A Shop Girl’s Guide to Wooing a Lord (The Heiress Hunters #1)

Prologue

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Tamsin Archer’s nose dripped blood. She’d scratched and clawed the other flower girls for these violets, and now she guarded them jealously.

Tamsin’s empty belly ached, her bare feet were raw from sharp pebbles, and she shivered in the cold night air.

She’d seen a pamphlet touting a performance at the theater, and the date was this June night.

Tamsin wished someone would tell the weather it was June. The wind blew like it was March.

She held her tattered hat on her head with one hand and hunched over her flower basket as she waited for the play she’d seen advertised to end.

Most of the other girls couldn’t read and didn’t know there was a play at the Theatre Royal tonight.

Only half a dozen or so stood on Russell Street with her, watching the entrance of the theater, which was currently lined with carriages.

Once the theatergoers began to emerge, Tamsin intended to rush under the portico and sell the violets to the gentlemen waiting for their coaches.

She was taking a risk approaching men so late at night.

Most people assumed an unaccompanied woman out this late was selling more than flowers.

Tamsin hadn’t been forced to resort to that sort of work, but with three people at home counting on her, she understood why women took that path.

Up until six months ago, her mother had worked as a washerwoman to support Tamsin and her little brother and sister.

Now her mother was lucky to be alive, and her siblings were thin and small, even for ages six and four. Tamsin had to sell these violets.

As though she’d willed it, the first voices echoed from the theater, and Tamsin lifted her basket, dodged the passing carriages on Russell Street, and ran to the portico.

She’d barely caught her breath before she spotted the first man in a heavy greatcoat and brushed beaver hat. “Please, gentleman, do buy my flowers.”

“Off with you.” The man shoved Tamsin away roughly. She turned to the next person.

“Please, kind lady, buy my violets. See how lovely they are.”

The woman, who had jewels on her ears and a hat that was so costly it would have paid Tamsin’s rent for six months, curled her lip. “Off with you, dirty girl.” She gave Tamsin a hard thwack with her ivory cane.

Tamsin yelped and hobbled away, tears stinging her eyes. More patrons streamed by through her blurry vision. “Violets! Please buy my violets.” Men pushed past her, shoving her roughly. She caught her breath as she felt her basket handle torn from her grip. “No!”

Her basket tumbled to the ground, and the hard-won violets spilled everywhere.

Tamsin dropped to the ground and tried to gather them up, but feet scattered and trampled them, and she only managed to salvage a couple before the rest were smashed underfoot.

She tasted the coppery tang of blood from her bleeding nose and the salt of her tears as she tried to rise.

Men and women pushed past her, knocking her back down, and it was all she could do to protect her few precious flowers.

Then someone tapped her back, and she recoiled, although the touch was unusually gentle.

A man stood beside her, offering his white-gloved hand. “Miss, take hold of my arm.”

Tamsin stared at the hand. The gloves were so clean and white. She didn’t want to put her grubby fingers on the leather and spoil it.

“Come. I have you now.” The gentleman extended his arm further toward her, and Tamsin took it with the hand not holding her violets.

He pulled her to her feet then lifted her basket and offered it to her.

Tamsin took the basket then allowed her gaze to move from his dark waistcoat decorated with flowers sewn with a golden thread, to his white lawn shirt, his starched neckcloth, and finally, his handsome face.

His velvet-brown eyes regarded her from under a hat tipped at a rakish angle.

His eyes darted away from her as someone called, “Garret, the coach!”

“Excuse me.” He began to move away, and Tamsin blinked and snapped out of her reverie.

“Please, gentleman, do buy my flowers. Violets.” She held them out. “For your lady.” She thought he might keep walking, but he looked back at her and flashed a smile with impossibly white teeth.

“I don’t have a lady, but violets are my sister’s favorite.” He reached into the small pocket of his waistcoat and produced a coin. “Here you are.” He flipped it neatly into Tamsin’s basket then swept the flowers out of her extended hand.

Tamsin looked down and gaped at the shilling. She snatched it up and curled it into her hand. “Sir! This is too much!”

But he was already stepping into a coach. Before the door closed, Tamsin spotted several other young men inside, as well as an older couple that might be the parents of the men. Then the door closed, and the coach started away.

“Wot ’e give ye?” one of the other flower girls demanded. “Let me see.”

Tamsin knew where this line of inquiry would lead.

Without thinking, she took off running after the coach, leaving the other flower girls behind.

The gentleman’s coach was not difficult to follow.

The streets were crowded at this time of the night, and a person could often walk faster than a carriage in the congestion.

She followed the coach all the way to Hanover Square, which was pure idiocy, as her rooms were close to the river, and Hanover Square was some distance away.

The shilling burned a hole in the pocket under her dress as she paused in the shadows to watch the family disembark from the coach in front of a red and white brick town house.

They were laughing and all talking over one another, and when their servant opened the door, the light spilled over the family, illuminating their fine clothing and their smiling faces.

The gentleman who had helped her still held the violets in one hand.

He’d removed his hat, and Tamsin saw he had tousled red hair.

The door closed, and the light was extinguished.

The carriage pulled away, and Tamsin crept closer.

She could still hear the family’s voices as she tiptoed up the steps and looked through the window to the side of the door.

The glass was thick, and a thin, lacy curtain covered it, but with the light blazing in the entry, she could make out the forms of the people, if not details.

The men were handing the butler hats and coats, all the while laughing and talking.

Then a young girl joined the group, dressed in a white robe.

She must be the sister the gentleman had spoken of.

She was probably too young to go to the theater.

As Tamsin watched, the gentleman made a show of bowing and presenting the girl with the violets. Everyone laughed and then the family moved away, probably up the stairs and into their drawing room.

Tamsin turned away and sat down on the top step.

Her feet hurt more than they had before, and she was hungrier too.

Stupid to run all this way, but she hadn’t been able to stop herself.

Something about that man—his brother had called him Garret—had taken hold of her.

She rather wished it hadn’t. Now she’d have the memory of that happy family to carry with her, to remind her what might have been if life had taken a different turn.

Not that her family could have ever lived in a place like this, but they’d had a clean home once, with flowers on the windowsills, just like this town house. Now all they smelled was the fetid river.

Tamsin closed her eyes and pictured the lovely brown eyes of the gentleman.

She remembered his white glove and his broad shoulders under the tight-fitting coat.

She wondered what his hand would look like if he were to remove that glove.

Would his fingernails be clean? Would his hands be strong and free of calluses?

She didn’t remember what his mouth looked like, but she recalled those white teeth.

His breath probably smelled like mint, and his lips must be soft.

She imagined him taking her into his arms and kissing her.

Just the thought made her face flush and her body burn.

She was no whore, but if he’d asked her to go with him, she would have given him everything and more.

Ridiculous. Tamsin opened her eyes and stood, starting the long walk back home.

She didn’t even know his surname. And a gentleman like that wouldn’t want someone like her.

He was kind, and she’d half fallen in love with him for it.

She wasn’t fifteen any longer. She was three and twenty and should start behaving like it, else she’d end up like so many other girls she’d seen about—bellyful, blackened eyes, and broken.

Tamsin touched her pocket, feeling the shilling there. No one would go hungry tomorrow.

And that was a start.