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Page 9 of Pads, Purses, and Plum Pudding (A Paddy’s Peelers Mystery #2)

CHAPTER 8

T rue to his word, Dr. Brooks met her on Sunday and bought his usual bounty of pastries. They had agreed to repeat their tea on Wednesday. Dottie knew she shouldn’t encourage him, but the man was so persuasive and such good company. On Tuesday, Mrs. Clatterly teased her about her “beau.”

“He’s a fine-looking gentleman, though Mr. Clatterly is reserving his opinion.”

“As am I. In fact, I wonder why he’s interested at all. I’m sure he would have no trouble courting a young miss from a good family.” Why a widow with no social standing?

“You’re still a lovely young woman. Why wouldn’t he be interested?” Mrs. Clatterly poked Violet’s belly. “What do you think of him?”

Violet frowned and shook her head, then ran to the sink and put on her apron. Dottie watched her thin shoulders shake as she scrubbed furiously at a pot. Was she jealous? They would discuss it later. The poor dear had enough sorrow in her life.

The following day, Dottie dressed carefully, telling herself it wasn’t for Dr. Brooks. She wore a Devonshire brown walking dress, with the heart-shaped pendant her father had given her nestled above the square neckline. “Violet, how do I look?”

Violet grinned and nodded. Dottie had explained to her the previous night that, if it were in her power, nothing would ever part them. Knowing how life could change in a heartbeat, she couldn’t promise the girl that it would never happen. No one could make any guarantees in this life. Dottie would never lie to the girl.

As she entered the public room, Mr. Wells waved to her from a table near the fireplace. She smiled and waved back. Several other patrons greeted her as she walked toward Dr. Brooks. He stood, smiling and handsome in pale trousers, a light-blue coat, and a white-and-blue striped waistcoat.

“Mrs. Brown, you look lovely.” He bowed and took her hand before pulling back a chair. “I’ve ordered tea, and Mr. Clatterly is not scowling so harshly at me this week.”

She laughed, her nervousness disappearing at his touch. “His bark is worse than his bite.”

They discussed a variety of subjects, laughed, teased, and drank too much tea.

“May we meet again? Please don’t make me wait until Sunday to say yes.” He leaned forward as if about to share a secret. “I am not too proud to beg.”

She chewed her bottom lip, watching pedestrians pass by the window and deliberating the wisdom of beginning such a friendship. “I suppose we could do this again.”

“Would you consider an outing to Farrance’s for tea? I will only keep you a respectable amount of time. Perhaps we could take a stroll in St. James’s Park afterwards if the weather permits.”

“That does sound tempting.”

“We could enjoy a treat you didn’t have to bake yourself.”

“That might be nice. Yes, I accept. When?”

“Next Wednesday? And of course, I must see you on Sunday or the hospital board will be very disappointed.” He rose when she did and took her hand. “Thank you for a wonderful afternoon.”

* * *

Sampson snapped the reins, and the pair of gleaming chestnuts lunged forward into the traffic. He deftly handled the O’Briens’ black-lacquered curricle, thinking he’d eventually need one of his own. The top was down—for now. It was a sunny day, and he was eager to be with Mrs. Brown without the Clatterlys or other patrons listening. He wanted to ask about her daughter, about her late husband, and how long she’d been widowed.

Most of all, he wanted her close beside him, elbows touching, smelling her scent as the breeze drifted his way. She smelled of citrus and cinnamon and cloves. He wanted to blow on those dangling auburn curls, jealous of them as they caressed her neck. Sink back into the velvet squab and study her profile, the delicate ears, the straight nose, the perfect chin, and the long lashes. For the third time in a week, he had dreamt of her—walking along the canal at St. James’s, strolling along a beach in Brighton, dancing at a ball. Each time it ended with a kiss. Would he be disappointed? For he fully intended to kiss her today. If he had to put the top up and throw his greatcoat over them, their lips would meet.

He grinned as he turned onto Watling Street and slowed the pair in front of the Clatterlys. A lad ran up to take the harness, remembering Brooks from the past two weeks. “Ye can count on me, my lord,” the boy said with a nod, a cocky slant to his shoulders. “I’m yer man.”

With difficulty, Sam hid his smile and tossed the boy a coin. Entering the tavern, he peered around the room until his eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight. The hearth to the right crackled, several men sat in a back corner arguing good-naturedly over something, and the ever-so-congenial Mr. Clatterly sat with his arms crossed, only a slight scowl today.

