossed to the floor. “Shall we ask for a pomegranate pastry?”
She turned to face him, a little gasp escaping when she realised they were inches away from kissing. “It represents the consummation of marriage. As we’re not marrying, we have no need to ask.” She glanced at the other patrons. “People are staring.”
“At the pastries, not at us.”
She looked flustered, unnerved by their close proximity. “This is a terrible idea. We should have come first thing in the morning. The baker won’t speak to us in a shop full of people.”
“He’ll oblige us. I can be quite persuasive.”
“As well I know.” She was referring to theirintimateinteractions. “It’s that devilish grin of yours. Is it something they teach at Scoundrel School?”
“The way you wrap me around your little finger, you must have attended every lesson.”
She laughed, her eyes sparkling like the dance ofsunlight on the ocean. She was so beautiful when unburdened. He made a silent vow to see her smile every day.
“I’m sorry,” the words left him without thought.
She blinked in surprise. “Sorry for what?”
