Chapter 11
“Opinions are made to be changed or how is truth to be got at?”
Lord Byron
The same attendants who had readied the shop for morning opening flooded the floors. Each servant was matched in black wool uniforms. Each man fell to a spot that had been clearly designated as their own.
Wide-eyed, Fleur took in the velvet-lined trays set down. The lit crystal sconces, silver candelabras, and sun rays streaming through the crack amid the curtains left the shop awash in a kaleidoscope of hues.
Fleur held her palms up and watched the sparkles dance from the exposed parts of her palms. Needing to see the collage of color upon her bare skin, she shed her gloves, let them fall, then brought her hands back up.
Dazzled, Fleur’s lips slipped open, and as she turned a full pirouette in slow motion, a sigh slipped out.
“I thought you found sparkly frippery unworthy of your notice.”
“It is not the jewels,” she breathed. “Look at the beauty they make with the light.”
Prisms played from her fingers, and she moved those radiant shimmers of light about her and brought warmth within.
“It is like I’ve stepped into a rainbow,” she whispered.
She had a sudden, delicate prickling of awareness. Pleasurable tingles cascaded down her back.
Fleur stopped her turn and came face to face with Henry.
His dark, enigmatic stare flamed with intensity.
The younger Mr. Rundell shattered the spellbinding moment. “Your Grace?”
They both started.
“If we might begin with our first pieces for your consideration, Your Grace.”
Did she imagine Henry’s reluctance while he walked away? What reason would he have to be reticent? Why should she?
She wasn’t. At all.
With Henry distracted by the emerald, she caught Mr. Rundell checking his watch.
Crotchety, but clever as they came in business, a gentleman like the esteemed silversmith would stay long enough to please a patron of the Duke of Hartwell’s stature, and then hie it out as swiftly as possible.
Gathering her skirts at the sides, she hastened after the one person who could most definitely help her. “Mr. Rundell?”
She felt Henry’s stare, but the attendant interrupted, pulling the duke’s attention away and leaving Fleur to escape.
When she reached the illustrious goldsmith and silversmith, she favored him with a smile. “You might recall, sir, I came in search of your assistance.”
“How can I forget?” he mumbled. “I nearly had to call the constable.”
Fleur leaned up and made him her conspirator. “Mr. Rundell,” she murmured, “you and I both know His Grace was never going to have the constable summoned.”
“I referred to myself.”
Wrinkling her nose, Fleur sank back onto her heels. She brightened. “You wouldn’t have either.”
“We will never know,” he said deadpan, in what was certainly the closest the King’s jeweler got to humor. “What do you think I can help you with?”
“I know you can.”
Henry’s exchange carried on in the background.
“…This one is particularly fine, Your Grace…”
Fleur peeked in Henry’s direction. With him fully absorbed, she went on to explain. “I have come across a piece of significance and will not trust it to anyone’s hands but yours.”
“…pink topaz and chrysoberyl…Your Grace…Your Grace…?”
Her nape prickled.
She found Henry blatantly taking in her exchange with Mr. Rundell. Per his usual, he wore a scowl.
The Duke of Hartwell and Mr. Rundell. The two should go into business together.
“…Your Grace…?”
Saved, by the handsome young jeweler attending Henry! She tucked her arm into Mr. Rundell’s, guiding him toward the back of the shop for privacy.
“A woman of your beauty must be accustomed to getting what you want, my lady.”
“On the contrary. I am one of six siblings and accustomed to doing what must be done to get anyone’s attention.”
A reluctant smile broke across Mr. Rundell’s wizened cheeks. “I don’t believe that.”
“You should. If you met any members of my family, you would understa—”
“I have reached my limit on chitchat, my lady,” he interrupted. “What can I do for you?”
As they passed her reticule, Fleur didn’t miss a beat. She snatched it up and followed him into his offices.
Out of earshot, she rushed to explain. “I found a piece of jewelry—a ring.” Peeking over her shoulder, she made sure Henry was still busy with his work.
He was.
She didn’t have much time.
“Let us see it then.” Mr. Rundell stepped into his office. He found his way to a sloppy worktable, littered with papers, folders, and files. The surface sat with a spare space only a foot wide, and a crimson-velvet tray at its middle. “What are you wanting me to do with this piece, Lady Fleur?”
Fleur tore herself away from where Hart currently discussed options for the new Tremaine betrothal jewelry to join Mr. Rundell. “I’m trying to identify the signet so that I might return it to its rightful wearer. I was unable to make out the crest.”
