Francine decided that Mr. Burnham must be a wooley crown, a man without as much sense as the Good Lord gave a goose. She had seen him behave a swaggering officer in front of his friend, a studious academic reading from his journals, an accomplished rake flirting over honey on her fingers, and just now she didn't know precisely how he had been teasing her, only that he was. Perhaps the overdone apology made light of her only very narrow claim to respectability? Or had he laughed because he'd expected her to play the ingénue, simpering over his flirtation and apology? If he wanted simpering then he didn't know Francine Walters. She would sooner put another bullet in him than make over him as though he were God's gift. If he wanted that treatment then he'd best take himself off to London. Undoubtedly a man of his looks and profession would find a good number of young ladies who would be pleased to sigh over him.
Oddly, however, that thought only served to make Francie more cross. She could just imagine the sort of vapid girl he would find there. She assumed they were just as stupid as the ones found in a small town like Cleadon, but with the polish that city folk liked. All powder and rouge and corset. Is that what men like him really wanted? False women? What was the point of a woman who lied about who she was and what she looked like? Could such a woman even really like herself?
Francie looked down on the counter and realized she'd torn the receipt paper into tiny bits. Well, blast. The last time she'd been tearing paper to tiny bits had been the final week of mama's illness. Was she more concerned about Phoebe's safety than she'd realized? Had it been irrational to trust Mr. Manners-Sutton with her cousin's care? Yes, Phoebe recognized the men as her brother's best friends, but it had been years since she had seen them. Who was to say if they were truly the trustworthy sort?
Frowning, she swept the shredded bits of paper into her hand to take to the fireplace. The past week had been frustrating and tiring. She was most likely fooling herself if she believed anyone would come into the shop today. She should be sewing to ensure she met their meager orders. There was always the chance, however slight, that with excellent work they could weather this downturn in their business. But not one respectable woman had darkened their door since Mr. Donovan's enforcers arrived. Or perhaps it was the fact that young men had essentially taken up residence in their shop. Either way, there was little Francie could do right now to change the town's opinion of her.
She dusted the paper shards off her hands over the fireplace. She was achingly tired and thought perhaps her best option was simply to nap. It didn't solve problems, but it put them at bay for a bit.
"Mr. Burnham," she called down the stairs. "I will be upstairs for awhile. Could you please fetch me if anyone comes calling?"
"Of course." His voice was deep and soothing.
There was, perhaps, something rather comforting about having him downstairs. When the gentlemen had first suggested that he should stay for her protection she had been confused and a bit offended. Her father had rarely been home when she was a child, so it had always been just she and her mother. To suggest that she couldn’t care of herself ran counter to her experience. But was it possible that his presence was finally relaxing just a bit of that diligence she'd always had? As she took her hair down for her nap, she thought perhaps it had. She couldn't remember the last time she'd napped during the daytime for any reason other than a terrible cold.
If only she could borrow some of Mr. Burnham's delicious warmth. Even thinking it caused her to blush, so that when she settled into the blankets she wasn't quite as chilled as she would normally be.
***
Reggie hadn't heard a peep from Miss Walters for hours. He'd checked the front door and she'd locked it before repairing upstairs. After the scissors he'd gone ahead and sharpened the kitchen knives, even without her prompting. He didn't want to leave her without knowing what she was doing, but he was quite famished and there was little in the larder to eat. He was quickly running through his ready funds keeping himself fed. Not that he'd expected to spend quite so much time in Cleadon. But with the girls experiencing such a drop off of business he was loathe to eat them out of house and home, so that meant food from the pub as he was able to get it.
Right now, however, he wasn't sure if he could leave Miss Walters alone. He would prefer that she come downstairs and lock the door behind him while he was out, as he did not have a key to do so himself.
He paused at the top of the steps. The fire had burned down in the grate and there were no lanterns or candles lit to brighten the room in the afternoon shade.
"Miss Walters?" he asked uncertainly.
She had tidied up a bit from their morning tea, and the honey was on a lower shelf of the hutch. Although how it could be called tea without so much of a sandwich in the offing. It had only been tea. In the world he came from that was unheard of. He stomach growled as though to remind him why he was on this mission. He drifted toward the doorway she had disappeared through this morning. The door was slightly ajar.
"Miss Walters?" He tapped gently. "Miss Walters?" The responding grunt concerned him and he swung the door open to find her sitting up in bed, squinting at him. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders, a riot of golden tresses. What he could see of her gown was modest, but it didn't detract from his attraction. She was sleepy and adorable and seductive all at once. In that moment he would have given up all his funds, his rank, even his name for the right to simply cross the room and kiss her awake. Instead, he gripped the door tightly. "My apologies. I didn't know where you'd gotten off to."
His voice sounded hollow to his ears. As though he were calling up from a deep well.
She stretched her arms above her head, pressing her bosom more tightly against the front of her gown, and he felt his knees weaken.
"Sorry," she mumbled through a yawn. "Apparently I didn't sleep well last night."
He needed to leave. Now. "I'll fetch us some supper," he said abruptly. "Come down and lock the door behind me." With that he made for the stairs.
The damnable girl was temptation incarnate. At turns saucy and sweet, fierce and vulnerable. Even now it took tremendous will to keep his feet pointed in the right direction, and not lead him back to her bed. Her lips were begging to be kissed.
Once through the front door he breathed a small sigh of relief. He would normally wait for her to lock it behind him, but honestly the risk of him ravishing her seemed greater than the possibility of the ruffians choosing this moment to pounce. He made eye contact with one of the thugs and used his current disquiet to enhance the glare he had for the man. If it weren't for these bloody men he could go back to London to see his family and have Harry's back. He didn't slow his pace until inside the pub. Once there he downed two pints of ale while waiting for their supper to be prepared. Instead of ale for their supper tonight he purchased a bottle of claret. It might not be the wisest choice, but he found himself perversely wanting to please her. She'd never gone out of her way to please him, so why should he bother? Further, when he thought ahead to them drinking the wine together he couldn't help but to picture they would do it while wrapped in the linens of her bed.
As he counted out the coins for their repast he realized he'd best write to his brother for another disbursement. Jeremy managed his money, which was convenient since all Reggie really knew to do with funds was spend them. And even that he didn't tend to do at too fancy a clip.
With the bottle of wine under his arm and their supper wrapped in heavy paper, he made his way back to the shop. The door was locked, so at least she'd followed his instruction. He didn't see her in the front of the shop so he rapped loudly. The sun was setting rapidly and the last thing he wanted was the shadows to close in and those dunderhead debt collectors to decide he looked vulnerable while locked outside with food and wine to balance.
He saw her hurry through the shop with her lantern. She had dressed in a plain green gown and put her hair up in the twist she typically wore. When she opened the door her face lit up with a welcoming smile, which he assumed had more to do with the food he provided than actually him. But it felt good nonetheless.
"Shall we eat?"
She nodded enthusiastically and locked the door behind him as he took their supper up to their table. He noticed that he thought of it as their table now, but chose to ignore why that should be troublesome.