Read Online Thea's Marquis by Carola Dunn - Free Book Online Page A

crates and cartloads of carrots and cabbages and celery. The pungency of homegrown leeks and onions mingled with the fragrance of oranges and lemons from Malta and Majorca. A display of broccoli took Thea’s interest.
    “I wonder if that is the Roman or Neapolitan,” she whispered to Rod. “It does not look quite like either.”
    “I haven’t the least notion! You must ask the stall holder.”
    “Oh no, I could not speak to her.”
    “She does appear to be something of a shrew.”
    The woman was roundly abusing a man who had complained that half her stock was wilted. However, she answered Rod’s question civilly enough, with a positive flood of information about the cultivation of broccoli.
    Thanking her, he turned to Thea. “Most of that was beyond me. Was it of any use to you?”
    “Most helpful. At Newkirk I was never able to obtain the varieties I read about, but I shall try to find seed while I am here. You see, one can have a supply throughout the winter if one plants the right kinds at the right time.”
    He listened to her earnest exposition, impressed with her knowledge and enthusiasm. Unladylike, perhaps, but of vastly more practical use than embroidery or playing upon the harp.
    “How came you to your interest?” he asked.
    She flushed. “I know it is not a suitable occupation for a lady. I started because our gardener died, and someone had to feed the family. At Newkirk we have only what we produce ourselves. I enjoyed growing things and wanted to learn more, so I ordered books on kitchen gardening from the lending library. The library at Carlisle is sadly limited and out of date, which is why I am still shockingly ignorant.”
    “You seem to me to know a great deal.” Touched by pity for the hand-to-mouth existence led by the Kilmore ladies in Northumberland, he recalled with anger the carefree life of Jason Kilmore and his late father in London.
    They moved on. Several times Thea stopped with questions, but she avoided directly addressing the market people, even a motherly-looking woman with a basket of mulberries. Rod guessed that she was simply shy with strangers, but the regrettable example of his mother was too clear in his mind. The Marchioness of Hazlewood considered a large proportion of the Polite World beneath her notice. Was it possible Thea felt likewise about the stall-holder?
    Thea pointed out to him a barrow laden with five or six different sorts of apples. The ferret-faced man behind it noticed. With a broken-toothed grin, he polished a russet-hued apple on his grimy sleeve and held it out to her.
    “Want a taste, ducky?”
    She hesitated. Rod was about to intervene when he saw a small hand creep up from beneath the barrow and seize one of the largest apples.
    The man pounced. “Gotcha.” He hauled out a ragged, shoeless urchin and yelled for a beadle.
    The child, a boy of about ten, whimpered in his grasp. A few onlookers gathered, but the sight was too commonplace to attract much attention.
    A stout constable pushed through the unheeding crowd.
    “Don’ give me to ’im, guv,” the boy begged, tears streaking his dirty face. “I’ll do anyfing. I’ll work for nuffing. My sister’ll die if I—”
    “Shut yer gob, you dirty little thief,” the barrow man snarled, shaking him. “I got a living to make. Here, orficer, here’s anuvver bloody Newgate bird for yer.”
    Rod stepped forward. “Just a minute. What was that you said about your sister, lad?”
    The boy clutched at his sleeve. “She’s sick, yer honour, and starving. Wivout me, she won’t last the day. She’s only little.”
    “You don’t want to believe a word of it, sir,” said the constable pompously, licking his pencil. “Lie as easy as they breathe, they do. ’Anging’s too good for ’em.” He turned to the apple-seller. “I’ll take ’im off your ’ands now but you’ll ’ave to come round to the public office in Bow Street later to swear a warrant. Name?”        
    “Wait,”