A small girl with wild blonde curls escaping a too-big mobcap came from the kitchen, walked behind the bar, and tugged on Clatterly’s waistcoat. To Sam’s surprise, a delighted smile transformed the man’s face. It was amazing—or the child was, for the barkeep looked like a different person.

The lass caught Sam staring at her. The brown eyes widened, and she turned and dashed back to the kitchen. As soon as she disappeared, Mrs. Brown came out, wearing the same gray dress from their first tea with a small hat perched on her head. He wondered if he’d be able to breathe if he saw her in a ball gown. Mrs. Clatterly helped her on with her brown redingote.

“Dr. Brooks, how good to see you again.” She smiled, then waved to the men at the table, who paused in their argument to wave in return.

Sam bowed, and she took his arm, a beaming Mrs. Clatterly behind them, the little blonde hiding behind the older woman’s skirts. He swore the girl frowned at him with the exact scowl the barkeep always wore. If she were the same girl he’d seen at the hanging, it was a miraculous change in appearance.

After helping Mrs. Brown up and into the curricle, he maneuvered the chestnut geldings around other carriages, hackneys, carts, and pedestrians. Cheapside Street was hectic, even in midafternoon, with businesses crammed along the busy thoroughfare. Sam would never understand the lure of the overpriced and limited shopping on Bond Street compared to this industrious area.

“So, tell me more about Dr. Brooks the urchin and how he pulled himself from the streets as a child.” There was a good-natured smirk on her plump lips, and he wanted to kiss it off.

“Ah, the urchin, Sam.”

“Sam?”

“My given name is Sampson. Sampson J. Brooks, but I’m also known as Sam by family and friends.” He clicked to the horses after pausing for an elderly pedestrian. “I tried to steal a cane from the wrong man—or the right one, depending on how you look at it—on Christmas Eve. I had only stolen food before, but I was so cold and hungry. All I’d earned went to my parents, as I’ve said, and my mother was doing poorly.”

“Oh, my. It must have been terrible.” Her hand went to his forearm, and he didn’t want her to remove it.

“It was. But Paddy saw something in me. Instead of calling the constable, he took me home. There was one other boy they had taken in—Harry Walters—and we became fast friends.” He sighed, remembering that long ago night. “Because of the O’Briens, I was able to continue the path my father would have wanted, though I turned a different direction when I reached a fork.”

“How’s that?”

“I always thought I’d be a solicitor. It had been my and my father’s plan. But after seeing so many sick in the prison and on the streets… I felt I could be of more service by practicing medicine.” Did he sound too trite? He hoped not, though his goals did seem lofty even to himself at times.

“I’m glad you did. It suits you.”

“Thanks to the O’Briens, I was able to attend university and, in my own way, help the family business.”

“They sound like special people.”

“Few could surpass them.” He told her of the Peelers and the part he played to help his “second” family. “I found the books I pored through on plants and healing held my attention much more than dry legal cases. Maggie, Mrs. O’Brien, urged me to consider medicine, explaining my compassion for the sick and helpless would suit better for a doctor rather than a solicitor. She was right, of course, and here I am.”

“I’m glad. You’re a good man, and London needs them.” She returned her hand to her lap and watched the passersby as they made their way to the confectioner’s shop.

“Have you had a prosperous week so far, Mrs. Brown?” he asked, anxious to fill the silence.

“Yes, I’ve begun filling orders for Christmas pudding. Mr. Clatterly has been spreading the word to the patrons. He’s such a dear.”

Sam snorted. “Not to me. However, I did see a genuine smile on his face when a young girl pulled on his waistcoat.” He gave her a side-look, hoping she’d indulge his curiosity.

“That’s Violet. I do believe she’s charmed him without a word.”

“That’s hard to believe. Does she get her charm from her mother?” he asked, probing again.

Mrs. Brown shook her head. “I have no idea. Violet doesn’t speak of her, and her father is dead. We crossed paths, two females alone in London, and joined forces so to speak.”

The girl wasn’t her daughter? It made more sense. The woman he’d come to know would have spoken of the lass more if the lass had been her daughter. Was she the child he’d seen with Mrs. Brown that gruesome day? “It seems you have something common with the O’Briens.”

