CHAPTER 4 #3
“I would think a gentleman like yourself would require more than barely livable.”
“I desire much more, but in truth require very little. I will make do with livable for now. I am hoping you will take pity on me and direct me to the shops and craftsmen that can be trusted.” He flashed a disarming smile, one designed to make a woman swoon.
“See, there was a reason I accosted you so rudely. I know no one else to ask.”
This man knew how to exploit his natural gifts to full effect. Knowing his game did not save her from succumbing. Her heart danced a jig. A joyful, naughty one. Get hold of yourself, you goose.
“I fear if I help you, it will only encourage you further in what is a bad bargain. I warned you the house was derelict inside, yet you let it anyway. If you did not trust my judgment on that, why should you do so when it comes to shops and craftsmen?”
“I did not let it, as such. It belongs to me, crumbling walls and all. So either I leave it to vagrants and fires, the fate you predicted, or I take possession and attempt to save it. I chose the latter.”
She halted her steps and turned to him. “Yours?”
“Mine.”
She dragged up what little she knew of that house. “Years ago it belonged to the Duke of Aylesbury, although it is said he last visited fifteen years ago. Has the current owner finally sold?”
“It was left to me upon the third duke’s death. I have not been able to take residence until now.”
Why not? She bit back the question in favor of one less intrusive. “Are you a relative? Expect to be called on mercilessly by every hostess in Langdon’s End if you are.”
“Perhaps you will let it be known that the house will not be suitable for me to receive callers for some time. Except you, of course, since we are friends.”
Friends now. What charming nonsense. As if she would ever call on a bachelor at his house. She assumed he was a bachelor, if he was the person buying drapes and such.
It seemed a prudent moment to continue walking. She paced along with her escort until they came to a red door. “This shop is owned by Mrs. Fleming. She sells sundries and general wares. I need to take my leave now, so I can purchase some thread.” She held up the muslin by way of explanation.
“Is that for a dress? The pattern favors you. It makes your eyes appear very blue.”
More silly flattery. No one had ever commented on her eyes.
He peered through the window. “I will join you. I see some pots in there.”
Pots. She looked in the window and recognized the ones he now spied. “They even stole your pots? How terrible,” she murmured.
“I am grateful they left the pieces of one bed, so I did not have to sleep on the floor. And one chair and a small table.”
One chair.
Mrs. Fleming, a small, frail woman with graying hair, favored simple dresses, big aprons, and severely bound hair.
She did not hide her surprise at seeing Eva walk in with a man.
Her eyes grew wide as the dashing appearance of that man became obvious.
She flushed to her hairline and pretended to sort through the jars on the counter in front of her.
“Good day, Mrs. Fleming. I need some white thread, if you would be so kind.”
Mrs. Fleming opened a drawer and produced the thread. “Three pence.”
Eva handed her the pennies. “Allow me to introduce Mr. Fitzallen. He owns the old ruin on Thatchers Road. He has taken residence there and needs to replace the items stolen from the house over time. Pots and such.”
She gave Mrs. Fleming a meaningful look, then sent a sharp glance to the pots that had attracted Mr. Fitzallen’s attention.
They had appeared in the shop the morning after a day she crossed paths with Mrs. Fleming’s son on the road near the ruined house.
He had been carrying a bulky sack on his back.
Mrs. Fleming bit her lower lip. “I’ve pots, sir, but only small ones, and they be used and old. You probably want better.”
“I think they will do for now.”
Glancing at Eva, Mrs. Fleming took them off the shelf and placed them on her counter. “For pots for stews and soups, you’ll be wanting the ironmonger at the edge of town. The whitesmith is out there, too, if you be wanting tin to store flour and such.”
“I will be sure to visit them. Thank you.” He added some knives and eating implements to the pots. He moved on to the lamps and candles, then to the shelves on the other side of the shop that held crockery.
Eva took the opportunity to whisper. “You just sold that man pots that are already his, I think.”
“What was I to do? Bits of that house are all over town. Who expected the owner to turn up after all these years of neglect?” She smiled at Mr. Fitzallen while he filled his arms. “What is a few pots, anyway. It isn’t as if I helped myself to chairs, now is it?
” She lowered her head and looked up at Eva.
Eva preferred not to dwell on the chairs. At the time, it seemed to her they would be happier carted off than used for firewood by vagrants. “We must spread the word that those who borrowed from that house must return the items.”
