Wicked Again (The Wickeds #7) - Kathleen Ayers Page 0,63

Mr. Coventry’s, waving furiously at the footman to keep up.

She wasn’t a coward.

18

The visit to Mr. Coventry’s apothecary shop was far lengthier than Marissa had anticipated.

Jordana had peppered the elderly man with questions, barely pausing to take a breath much less allow Mr. Coventry to speak. Marissa watched in utter horror as Jordana, a young girl from good family—and a virgin—asked Mr. Coventry to explain to her the various ways in which a woman could prevent a child.

Mortified, her cheeks burning, Marissa had hurriedly explained Jordana’s interest in medicinals as Mr. Coventry had tried to hide his amusement. Changing the subject to something safe, namely the bottles of hair dye Marissa had ordered, she’d made the mistake of turning her back on Jordana, who had immediately begun to inquire after remedies for Marissa’s frequent ‘female-related’ headaches.

Marissa had never been so embarrassed. She thought it would not be the last time she would feel so with Jordana.

Mr. Coventry, bless him, assured Marissa of his utter discretion.

After leaving the apothecary, Marissa and Jordana visited several other establishments, loading their purchases into the waiting arms of the footman whose name Marissa still could not remember and, since he’d been with them all day, didn’t wish to ask.

Finally reaching the coffeehouse Jordana had first seen when they had arrived on Bond Street, Marissa ushered her inside to a small table by the window. Ordering hot chocolate for Jordana and tea for herself, Marissa nodded her head at various intervals as Jordana chattered with enthusiasm over their visit to the apothecary. The chatter quickly evolved into an improper recitation of how all women should be educated on the benefits of preventing a child.

“Jordana,” Marissa said firmly, looking into the shocked face of an older lady seated at the table next to them. “Please keep your voice down. While I tend to agree with you—”

“I knew you did.” Jordana nodded, opening her mouth to continue.

“But,” Marissa placed a hand on Jordana’s arm, “we do not speak of such things in public. In a coffeehouse. Not everyone is as . . . openminded as I.” She removed her hand and sat back, smiling at the older woman who was observing Jordana as if she were a wild animal who’d invaded Bond Street.

Jordana shut her mouth and nodded, deflating like a ruined soufflé that the entire world didn’t agree with her assumptions on the care of women. “I just want to help. It is so important.”

Marissa’s heart went out to her. “I know it is, Jordana. But you must be careful with such talk. Promise me?”

“Yes, but—”

“I will support you whenever I can, be assured. And I am thrilled, dear, you enjoyed the visit.” Marissa smiled to take the sting out of her chastisement. “We will go again. I promise.”

“You’ll take me? Even after Aunt Flora comes to stay?” Jordana shook her head. “She won’t understand how important it is to me. But you do, don’t you, Marissa?”

“Yes.” And she meant it. No matter what happened with Haddon, and at the moment things didn’t look promising, Marissa refused to leave Jordana floundering about. She couldn’t.

But yet you will sacrifice Miss Higgins.

Reggie again, whispering in her ear, reminding Marissa of what she meant to do. Her hand trembled as she pushed away the half-eaten biscuit on her plate.

“Marissa?” Jordana leaned close. “You are very pale. Do you have one of your headaches?”

“No, dear. I’m only just realizing how tired I am. Shall we head home now?”

They left the coffee shop, arms linked, and walked in the direction of Marissa’s waiting carriage. The footman, arms full, followed closely behind. The poor lad was loaded down with an assortment of boxes, his head barely visible over the top.

I should have sent him back to the carriage earlier. He’s bound to drop something.

The hour had grown late, the day beginning to wane by the time the carriage came into sight. She had underestimated Jordana’s fascination with the apothecary shop.

“I can’t wait to return to visit Mr. Coventry.” There was a tiny dot of chocolate above Jordana’s upper lip as she grinned, blissfully happy, Marissa was sure, to have spent at least part of her day discussing the ingredients for a childbirth poultice. “You may even have to return next week for your special dye.”

“Jordana, I thought we discussed the need for discretion.”

“Mr. Coventry wrote down the name of a book he consults when mixing various medicinals and the like. But it’s in French. I suppose I should have paid more attention to