Chapter 8 #2
Her victory was near, only to be promptly dashed.
Another clerk rushed to his colleague’s rescue. “That is right,” the smooth-faced man said in tones as stiff as his starched white shirt.
How adorable. The crusty staff member believed he could stand between her and her attempts at earning Mr. Bridge’s support.
Fleur stepped nearer the younger Mr. Bridge. She looked up at him from under the fringe of her eyelashes. “Surely you are not a man who would deny a lady in need of help?”
“N-Never.”
Somewhere within the shop, a door closed. There came the rush of footfalls above stairs. Those same footsteps pounded down a stairwell.
A small lad rushed in through a narrow hall behind the counter. His freckle-filled cheeks were flushed from his exertions. He waved a cream-folded page.
“From Mr. Rundell,” he said, out of breath.
“Mr. Rundell is here!” she cried happily.
Fleur was too excited by the news to be annoyed by the clerk’s earlier lie.
No one paid her any mind. The boy handed the note to Mr. Bridge’s nephew. The gentleman unfolded the sheet. His eyes flared.
“The blinds!” he shouted, his voice climbing an octave. “The blinds!”
His second order was hardly necessary. Around them, the clerks had already rushed into action.
All the gilded sconces were lit. The gold candelabras atop the cases next.
Sashes were released from the hangings over the bay window—light managed to spill through the slight opening left in the curtains, while also preserving the store’s privacy.
The Rundell and Bridge team moved faster and more efficiently than the London fire brigade, which was fitting, as Fleur saw her earlier efforts go up in smoke.
Heading for the largest crystal case, Mr. Bridge began calling directives and pointing as he went.
“Mr. Bridge,” she said, rushing into step beside him. Her skirts whipped about them. “I require a moment of Mr. Rundell’s time. I have discovered a piece of significant value and…and…”
“You must leave,” he said. The clerk snapped and pointed.
Fleur stared on wide-eyed as a fresh set of clerks came pouring from the back. In their cream, palm-length, limerick-gloved hands, they carried mahogany boxes. They set those cases throughout, the same way they might set chessboard pieces.
She rescued her reticule just as a new set of staff followed the first stream and filed to the left side of the shop. Some carried velvet sacks. Other smaller mahogany cases.
They were opened as one, and Fleur found herself…briefly…dazzled by the glitter and shimmer all around. She may as well have stepped back in time to the Golconda Sultanate, which she had read stories of.
“You must leave, ma’am.” Mr. Bridge snapped her back to merry Old England.
“I am afraid that is not possible,” she said, giving him another smile.
“We have an esteemed patron due to arrive. If you return later—”
“And I have already told you, I cannot, sir.”
“—On the morrow or some other day.”
Mr. Bridge could not fathom how difficult it was to escape the enormous McQuoid clan. No one could.
“I am not going anywhere.” She jabbed her finger at the floor. “I have as much right to be here.” The crystals and bows on her reticule bounced in support of their mistress. Who knew when she could find her way back here?
“What is the meaning of this?”
Everyone fell silent.
Even Fleur.
And that was a rarity.
But then, this man commanded a room. His stark black garments over-emphasized the gentleman’s long, narrow face. With his refined features, he had the look of a bald Socrates bust that her father kept in his office. He evinced authority over this place. And could be none other than Mr. Rundell.
The younger Mr. Bridge did the explaining. “The lady will not leave, Mr. Rundell.”
His identity confirmed, Fleur affected the same smile she had bestowed on Mr. Bridge earlier.
“Mr. Rundell,” she took a graceful step closer. “My name is—”
“The shop is closed.”
His standoffish tones stopped Fleur in her tracks. Charm would get her nowhere with this surly fellow.
“It does not look closed.” Fleur looked around. “In fact, your staff has just filled the cases.”
“It is closed to you.”
Mr. Rundell glanced beyond her shoulder. She followed his stare.
A pair of bigger clerks converged on either side of her. He thought to throw her out, did he?
She gave a glare as good as her smile.
They wisely fell back. Fleur turned her focus back to the churlish proprietor. “I truly do not require much time. Why, I do not even require that we meet on your shop floors. If you would be so good as to grant me an audience in your off—”
“No.”
