Forbidden Read Free Page B

the Temple of Venus.
    “Sir…” She dropped the gentleman a curtsy. “I hope you find
your way.”
    That provocative smile lit his eyes again and made her shiver.
“You sound like a Methodist preacher, Miss Mallon.”
    Margery turned away. She did not want to see him accompany Mrs.
Tong into the brothel’s salon to be pounced upon by all those twittering
courtesans. The thought set up an odd sort of ache in her heart. It was foolish
to care, when all he had done was flirt with her. He will have forgotten her in
less than a day, or very likely in less than an hour. The door of the salon
opened, and light and music spilled out across the tiled floor of the hall. The
real business of the evening was about to start. Margery tucked the basket
beneath her arm and hurried through the door to the servants’ quarters, past the
kitchens where the steam was rising and the cooks were sweating to prepare
delicacies for Mrs. Tong’s guests. No one looked at her as she passed. Once
again she had become invisible.
    Out in the street the evening was bright and starlit but
Margery’s feet suddenly felt like lead. It was no more than tiredness, she told
herself. It had nothing to do with the gentleman she had met in the brothel and
the contrary disappointment she felt because the encounter was over. She was
tired because she had risen early to launder Lady Grant’s silk underclothes, for
they were of such exquisite quality that they could not be trusted to anyone
else. She had worked a whole day and here she was working a long evening as
well, and once she was back in Bedford Street she would need to stay up into the
early hours to await Lady Grant’s return from the theater. Those people who
thought that lady’s maids had an easy life had absolutely no notion.
    “Moll!”
    Margery jumped and spun around. Her brother Jem was the only
one who called her Moll. She waited as his tall figure detached itself from the
shadows of the street corner and strolled forward.
    “Thought it was you,” he said, as he caught up with her. He
grinned. “What the devil were you doing in a bawdy house, Moll?”
    “Minding my own business,” Margery said sharply.
    Jem lifted the cover on the basket and took out the last of the
honey cakes. Margery slapped his hand but he ate them anyway.
    “They’ll spoil if they don’t get eaten,” Jem said. “They taste
good,” he added with his mouth full, scattering crumbs on the cobbles. “You
should have been a cook rather than a maid.”
    “I don’t want to be a cook,” Margery said. “I only want to make
sweets and pastries.” Her ideal was to be a confectioner and sell her beautiful
cakes and sweetmeats for a living, but to set up in a shop was too expensive, so
in the meantime she earned use of the oven at Bedford Street by helping Lady
Grant’s cook with the more complicated French desserts and pastries.
    “When I make a fortune,” Jem said, wiping the back of his hand
across his mouth, “I’ll set you up in your own shop. I promise.”
    Margery laughed. “I’ll die waiting for that day,” she said
without rancor. She knew Jem spent every penny of his rather dubious earnings on
gambling, drinking and women.
    Although she would never admit it, Jem was her favorite
brother. He had always been there for her, even though he was ten years her
senior. She knew she should not favor him over the others because Billy worked
hard to support his wife and growing family, and Jed, back in Berkshire, was a
pot man in a respectable hotel. Jem was a scamp who never seemed to do an honest
day’s work. But Jem was merry where Billy was serious. There was something about
him that made it impossible to be angry with him even when he was helping
himself to the rest of her stock. It was charm, Margery thought, as she fastened
the cloth down firmly over the remaining cakes. Jem could charm the birds from
the trees.
    “I’ll walk you back,” Jem said.
    “You’ll get no more cakes for your trouble,”