Chapter 8
“For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction.”
Lord Byron
The next morning, Fleur took a hackney to Rundell and Bridge.
She had dressed in her finest; nothing less would do for the King’s goldsmith and jeweler, and she was pleased with her efforts.
She wore a deep, satin-lined lavender muslin cloak over her matched lavender day dress.
Her lavender satin capote bonnet, ornamented with bows and crystal beads along the brim, provided deep cover.
If anyone lingered too long on Fleur, they would be too taken by the sprigged lilac and white silk roses sewn on the crown to notice her as the wearer.
Not that Fleur required such elaborate concealment.
The highest-ranking peers who frequented the renowned establishment would have returned only three hours after the balls and assemblies. On the quiet streets, young men and women swept stoops, and delivery men brought packages for the shops lining Bond Street.
As Fleur’s rented carriage rattled along the cobblestones, Fleur’s token from the Rutland ball burned a hole in the pocket-slit she had—since that night—sewn into all her gowns.
She always kept it close. She felt it pulse against her thigh, saying: Fleur, the longer you wait, the longer it will take to find him. Hurry now. Do not tarry.
And yet, she could think of nothing but her encounter with the Duke of Hartwell last night—and what she happened to overhear.
“…They are vulgar and crude. Those are not the worst grievances against them…”
Though he fancied himself God’s gift, the duke spoke too freely about his hosts and guests, including Fleur. How dare he judge her family so harshly?
Fleur gnashed her teeth. In her fury and annoyance, she could have ground them to dust. Thinking about the laugh Hart would have at her ruined smile was all that kept her from giving her jaw a rest.
She didn’t know why she should care either way. She quite disliked him. No. She despised him with all the heat of hell’s flames. A man without a romantic bone in his body, she shouldn’t expect him to understand Fleur and the rest of the McQuoids who believed, above all else, in love.
If anything, she should pity him.
The poor man. The poor, poor, poor, poor, pooor man. It brought her a childlike delight in describing him so—if even just to herself. He’d be enraged to hear her pitying.
He had absolutely no right occupying so much of her thoughts this day or any day.
Fleur had actual matters to attend.
Using the lead windowpane as a reflection glass, Fleur adjusted her bonnet. She had just refinished retying the pretty purple ribbons under her chin when she neared Mr. Rundell’s.
With several delivery carriages lined along the street, her driver rolled as close as he could to the heavy, black-painted mahogany single-paneled door of 32 Ludgate Hill. After they came to a full stop, he helped Fleur down.
“Please wait for me,” she said, placing coins in his hand. If anyone could identify a signet ring, it was the jewelers, Mister Philip Rundell and Mister John Bridge. “This will not take long.”
Her driver pocketed his money and bowed. “Very well, ma’am.”
Fleur paused to let a big-boned drayman lead his horse past and then picked her away across the street.
Her uncommonly bad humor this morning persisted.
Hartwell.
Hartless or Hartbad would be a far more apt title for the pompous curmudgeon, Fleur seethed inwardly.
She did not feel the least bit guilty about eavesdropping on the duke’s exchange with Jeremy. For Fleur, eavesdropping was a far lesser crime than speaking unkind words. “Not whorish and unseemly,” he had said. Men and women were held to different standards, rules, and expectations.
She had believed dukes were pillars of politeness. Perhaps they simply believed themselves above the rest. Respecting others mattered little as long as they were properly fawned on, about, and over.
“Abominable family,” she said as she crossed the street. He deserved a good clouting and oh, how Fleur wanted to be the one doing the clouting. “I’ll show him abominable.”
A boy in the bow-front windows was just finishing bringing a shutter all the way up. He happened to look at Fleur as she crossed Bond Street, talking to herself.
The lad flared his brows and scampered away from those divided panes.
No doubt, the boy ran to tell the jewelers that a madwoman was approaching and to hide the jewels. Let them hide them. The last thing she wanted was a fancy bauble. Paste ones glittered just as prettily.
She was not cracked in the head.
She wanted to crack someone’s head.
That was completely different.
Embracing a healthy bloodlust, Fleur swung her lavender reticule like a club at her side as she walked. If only I could knock Hartwell over his arrogant head.
Just the thought of braining Hartwell brought Fleur immense satisfaction. Her anger curved her lips into a terrifying smile, visible in those same front windows. Oh, if the lad saw that, he’d surely bolt for a constable instead of his employers.
Fleur reached the narrow, arched portico and stopped under the stone overhang.