That was it, a blunt no and nothing more. Oh, she had quite enough of him. “With your foul temper and treatment of customers, it is a wonder you are successful.”
“I’m successful because I’m the best. Get. Out. Or I will have you hauled out.”
He stomped over, no doubt to pick her up and toss her out himself.
Fleur backed away. “I am not going anywhere,” she said, pointing at the gleaming mahogany floor as she went. “Do you hear me. Any—” A hand closed around her arm with surprising strength.
Drawing back, Fleur gave a handsy clerk several wallops about his ears in rapid succession.
“Lady Fleur.”
She stilled.
She knew that voice. Too well, in fact. Knowing it at all would be too much.
The Duke of Hartwell.
Her heart sank and sank and sank, as did her arm at her side.
“I should have known you were the reason they were delaying me, my lady,” he said.
“You,” she seethed.
Turning, Fleur faced Hartwell. She instantly regretted her decision.
Because at that very moment, her displeasure earned his…which Fleur really did not care at all about. What she did care about was the way Hartwell’s broad back tightened. And how that tensing made the fabric of his coat pull. And how it emphasized solid, sculpted shoulders and bulging biceps.
And then, the strangest thing happened. That same organ that had fallen climbed too quickly from her belly and beat entirely too fast.
A navy blue wool tailcoat, brown waistcoat, and fawn, fall-front trousers favored the gentleman and his physique.
Granted, all people favored the all-mighty Duke of Hartwell; why should garments or, for that matter, any other material thing, be any different? Just as annoyed by that truth as she was at her breathless awareness of him, she glared him into oblivion.
“I should have known it was you, Hartwell.”
“Lady Fleur,” he bowed, because with his rigid restraint, he could control his temperament.
Hartwell turned to Mr. Rundell and proved she had given him too much credit. “As much as the chit deserves a rough handling, do not do so on my account,” he said. “We are, regretfully, connected by our families through marriage.”
Mr. Rundell shook his head. “Horrid.”
Fleur curled her fingers tightly around the handle of her reticule. How dare he speak so of her kin? And how dare Fleur want to slink to the corner and curl up?
“You cannot begin to gather the extent of it,” the duke muttered.
“…They are vulgar and crude, and those are not the worst grievances against them…”
Fleur swung her bag and thwacked Hartwell hard in the ear.
He cursed. Before he could react, she hit him again. This time, at the back of his head.
“You blasted harpy. Would you quit already?” He snatched the reticule from her fingers and tossed it across the shop.
Panic pounded in her breast.
Fleur raced to gather her things. Falling to her knees, she snatched her bag and peeked inside. Her heart settled somewhat when she found the little bit of gold still safely in her possession.
“You are a great big bully,” she said as composedly as she could after beating a duke and nearly losing her potential husband’s heirloom.
“I am the bully?” Hartwell snorted. “This from the same woman who doesn’t possess enough manners to leave after a proprietor asked her to and then proceeded to assault me with that unfortunate piece of millinery?”
“My bag is quite lovely,” she said, affronted. “And Mr. Rundell did not ask,” she glared up at him. “He told me.”
“That is his right as the proprietor.”
“And then he threatened me,” she said.
The duke briefly considered the nasty jeweler. She waited for Hartwell’s defense—and in vain.
“Probably with good reason.”
Last night’s hurt washed fresh over her, and she wanted to howl. “Furthermore, you deserved a beating for speaking so about my family and me as well as for your pomposity.”
Speaking of pomposity, Hartwell peered down at her and reminded her she was still at his feet.
Fleur attempted to stand. “You just close the shop to patrons because you feel like it, Your Grace?” Her slipper caught on her lacy hem and bows, and she effectively ruined that delivery.
“Yes.” Hartwell settled his enormous hands at her waist, spanning her, making her feel dainty, reminding her what a big man he was, and leaving her…breathless. “That is precisely what I did.”
He set her on her feet with a bothersome lack of the same awareness as she. “You heard Mr. Rundell. Run along.”
