Chapter 2 #2
“Sir! That is mine!” I called out. But it was too late. He was already flipping through the pages, the hint of a smile on his lips, as if he found my drawings amusing. My heart thundered in my ears, and, without thinking, I rushed forward and yanked the portfolio out of his hands.
He stared at me, surprised.
I cleared my throat and attempted a well-mannered smile. “What I meant to say is… thank you for finding that, sir. I must have dropped it.”
He searched my face, sending a flutter of heat up my neck.
He was even more handsome up close. The sun had touched his skin, warming his complexion, and the stubble along his jaw was unexpectedly appealing.
But it was his eyes—a striking green, like summer grass—that drew me in most. They crinkled at the corners, as if he laughed often.
In fact, he was handsome enough that, if I weren’t in dire circumstances, I would have added him to my list of suitors on mere looks alone and—
I realized with a jolt that I was staring.
But before I could compose myself, he stuck his hand out between us. “Edmond Hawke.”
“Excuse me?”
“My name. It’s Edmond Hawke.” He kept his hand out, as if he expected me to shake it. Who did he think I was, a gentleman at the club?
I ignored the gesture and said, “So, we meet again.”
He tilted his head to the side. “Have we met before?”
Surely he hadn’t forgotten.
“Not officially,” I said. “But we have seen each other before.”
“We have?” He swallowed and lowered his hand. “When?”
“Yesterday.”
He blinked. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure. In Grosvenor Square.”
“I—I don’t believe I went to Grosvenor Square yesterday.”
Unbelievable. Was he trying to cover up his offense? Heat rose in my chest, but I willed it down. I was in public and could not allow myself to be unsettled by this man’s selective memory.
“I must be mistaken,” I said, my tone brusque. “Perhaps I saw another man with an identical gold chain and a brown, double-breasted coat with brass buttons.”
He glanced down at his tell-tale coat, then rubbed a hand along his jaw. “Ah, I suppose I do recall being there… briefly.”
“It was quite brief, wasn’t it? As soon as you saw me, you ran away with remarkable speed.” The accusing words stumbled out of me before I could think better of it.
Mr. Hawke drew back. “I assure you, miss, I did not intend any offense. I just—I simply remembered that I was late to a meeting.”
If Mrs. Sweete were here, she’d respond with a “Hmm.” This man was lying, I was sure of it. But why?
Come now, Helena. Behave yourself. What did it matter if he recoiled? I should’ve let the matter rest, but I found myself infuriated by his reluctance to admit the truth.
Perhaps I could coax it out of him.
“It’s unusual to see a man at the modiste,” I said, picking up a ribbon and twirling it between my fingers with a coy grin. “You aren’t following me, are you?”
“Following you?” he sputtered. “Absolutely not! I’m only here to pick up an order.”
“Really?” I set the ribbon down. “Pray tell, what color dress did you choose for yourself, burgundy or dove gray?”
He arched his brow. “It isn’t for me.”
“Your sister then?”
“I don’t have a sister.”
“Your wife?”
“No, definitely not her.”
“And why not her?”
He grinned. “Because I don’t have a wife.”
I opened my mouth, then promptly snapped it shut. He likely thought my questioning was a girlish attempt to learn if he was eligible—something Sybella would do. Goodness, why was I so poorly equipped in this man’s presence?
I narrowed my eyes and studied him, hoping to find the answer scrawled across his amused features.
But the more I looked, the more puzzled I was.
His boots were spotless, without a single scuff, as if he were wearing them for the first time.
His cravat was crooked, and his gold watch chain hung too low on his waistcoat.
Everything he wore was of the highest quality, and yet none of it fit quite right. In fact, he did not fit quite right.
I plastered on a polite smile. This was a waste of my valuable time. I had better things to do than embarrassing myself in front of strange men.
“Well, I do hope that whoever you give it to doesn’t recoil upon seeing it.” I gave a curt dip of my head. “Good day, sir.”
I strode across the shop and picked up another ribbon to examine, hoping Mr. Hawke would leave before he unsettled me further. I was not so fortunate.
“Are you sure you want to purchase that ribbon?” he asked from behind me.
I turned to find him leaning against the display shelf, arms crossed over his broad chest and mischief glinting in his eyes.
“You are following me, aren’t you?”
He held up his hands, as if in surrender. “I’m only helping you avoid a bad purchase.”
“Are you insinuating I have poor taste in ribbons?”
“It’s not your taste that’s of poor quality. It’s the ribbon itself.”
I scoffed. “This silk is from Pescia. It’s the finest silk one can buy.”
“That silk is not from Pescia.” He leaned forward, his face inches from mine. I startled, ready to protest his untoward behavior. But he was only reaching for the shelf behind me. He grabbed a scarlet ribbon and held it out. “If I were you, I’d purchase this one. It’s real Italian silk.”