“Unless they sold them, of course. Can’t then, can they?”
No, they couldn’t. She could not return the chairs. But if a line of townsmen brought back borrowed items, she might be able to return that which she had borrowed, too, without it attracting notice.
“I will spread the word, as you must also,” she whispered. “He may be related to a duke, but I think he will turn a blind eye to anyone bringing back his belongings, as long as they do find their way back.”
“Related to a duke! What is he wanting with you? Nothing good, I’ll warrant.”
Eva had no idea what he wanted with her, or if he wanted anything at all.
Mr. Fitzallen set the last of his items on the counter. “That will be all for now. I am sure as soon as I am not distracted by two lovely ladies, other essentials will occur to me, though.”
Eva all but rolled her eyes at the flattery. Mrs. Fleming glowed and, for an instant, she appeared twenty years younger.
“We can bring all of this to the house,” she offered. “My son will carry it.”
“How good of you. You have my appreciation.”
Mrs. Fleming giggled. “It is nothing, sir. Nothing.”
Eva took her leave while Mr. Fitzgerald paid. He caught up outside and strolled along as if he intended to spend the day in her shadow. To be polite she pointed out the lane to the church, although he showed more interest in two taverns they passed.
“It is an attractive town,” he said. “It appears prosperous.”
“Although there are old families in the area, out on land beyond, many who live here moved from Birmingham after they made their fortunes. In the early morning hours, you can see the men going to Birmingham on horse or in carriages. There are many new homes if you stroll the lanes, usually of good size. The assemblies are full of fine garments and jewels.”
“Industrialists? I doubt I will be well received. My experience has been that the newly prosperous are more critical than most about a person’s birth. My own is a mixed blessing. I am indeed related to dukes. In fact, I am a duke’s son. However, my mother was not his wife.”
He was a bastard.
An awkward lull passed while she sought some response. “Your birth will not signify, I believe,” she said. “I hope people will be enlightened enough to know better than to judge a person by things he does not control.”
“I am glad to know that there are some free thinkers in Langdon’s End, and feminine ones at that,” he said, then added, “I could not help but overhear your conversation with those other ladies outside Mr. Duran’s shop.”
Her face heated as the exchange with the sisters Neville repeated in her mind. “Perhaps I was wrong, and you are not a gentleman after all, if you eavesdrop on private conversations.”
“Hardly private. It rang through the town more clearly than a church bell.”
“I am sure you misunderstood what you heard.”
“Perhaps. However, so that you know me to be enlightened, too, I assure you that I also do not believe women should be sexual slaves. Unless they enjoy the role, of course.”
“While there are unfortunates who find themselves in that role, I am sure none of them enjoy it.”
He appeared about to debate the matter. She gave him a withering look. He retreated from the topic, but not from her company.
“My apologies,” he finally said. “I fear I have shocked you.”
“I suspect it amuses you to shock people, Mr. Fitzallen. If so, you will find my friendship quite lacking, since nothing shocks me.”
“Nothing? You are indeed enlightened.”
She hastened her steps. She heard a low laugh as his strides kept up.
She abruptly crossed the lane and led him to the door to Mr. Trevor’s office. “Mr. Trevor is an architect,” she explained as she pressed down on the latch. “He can advise you on workers, and help you far more than I ever can.”
Mr. Trevor, a young man with blond hair, spectacles, and an obsequious manner that Eva found irritating, jumped up from his chair when he saw her.
She marched over to his massive desk strewn with drawings, and pointed to her companion.
“Good day, Mr. Trevor. This is Mr. Fitzallen. He owns the old ruin and intends to rehabilitate it. He will need much advice and many references.”
The men greeted each other. Mr. Trevor turned his attention back to her. “I am grateful for the introduction, Miss Russell. I confess, however, that I had hoped you came about your own property.”
“I have already given my answer on that. Now, I will leave the two of you together and be about my business. Oh, and Mr. Trevor, could you let it be known that anyone who chances upon items removed from Mr. Fitzallen’s home should return them?
There were many who thought it an abandoned house. In error, it appears.”
With that she strode out, before Mr. Fitzallen could find a way to take his leave as well.
* * *
Mr. Trevor watched the lady depart. A man’s appreciation showed in Trevor’s pale eyes.