If she had a pistol, she would have shot the duke straight between his eyes—over his boorish behavior or the feelings his touch had roused, she knew not. Either way, they were both offenses worthy of a bullet.
In fact, Fleur looked about and assessed whether any of the cases contained a gun.
“Looking for a weapon, shrew?”
“Yes. A pistol, to be exact. Though I would settle for a dagger.”
Her eyes landed on a case at the far left corner of the shop that housed a gold knife with a rainbow-jeweled handle.
Hartwell stepped between her and the weapon and took her hard by the arm. “Do not even think about it.”
“I was thinking of purchasing it.”
He snorted. “Likely only after you used it to stab me.”
Fleur pressed her lips into a line.
“Nothing to say?”
“I recall from last evening that you have a preference for people lying to preserve your sensibilities. As a result, I feel it best not to say anything.”
“We can both take her, Your Grace,” the sullen-looking Mr. Rundell offered.
She beat Hartwell to a response. “You sound doubtful, Mr. Rundell—as you should.”
“As much as I regret to say, Rundell, we must heed the lady’s warning,” Hartwell wisely advised—and ruined it with his next breath. “She is a wayward thing.”
“I am strong-willed, Hartwell. Only a thin-skinned man would mistake strength for a flaw. But never tell me, you prefer ladies to be proper and biddable.” Not whorish and unseemly.
Which he would only see her as were he to discover the truth, were anyone to discover the truth. She hated the double standard they were held to, but hated even more that he had made her feel small in a different and terrible way.
Surprise sparked in Hartwell’s dark eyes. She awaited an apology or some kind of acknowledgement that in speaking the unforgiveable, he had been utterly deplorable last night.
She was destined to die holding her breath before Hartwell ever owned to a wrongdoing.
“I’ll fetch the constable,” Mr. Rundell said quietly.
And as he gave a signal to a pair of clerks, she knew this was the moment she had won.
She was not going anywhere.
Hartwell couldn’t very well let her be carted off to the magistrate. Oh, as much as he would love to send her on to Newgate, the scandal their families sought to put down would not allow—
The staff-turned-security nearly reached the front door when Fleur realized Hartwell was going to do nothing.
“Hartwell.” She swung her bag, catching him again at the back of his head.
The insufferable ox merely sighed like he’d been brushed by a gnat.
“As much as it would bring me great pleasure seeing the lady escorted off in cuffs, unfortunately, I must insist we not fetch the authorities, Rundell. It will set society’s tongues to wagging.”
“Mustn’t have people gossiping,” she muttered.
“I am stunned she even understands that, Mr. Rundell,” Hartwell said.
“Certainly, Your Grace. You are certain she is a relation.”
She and Hartwell spoke as one.
“He is not any relation to me.”
“Through marriage only.”
Not that either man paid her any attention.
“Barely at that,” she said, anyway.
They continued carrying on without her.
“My brother’s wife’s sister,” Hartwell explained.
“Ahh.”
She, who despised tears, found a whole well of them pressing against her eyes.
Her kin fell in love, made love, and married—at least, in some variation of that order.
All she was looking for was the identity of her mystery sweetheart.
She was a debutante, but she wasn’t na?ve.
It was nigh impossible to be when one had older sisters and female cousins to enlighten one on what happened between men and women in the bedchambers.
Or in Fleur’s case, against a bookshelf, in a peer’s library. In all her imagining she had never thought her first time would be against a rail shelf in a stranger’s household. Her regrets on that were minimal.
All Fleur wanted was to identify her ring and, thus, her mystery lover. The same way Hart had one of his goons fetch her from Lord Rutland’s and thwarted her from finding out the gentleman’s identity, he would do so again.
Fresh rage filled Fleur. Forget her reticule!
Hartwell stepped out the same time as her and thwarted her efforts.
“She won’t leave unless physical harm is done to her,” Hartwell said with a smile. if she hadn’t already herself stated as much. “As much as the idea holds appeal, I cannot bring myself to hurt a weaker creature.”
“Weaker?” A red haze fell over her vision. “I will show you weak.”
Taking her purse strings in both hands, she swung her bag better than any mallet and beat him about his broad shoulders.