The infuriatingly accurate answer was everything.
She loathed Hartwell all the more because he had pricked at her own self-loathing. To have had a lover and not even know his name? Tears threatened and she blinked them back. Instead, she fed on anger.
If Hartwell learned her sordid secret, he would view her the same way he would a trollop. It didn’t matter that gentlemen everywhere, including him, bandied paramours about. And she hated herself for caring about his ill opinion.
If looks could sear, she would have burned a hole big enough through the front of Rundell and Bridge’s imposing door for Fleur to step through.
Let her just hope that when she presented her recently acquired signet ring for identification, she found her gentleman to be a favorable fellow and not a bloody, self-righteous prig.
Fleur pressed the brass handle and let herself inside a dark-wooded room even narrower than the columned entrance, and then she reached the shop floor and was surprised into forgetting Hartwell. At least for the moment.
Maybe they had hidden the wares in anticipation of her arrival. She had expected glass cases to be crammed with diamonds, sapphires, rubies, emeralds, and too many gemstones to name. But they weren’t.
A mix of mahogany and crystal cases, none even close to full, lined the walls and sat near empty. The select pieces displayed plainly showed Rundell and Bridge didn’t need flashiness; luxury shone in those sparing jewels.
Fleur loosened her long bonnet ribbons and ventured deeper inside.
She admitted she had been wrong—jewels did dazzle more brightly than pasted gems.
That didn’t mean, Fleur told herself, that she was impressed.
The clerks—stationed like gatekeepers—clearly felt the same about Fleur. They moved about, carrying trays, polishing cases, and dusting mahogany. The boy had delivered the news to everyone. All the smartly dressed men pretended they weren’t watching her.
They had none of Fleur’s furtiveness.
Fleur edged her enormous, wide-brimmed bonnet back just enough to reveal her eyes, telling them without words: “See, I am perfectly sane.”
A strained-looking fellow appeared to draw the short straw. He bowed to Fleur.
“Good morning, ma’am. You have arrived early. Pray tell me how I may be of assistance.”
More like, pray, how may I be rid of you as quickly as possible?
Fleur invited herself over. Alas, she knew how men were—a product of being a sister with many brothers whose friends were from all walks of life. At least, as it came to men. They were rogues, sailors, and gentlemen. Men always responded better with a smile.
Not Hartwell. Her smile elicited his ducal horror and disdain.
“Hello, I was wondering if you might be so good as to assist me on a matter of grave importance.”
Her current scowl ruined her attempts at charming the wary clerk.
“I would be delighted to help.” The hitch there said he’d prefer walking barefoot over glass and manure.
Fleur set her reticule on the glass counter. “If you would please be so good as to inform Mr. Rundell, I request an audience.”
For the look that passed between her nervous assistant and the fellows around him, Fleur may as well have asked for their Lord and Maker.
“As in Mr. Philip Rundell,” she clarified.
There came more looks, and an even longer silence. “He is not here,” she said, filled with a childlike need to stomp her foot. “Mr. Bridge will also do.”
“I am afraid that is not possible.”
“Neither of them is here? Do you know what time they will arrive? I can wait.” Fleur looked around for a chair.
Apparently, patrons weren’t encouraged to sit.
“Patrons do not speak directly with Mr. Rundell and Mr. Bridge.”
Fleur searched for the one who had called out that announcement.
The brave soul stepped forward. “The owners of the establishment do not meet with patrons, ma’am,” he repeated.
The mustached staff member with thick mutton chops delivered an almost smooth statement.
Almost.
Even the tiny pause between “with patrons” was still a pause. It said what the employee wouldn’t voice; the esteemed proprietors only met with the noblest noblemen.
Letting her annoyance show, Fleur reminded herself, wasn’t going to help her efforts.
“Mr… I am sorry.” Fleur loosened the pearl and lace ribbon ties of her cloak and let it slip open enough to reveal her finest garment. “I’m afraid I did not gather your name.”
His gaze slipped. The knob in his throat moved several times. “Mr. Bridge.”
“Mr. Bridge?”
“I am Mr. Bridge’s nephew.” That was handy.
Men had power, but women had some too. Fleur had only just learned the trick—and value—of fluttering one’s lashes this Season. Before he could speak, she smiled her best coquette’s smile and batted her lashes.
“Never say neither your uncle nor Mr. Rundell will meet with…a lady.”
Her efforts had the intended effect.
The fellow’s face grew all flushed, his eyes dazed.