The Trouble With Sin (Devilish Vignettes (the Devil DeVere) #2)(9)

Her modest breasts were thrust together and upward, almost out of the gown, like choice fruit ripe for plucking. She spread her arms and spun in a circle, swirling and delighting in the novelty of her voluminous, panniered petticoats. "What do you think, Simon?" Freddie giggled.

"I think my new muse shall be universally admired."

Her forehead crinkled. "Muse? What's a muse?"

"The original muses were nine goddesses who inspired the great artists and poets of antiquity. Now it refers to one who rouses a man's soul to create."

"You expect me to rouse your soul, Simon? My Lord DeVere only expected me to rouse his—"

He put a finger to her lips. "Yes, Freddie, but pray let us keep DeVere out of this, shall we?"

"You never mentioned soul-rousing, Simon. It seems to me rousing a man's soul should command a premium." She gave him a calculating look and then cast her gaze around the shop. She fingered a lace fan, picked it up, and fluttered it before her face.

"You desire the fan as well?"

She smiled and dropped it in his lap, only to caress a pair of kid gloves. She arched a brow and those, too, landed in Simon's lap. His inner dread increased with every object that caught Freddie's eye Mrs. Martin entered with a smile. "The gown suits the young lady well, does it not? Of course we had to provide the proper foundations for it. Shall I put these on your account as well, Mister Singleton?"

"Yes, of course. As well as these." He indicated the fan and gloves.

She added the items and then handed him the account book to sign.

Blood hell! Nine pounds, six shillings.

Simon signed his name with a wince and a flourish.

"There is a fine cobbler across the square," Mrs. Martin volunteered.

"Cobbler?" Freddie raised her hem to reveal tiny feet encased in a pair of sensible brown leather shoes.

"Yes, surely such a fine gown requires slippers. Masters, across the square, can surely fabricate a pair to match."

Freddie eyed Simon.

"Silk slippers?" He swallowed hard and forced a smile while performing calculations that made his heart drop.

He reminded himself that he was far from ruined. Harris owed him another forty pounds for his labor. Yet within a few hours, Simon found himself almost twenty pounds poorer. He'd spent a princely sum granting her every whim, including a hearty meal at the Rose Tavern complete with French wine. Nearly half of his earnings were already spent, and he'd yet to write a single verse. He consoled told himself that Freddie's show of gratitude would surely inspire the full volume of verses.

Of course Freddie then demanded a hackney coach for fear of ruining her slippers—another shilling dropped into the Freddie bucket. When he attempted to sit beside her, she insisted he take the seat opposite to avoid crushing her new mantua.

"Bugger the gown, Freddie! It can be pressed. Don't you see how I burn for you?"

He flung himself from his seat to kneel at her feet. Taking her hand in his, he plied passionate kisses to each of her nail-bitten fingers. "Your lush lips make my pulse thunder. I could drown in the fathomless black pools of your eyes. Verily, you set me aflame! If I don't have you soon, I surely will perish!"

She chortled. "Which way shall you perish, Simon? Will you drown or burn? It certainly can't be both at once."

"Heartless jade!" he cried, ready to rent his hair in vexation. "Do you delight in tormenting me?"

The coach jerked to a halt. When the driver flung open the door, Simon swept her up into his arms, eager to get her someplace private but the landlord barred their entrance with a glower.

"No doxies allowed here! 'Tis a respectable house!"

"Doxy? You are quite mistaken. The young lady resides here. I was merely keeping her shoes from ruin," Simon explained.

"There ain't no ladies of any kind in this house. I lets only to respectable gents."

"But my Lord DeVere has a set of rooms. This is his sister come to visit. Surely you see the resemblance?"

The landlord crossed his arms and widened his stance. "No females allowed. Be they relatives or no."

Bugger! What now?

It seemed Simon's only recourse was to turn Frederica back into Freddie, but she'd cast away her male attire, refusing to wear it again. Where the devil could he get more clothes?

"Perhaps I can just leave a note upstairs?"

The landlord grunted assent. "The doxy stays here."

Simon set her down with a groan and took the stairs by twos. He packed a few garments into a sack and returned to Freddie. "We'll go back to Covent Garden and I'll hire you a room for the night. Tomorrow, however, you must return here as DeVere's valet."

"But I don't want to," she protested.

"You must, Freddie."

She sulked in silence until they arrived at the Shakespear's Head.

"Ah, Mister Singleton, my poet laureate!" Harris greeted him with a smile. "How goes our mutual endeavor?" His gaze flickered over Freddie. "This must be your lovely sister."

"Er, yes," Simon replied. "She is up from the country for some shopping and has missed her return coach. I seek lodging for her. A modest room is all we…she…requires."

"But of course. We can accommodate you for ten shillings."