Sam pulled up on the reins and slowed the horses as they came up to the corner of Spring Gardens and Cockspur Street. He jumped down from the curricle and came around to help Mrs. Brown. As she put her foot on the step and reached out for his shoulders, her half boot slipped. He caught her waist with both hands, lifting her and safely bringing her to the ground. Their bodies touched as he lowered her to her feet, and heat rushed from his chest through his core.

Stifling a moan, he asked, “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head but looked flushed. “N-no. Only my pride. I’m afraid I’ve never had an abundance of grace.”

“I’m happy to catch you in my arms any time.” Her smile made his pulse race. He held out his arm, and she took it as they entered Farrance’s.

“Oh my, it smells divine in here,” she gasped, closing her eyes and drawing in a deep breath. “Thank you for suggesting this.”

They sat at a small table. A man came up and took their order of tea and a plate of various comfits and pastries.

“This tea is superb,” she exclaimed. “And these cakes… I’m trying to determine what is in them. I must try to replicate them.” Her face was flushed from the steaming tea, her eyes sparkling as she tried another candied fruit. “Are you not enjoying the sweets?”

“Indeed, I am,” said Sam, placing his chin on his fist and smiling at her.

“Flummery, Dr. Brooks, but I enjoy it all the same,” she said around a mouthful, then giggled.

“Please, call me Sampson… or Sam.” He poured them more tea. “Unless you don’t wish to continue our friendship, which would devastate me.”

“Well, Sampson, we can’t have that.” She paused, her gaze holding his, and something changed between them at that moment.

It happened in a breath, but he knew she was finally giving in. Would give him a chance. His heart soared.

“Then you must call me Dorothea… or Dottie,” she said at length. The tip of her tongue peeked out to swipe up a crumb at the corner of her mouth. His breath caught.

When they finished their tea and sweets, she wrapped up the last remaining candied fruit and tucked it in her reticule, murmuring, “For Violet.” Then they made their way to St. James’s Park.

It wasn’t busy, being Wednesday, which Sam preferred. They strolled, her arm in his, and he thought they looked the perfect couple. Others passed them, smiled, and nodded as the pair spoke of books and music. They walked along the canal, and he told her of the pelicans residing there since Charles II. They talked of their favorite colors and smells and animals. The sun was setting when they made their way back to the curricle, and he hated for their time together to end.

Sam was happy with the day, felt he’d made progress with… Dottie. He liked the feel of her name on his tongue. That thought sent him in another direction, soft lips and…

He maneuvered her behind a cluster of trees, placing his hands on her arms. There were few people about, and they were in shadow. “Forgive me if this offends you, but I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks. May I?” He waited, thinking he’d gone too far, when her blue eyes darkened. With desire? Did she feel the same?

“Yes, but?—”

He couldn’t wait and stepped closer, breathing in her sweet scent. Orange and cloves. She moved back, leaning against a tree trunk. Her eyes raked across his face, down his chest, and then she locked her gaze with his. Her chest rose and fell, her breathing coming in rapid bursts.

“Do I frighten you?” he whispered.

She shook her head, and his patience fled. Bending his head, he brushed her lips with his. A jolt shot through his body, desire flaring hotter than he’d ever known. He flattened against her, trailing kisses across her jaw, down her neck. He heard the gasp and smiled before claiming her mouth in a searing kiss. Her hands came around his collar, fingers scraping his scalp, signaling she was as hungry as he was.

Sam’s blood pounded in his ears as his tongue traced the seam of her mouth. She opened for him, and he entered that heavenly space, tongues clashing, dueling, leaving them both breathless. When he ended the kiss, he kept his forehead against hers, breathing heavily. “I knew it would be like this.” It had been better than his dreams. A blessing or a curse?

“I apologize for my… for…” His desire? His passion? But he wasn’t sorry.

She shook her head. “Don’t. We’ll spoil it.”

He nodded, and with a deep breath, he stepped away, tucking her arm in his once again as they made their way back to the path. Sam had a ridiculous smile on his face. He could feel it, and he didn’t care. That kiss. That kiss had been?—

“So, do you have plans for the future, Dr—Sampson?” she asked breathily.

He reluctantly came back to earth and scrambled to gather his thoughts. “I have an office for my practice, but as I gain experience, I’d like to mentor young doctors at one of the hospitals. Perhaps my own hospital. There are so many in need of care and so few good physicians. The medical field is changing, growing, and I want to be a part of it.” Did he sound pompous or passionate? He hoped the latter. “And you?”

“America. I’m saving my money and starting a new life in America.”

Sam’s stomach plummeted to his knees.