I gritted my teeth. “I think I know my silks.”
“I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. But that doesn’t change the fact that your ribbon is fake.”
Enough of this. I waved down the modiste. “If you’re so sure, Mr. Hawke, then how about we make a wager? Two shillings I’m right.”
“There’s no need—”
“Then you admit you’re wrong about the silk?”
His lips pressed into a flat line just as the modiste appeared at my side.
“May I help you?” she asked, glancing between us.
“This,” I handed her my ribbon, “is from Pescia, correct?”
“Oh, yes! We just got it last week. You have an excellent eye, miss.”
I tossed Mr. Hawke a victorious look.
“Pardon me, ma’am,” he said, “but this silk cannot possibly be from Pescia.”
The modiste’s smile wavered. “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
He tapped the ribbon’s label. “Giordano Pullano. He closed his shop five years ago because of disrupted trade routes during the war. It never reopened.”
“W-what?” the modiste stammered.
Mr. Hawke gave an insufferable shrug. “It was reported in The Gazette. August 14th, in the year 1810. Page three. I could locate the article as proof, if you wish.”
I frowned. He just so happened to remember a specific article from five years ago? I highly doubted that.
Mr. Hawke leaned toward the modiste. “I recommend correcting your labels. It wouldn’t be good for business if people found out your merchandise was… substandard.”
The modiste blanched. “It—it must have been my shop girl. She’s always making mistakes. I’ll see it fixed right away. Please, allow me to wrap up the ribbon you’re holding as a gift to make amends.”
“That’s very kind of you, ma’am.” Mr. Hawke held the ribbon out to me with a confident tilt to his head. “Take it. It’s yours.”
“No, thank you,” I snapped. “I just remembered I have an entire chest of ribbons at home.”
“Very well. And, um—” He scratched his jaw. “Regarding the wager—I’m perfectly content to let the matter rest.”
“How magnanimous of you.” I fished out two shillings. “But I insist.”
“I couldn’t possibly accept.”
“Take the coins.”
“I must refuse.”
I firmly placed the two shillings on the shelf next to him. “Take them or leave them. I don’t care. Now, I wish you a good day, sir.”
I turned to leave, but he quickly said, “It’s for my mother.”
“What?”
“The dress order. You asked who it was for. It’s a gift for my mother.”
Before I could even sputter a response, he swept the coins into his pocket, then bowed and walked over to the modiste to collect his order. I blew an angry breath out of my nose and stormed behind fabric shelves, hiding there until the blessed chime marked his exit.
What in heaven’s name had come over me? Had I really allowed a man of all creatures to unsettle me so? The Art of War taught me to never swallow bait offered by the enemy, and yet I had let Mr. Hawke feed me a three-course meal of humiliation.
The bell chimed once more, and Mrs. Sweete joined me at the counter.
“The Pratts are purchasing not one but three pairs of gloves,” she reported. “They will return shortly.”
“Then we must make our escape swiftly, Lieutenant Sweete.”
“Lieutenant?”
“Never mind.” I turned to the modiste to pay my fee, then spotted the scarlet ribbon made of real Italian silk on the counter.
“That gentleman forgot his ribbon,” I said, my tone making it clear I thought him anything but a gentleman.
The modiste hesitated. “He didn’t forget, miss. He told me to give it to you. He left these as well.”
She held out two shillings.
My jaw clenched shut. “That vile scoundrel.”
The modiste offered a nervous smile. “Should I wrap it for you, miss?”
“Absolutely not!” I said just as Mrs. Sweete said, “Yes, please.”
I spun to my chaperone, betrayed, but Mrs. Sweete placed a calming hand on my shoulder. “It’s the finest ribbon in the shop, and men always flock to you when you wear red. It’d be a loss not to use it to your advantage.”
My pride urged me to refuse the gift. The scarlet ribbon was beautiful, but it was also an insult.
As much as I despised the thought of accepting it, I couldn’t help but think of the French taffeta that was supposed to be mine, and how it would belong to Sybella instead.
This entire season was supposed to be mine, and now it was nothing more than a mad race for survival.
Suddenly, the ribbon felt less like an insult and more like a challenge.
“No need to wrap it.” I shoved the ribbon and the two shillings into my reticule. I paid the sum owed, then left the shop with my head held high.
Once we were seated inside our carriage, Mrs. Sweete pulled out her needlework and asked, “Who gave you that ribbon? Was it the man I saw leaving the modiste?”
I tossed my reticule containing the ribbon onto the bench. “He’s no one worth mentioning.”
“He was quite handsome, was he not?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Hmm.”
I sighed. Yes, Mrs. Sweete always spotted a lie.