Her fingers found the ring she had kept close all these months. It radiated the same mystifying warmth as when it had fallen from his finger at Lord Rutland’s. She unfurled her fist and stared unblinkingly at the ancient gold piece.
In minutes, she would have an answer to the question that had haunted her for months and kept her from sleep.
She would have a name, his name. That dark stranger she gave herself to, who’d rasped his praise for her beauty—which had been silly as she’d been in a mask, and he couldn’t have hailed her as the goddess he had with any truth—and entranced her with romantic verse uttered in his low, rough baritone, which had melted her as much as his touch.
She had thought of him a great deal less.
Maybe that’s why the whole time she examined the heavy ring, she attended Henry’s business. Having been shown to the middle of the floor, his discussion carried through the quiet of the shop and back to Fleur.
“…A fine repousse setting, Your Grace”
Repousse? That would not do.
Fleur hurried outside. “Henry?”
His scathing glower did not disappoint.
“What?”
“You do not want that ring for your future duchess.”
The rigid line of his lips, the angle of his obdurate jaw, clearly said he didn’t want to ask her the “why” question.
“And why not?”
“It contains pink topaz,” Fleur said.
Henry closed his eyes and moved his lips silently. Fleur squinted. Was he counting or curs—?
“And what is the problem with pink topaz?”
Fleur shook her head. “Oh, there’s no problem with it. It’s truly a lovely stone.” She called over to the younger Mr. Rundell. “Isn’t it, Mr…?”
“Most lovel—”
“Fleur, I’m going to haul you from the shop and turn you over to the constable myself if you don’t finish the bloody thought!” Henry managed to bellow all that in a single breath.
Wide-eyed, Fleur took in his heightened color. Why, a shade of red to rival the elder Mr. Rundell’s earlier. She feared she was sending Linnie’s brother-in-law into an apoplexy.
She hurried to deliver his edification. “The pink topaz represents love and affection.”
Henry closed his eyes. When he opened them, he did so and spoke with his usual calm. “Wouldn’t that make it the ideal stone?”
“Yes, it would…for a man who believes in love and affection, which you do not. It wouldn’t be fair to the young lady, giving her something you don’t feel or mean.”
Silence met her pronouncement.
Henry clasped his large hands at his back. To keep from strangling her? she wondered.
Fleur sighed. This friendship with the Duke of Hartwell was already proving work. But then all relationships were.
“Fleur?” he asked silkily.
“Yes, Henry.”
“I suggest you return to your business and let me see to mine.”
She brightened. “Splendid idea! After I finish with Mr. Rundell, I promise I’ll help you.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he called after her retreating form.
“Don’t be silly. It will be no trouble.”
Henry mumbled something suspiciously close to “Everything with you is trouble…”
“My apologies,” she said when she returned her attention to Mr. Rundell’s desk. “Where was I?”
“Leaving?”
“Oh, that is right. As I was saying, even if I am able to make out the crest, there is no saying I know its wearer. It can belong to anybody. But by the weight of gold—”
“My lady, are you looking to do my job for me once more?” He held his hand out and snapped the four fingers loudly against his palm.
Her heart pounded hard against her breast.
This was the moment she had been waiting for. Maybe that was why she couldn’t move.
“Lady Fleur, you had best move quickly.” He tapped his timepiece.
Fleur opened her fingers and laid the heavy gold ring before him.
Mr. Rundell studied the piece. In hushed tones, Fleur explained that she had come upon it and needed to learn the wearer’s identity.
Then, with the same efficiency Mr. Ferrier, their family farrier in Scotland, trimmed, balanced, and filed shoes to the horse’s hooves, the King’s silversmith removed a collection of covered jars, cloths, set them out, and cleaned in silence.
Henry’s conversation with the younger silversmith filtered into the workspace.
“…Perhaps an emerald…”
Hearing Henry select a stone rather than having someone else suggest one should fill her with happiness. After all, she was the one currently instructing him on matters of love, friendship, and marriage, and his newfound efforts indicated he was actually thinking about his future bride.
“What an exquisite choice, Your Grace…the emerald denotes eternal love, wisdom, and fertility…”
It was on the tip of her bitter-tasting, petty tongue to point out Henry only cared about the latter from his bride.
“Well, my lady…”
Fleur jumped.
“I am afraid the signet has significant wear.” Mr. Rundell set his instruments down.
“The quality and intricate craftsmanship of the crest suggest it belongs to a man of considerable wealth and power.”
“Are you able to tell me his identity?” Her voice emerged husky to her own ears.
“I am.”
Why did her heart leap and not fall?
“I must complete a mold from wax. From that, I can consult Debrett’s and compare to…”