Page 14 of A Potion for Passion

Chapter Eight

Flora watched Lawrence turn abruptly, pull a sprig of fresh rosemary from the bunch above his head, and crush it between his fingers, filling the wagon with its crisp scent.

There was a disquieting expression on his face she couldn’t interpret, but after a moment he turned back to her and said, “Why, Miss Hartington, a hat shop sounds a superlative idea. Tell me more.”

Now he sounded like a gentleman, not an itinerant traveler. How very odd. Was there more to this man than met the eye?

She hesitated. But what harm would it do to tell him about her scheme? He was a good listener. He hadn’t even tried to sell her something that would make her hair even worse, then offer her a second potion to put it right—for double the price. As any other quack doctor might have done.

“I’ve thought of names for my new bonnets already, and done sketches,” she admitted with a shy smile. “I’m sure ladies will love them.”

“I’m certain they will,” he said gallantly. “I can venture no opinion on bonnets. But I wish you success in your endeavor. Will the money from your cottage be sufficient?”

What a puzzle this man was. Now he was all politeness and gentility, when only a few moments before he’d been ready to throw Jud Creasey into the horse trough. He was a man of light and shade, like an engraving in a book.

An extremely engaging book.

“I’ve saved up scrupulously,” she said, trying to drag her thoughts back to the real world. “Lucinda paid me for board and lodging from her dead husband’s investments.”

She’d have to mind her tongue now. Even though her sister’s husband, Abraham Cutler, had received a royal pardon, it wouldn’t do to reveal to the world that he’d been a notorious smuggler. “He ran a string of inns,” she said, keeping as close to the truth as she dared. “He had been ever so wealthy, but due to some…debts, Lucinda didn’t receive much when he died, so she had to come and live with me.”

Bother. She hadn’t meant to talk about Lucinda. Why were her thoughts so scrambled?

Lawrence rubbed the rosemary again, then flicked it out through the wagon flap before settling back opposite her. His dark eyes held her gaze.

She blinked, then looked down at her clasped hands. “Anyway, I thought to go in with another lady and learn the trade from her,” she went on. “In return, I’d work for her for nothing. If I’m good enough, she might then employ me, so I’ll eventually be able to afford to set up on my own.”

His black brows lifted. “It could be a long wait.” His voice was like liquid silk. No wonder she was having trouble concentrating.

“Oh, no,” she said. “I have a good deal of experience already, so it won’t take me long to learn what I need.”

“I fear you are far too good-natured and might easily be taken advantage of. Someone could take your money and have you working for them like a servant.”

She’d already thought of that. “Precisely why I plan to deal with someone I already know. I’m putting my proposal to Mrs. Matthews this very afternoon.”

“Mrs. Matthews?” The silken tone fled from his voice.

Watching his face closely, she said, “Indeed. Our local milliner. Her husband ran the shop originally, but he got caught in a gamekeeper’s mantrap and died from gangrene after being thrown into prison. Terrible places.”

Lawrence grimaced, and for a brief moment his eyes took on a haunted expression. Then they cleared and he said, “I don’t know Mrs. Matthews. Or perhaps I might, by sight.”

Of course, he knew her! “She bought some of your nerve tonic yesterday,” Flora said sharply. “And I’m quite certain she came to your wagon last evening, just as I was leaving.”

For a second he looked taken aback. Then he snapped his fingers and exclaimed, “Oh, I beg your pardon. You mean Sally? Yes, we’re old friends. I’d forgotten Matthews was her surname.”

Poppycock. Tilting her head, she asked sweetly, “Did she buy some of your hair tonic, too?”

“Excuse me a moment.” He reached into one of his druggist’s drawers, pulled out a packet of powder, dusted it on his tongue, then took a swig from a cider bottle. “No. No hair tonic.”

Something was unsettling him.

Before Flora could investigate further, he said, “Sally came to see me because I was thinking of giving her some of my remedies to sell in her shop.”

He was avoiding Flora’s gaze. Was he lying to her? Why?

“Sell medicinal nostrums?” she said skeptically. “In a hat shop?”

“You sound scandalized, ma’am. But I see no harm in it. There are many tradesmen who deal in more than one commodity, are there not? Undertakers who operate carriage hire services and run print shops, butchers who sell pamphlets, gun makers who sell clocks. Why not hats and healing? It has a nice ring to it.”