Matt didn’t think he’d ever known such joy. “Good. I don’t want to have to go looking for you.”
* * *
Mr. Combs woke early with a stuffy nose. His wife brought a hot cloth and laid it on his troublesome appendage. That always seemed to help. The job would have to wait until he could breathe again. He went back to sleep. By the time he woke it was late morning and sunny, and he could breathe. Combs dressed then found his wife in their small parlor, mending clothes.
“I’m on my way out.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek.
“Just a minute. I made some pies for you.” She bustled into the kitchen and was back a moment later. “Here you go. I’ll send one of the boys to see how you’re doing later.”
“Don’t want to say much now.” Combs tapped the side of his nose. “But this job may make us more than the fee.”
His wife grinned. “We can always use the money.”
A few moments later, Combs took a hackney to Davies Street, just outside of Berkeley Square.
It was early afternoon before Combs could fulfill his agreement with his new client, Mr. Molton, and finally arrived in Berkeley Square. Carriages lined the streets and men in livery stood conversing. “Can ye tell me which one of these houses be Stanwood House?”
Once of the men pointed to a town house, two down from the corner.
Walking down the street a bit, he stopped to chat with two younger footmen. “What’s goin’ on here?”
A larger and older man wearing a different livery ambled up. “What’s goin’ on here is none of yourn business. If it was, ye’d know.”
Shrugging, Combs said, “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Jus makin’ conversation like.”
“Go make it somewhere else, then. We’re all on dooty here.” Combs walked into the parklike place in the middle of the square, leaned against a tree, and watched the door of Stanwood House. After a while, a young woman matching the description Molton gave him hurried across the square with a well-turned-out swell. “Bold as brass they are and in the middle of the day,” he muttered.
After, the couple entered a house on the other side of the square. He made himself as comfortable as he could and waited, never taking his eyes off the house, until his son came to relieve him. “Mind, keep watch on that door.” He pointed to Worthington House. “Yer lookin’ for a young rum mort with yaller hair. Brazen-faced is she. Been in there most of the day. It’s no wonder our swell don’t want her to have charge of the children. Teach them all to be as loose as she be. She’d be better off at Miss Betsy’s, if you know what I mean.”
“They’d pay a pretty penny for her, and, the Lord knows, we could use it,” his son agreed. “You better get home. Mam says she’ll be waitin’ for ye with dinner.”
Combs stood and stretched. “I’ll spell ye tonight.”
* * *
Matt must have drifted off to sleep. When he glanced out the window, the sun was no longer visible.
He kissed Grace’s hair, and she squirmed against him. “I’m famished.”
“Mmm, I am too.” He slid her under him.
“For food.” Her stomach growled.
He heaved a sigh. “I suppose I don’t want anyone to say I starved my wife.”
“Should we call someone?”
“Wait here.” Matt donned his dressing gown and gave Grace the colorfully embroidered silk banyan he’d bought for her. Stepping into the parlor, he saw a table set up with covered dishes, wine, water, and lemonade. “Someone has anticipated your needs.”
Grace seemed to float into the room. She lifted one of the lids. “Roasted chicken, what else do we have?”
He uncovered the rest of the dishes. “Bread, cheese, fruit. Would you like wine?”
“Please. Will you carve the chicken?”
“With pleasure. By the looks of this, I don’t think we are expected anywhere to-day.”
“No, it appears not. I wonder if they’ll bring breakfast or if we are eating with our family.”
