After the Wedding (The Worth Saga #2)(39)

Underthings. She didn’t want to disclose the sordid, threadbare state of her underthings. “Things?” She waved her hand gravely.

“Yes. Things.” He fished around in his wallet and found a bill—more money than she had seen since… She couldn’t remember. He held it out to her. “For obvious reasons, I shan’t go into the store with you, and you’ll have to make do with ready-to-wear…”

She stared at him. Make do with ready-to-wear? Ridiculous. It had been ages since she’d thought of having anything personally made to fit her. For heaven’s sake, it had been years since she’d purchased anything new.

He gestured with the bill. “You should buy some clothing, don’t you think?”

“It’s…” She swallowed. “It would be improper to allow a man to…buy me clothing?” She didn’t mean for the end of her sentence to tip precariously upward into a question; she already knew she should say no.

But she did need shoes. And gloves. And if her second-best gown wore through again…

He let out a little bark of laughter. “What do you think will happen if word gets out, Miss Winters? Do you think your reputation will be ruined?”

“Oh, you’re very amusing.” Still, she couldn’t bring herself to reach over and take the bill.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “While we were en route. I’ve been trying to make sense of what happened to us and what it all means. My best guess is that Lassiter figured out that I had some connection to my uncle. He wanted to discredit any information I managed to unearth by painting me a scoundrel. You became caught up in this because you were there and you were convenient. It’s my fault you are in this desperate predicament. And it’s easy enough for me to make your situation less desperate. Allow me to do so.”

She could scarcely think. “But I can’t pay you back.”

“I’ve never found that keeping score is a good way to maintain a friendship. See here, this is all in my best interest. Mrs. Martin was losing her eyesight; if we ever had to fool anyone else, you’d never be able to bamboozle them into thinking you a respectable lady. Not dressed like that.”

Camilla colored. “I thought we had decided that there was to be no more lying.”

Mr. Hunter shrugged, opened his wallet, and took out a smaller bill. He added this to the one in his hand. “I hadn’t imagined it would be so hard to do something nice for you. Get a new hat as well.”

“But—”

He simply added another bill. “Every time you try to politely protest, I am going to tell you to buy something else. What else do you suppose you need? A scarf, for sure.”

“My scarf is in acceptable condition!”

“Ha, unlike the rest of your things.” He smiled at her.

She could not stop her own smile from peeking out. “You’re being ridiculous!”

“Counterpoint: You’re exhausted. You’re terrified of the future. It is hard to find a respectable position when you look like you’re threadbare. These are perfectly reasonable feelings on your part, and I can do something about it. Doing so will improve my own quality of life by making you less anxious.” He nodded. “So go. I’ll be in the bookshop.”



* * *



It was substantially later in the afternoon when Camilla found her way back to the carriage, laden with parcels. Shifts that had not been mended fifteen times over! Gowns where the print had not faded! Shoes where the seams did not leak! She’d left her family hoping for pretty gowns; it was the first time since her uncle had sent her away that she’d had anything like them.

Gowns weren’t love, but they were at least, gowns.

Her fingers were warm in blue knit gloves that had not been darned again and again using three separate shades of gray yarn.

“Here,” Mr. Hunter said as she clambered into the carriage. He handed her a paper sack.

“My God.” She stared at it. “What more could I possibly need?”

“Lunch?”

The sun was dipping down toward the horizon, and her stomach chose that moment to growl. Camilla laughed. “Oh, very well.”

The sack contained a meat pasty.

“There’s a bottle of soda water at your feet,” he said as he started the carriage. It took her a moment to free the cork stopper, but the water was cold and fizzy.

She couldn’t remember the last time she had indulged in soda water. Not since she was a child, surely. The bubbles went up her nose, tasting of something almost tart. It made a perfect complement to the savory beef and gravy in the pasty. She devoured the whole thing in minutes—before they were even out of the tiny hamlet.

“Mr. Hunter,” she said. “I am beginning to suspect that you are very kind.”

“Oh, I don’t know about very. Maybe a little.”

“Very,” Camilla said assuredly. “You forget—I have moved about a great deal, and have experience with a vast multitude of people. You are very kind.”

“Or you have been uncommonly unlucky. I’ve been blessed with family circumstances that allow me to be kind. That’s no great accomplishment.”

“On the contrary,” Camilla said. “Most people I know who are so blessed are usually convinced that they deserve what they have—and that those who don’t have it, don’t deserve it. You will have to take my word for it—you are very kind. Thank you, Mr. Hunter.”