by Amy Jarecki
“Exactly what, pray tell, is unfounded?” she asked.
“Not only White’s, but Westgate, the Royal Saloon, Cribbs Parlor, the Daffy Club—oh my heavens.”
Eleanor ground her molars while her fingers sunk into the padding on her armrests. Millward had just spewed the names of many of their best customers without so much as giving her any idea as to why. “Please speak your mind and tell me what has you hot under the collar this time.”
“They’re all complaining about late shipments.”
“My word, the only shipment that has been delayed is the tobacco and cognac for White’s.” At least thus far. And she’d told the chairman of White’s board his shipment had been delayed due to inclement weather. Furthermore, he’d been content with her explanation.
“Aye, but word has spread about the delay.” Millward reached inside his coat and pulled out a handful of correspondence. “Only this morning I received missives demanding to know if their deliveries would be on time.”
Eleanor snatched the letters from his grasp. “There are only three.”
Millward wiped a kerchief across his brow. “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if we received complaints from every last one of our customers in London in short order.”
She opened the missive from the Royal Saloon and read its contents. True to Millward’s word, the manager had asked if their orders would be arriving when expected—albeit the tone of the letter was congenial with no hint of panic. She perused the other two and found the same.
“Meanwhile,” Millward continued, moving to the edge of his chair. “A man named Mr. Kenrick came in asking some questions.”
“Kenrick?” she asked, unable to place the name. “What was the nature of his inquiry?”
“He said he was with the customs office and asked why Captain Townsend hadn’t declared duties on the Madeira shipment when the galleon was intercepted off Sheerness.”
An icy chill spread across Eleanor’s nape. Who was this Kenrick? She knew the names of most of the customs officials, including who could be bought and who could not. But she didn’t know a single man who would scoff because of the exorbitant duties Lion’s had paid upon offloading the goods in the Pool of London. “I suppose it isn’t completely odd to have an official ask about the duties. Have you seen him since he inquired about the Madeira shipment?”
“Once, miss. He was on the footpath when I was leaving the shop a few nights ago. A very intimidating sort he is.”
“Blast,” she cursed under her breath. Eleanor needed to find out who this interloper was and what he was up to. “I do not want you to engage in any further conversation with that man. If he approaches you again, just be yourself and tell him to sod off.”
Millward gulped. “Sod off, miss?”
“You know what I mean. Kindly tell this Kenrick chap to mind his own affairs.”
“But what if he persists?”
“Then tell him you are a legitimate importer, that Lion’s has most likely been in the importing business since before he was born, our paperwork is impeccable, and has the esteemed backing of the Viscount of Lisle.” Eleanor pushed to her feet. “And that is all you should say. Anyway, they can pin nothing on us. I imagine the fellow won’t bother you again.”
Millward rose as well, wringing his hands again. “Very well. How would you like me to respond to those missives?”
Eleanor slapped the letters against her palm. “Let me handle these. The Duke and Duchess of Evesham are holding a private ball one week hence and I highly suspect the chairman from White’s board of directors will be there, as well as the officials from the other establishments’ boards. If I’ve learned nothing else, the best way to nip rumors in the bud is to appeal directly to those who make the big decisions, not their underlings.”
“Wise of you,” Millward said as he moved to the entry and collected his hat and coat from Weston. “You always amaze me, Miss Kent.”
“Why is that?”
“Nothing seems to unnerve you—very unusual for a woman, might I add.”
She merely smiled. If only he knew of the storms that oft brewed beneath her well-schooled, calm demeanor.
Chapter Eight
Sher had promised his mother to make an appearance at Evesham’s ball, but he hadn’t promised to be timely or to stay longer than a quarter of an hour. Though he checked his great coat and hat at the door, doing so seemed hardly necessary. God’s oath he was tired. Workmen had taken over his bedchamber and he’d temporarily moved into the guest room where even the slightest street noise roused him. Not to mention the bed sagged, was lumpy, and had caused an insufferable pain in his neck.
“Danby!” exclaimed the Baroness of Derby as she stepped into the hall. “What a surprise to see you here.”
Fortunately, the woman was the mother of the hostess and, as far as Sher knew, she had no more daughters to marry off. He bowed respectfully. “My Lady, you look lovely this evening.” He quickly moved on before she decided to introduce him to any number of eager-eyed young heiresses.
Fans opened while heads snapped together behind them, followed by irritating giggles from the newly out. Year after year, every ball was the same. As far as Sher was concerned, the only good thing about marriage was the fact that once he was betrothed, he’d no longer be seen as eligible, and thus the tittering vultures would leave him alone.
“Duke,” said Lady Essex, hastening beside him. “You absolutely must meet my Priscilla.”
He stopped and forced himself not to yawn. “Must I?”
The red-faced young heiress appeared to be absolutely mortified as her mother pulled her in front of him. Bone thin, Priscilla kept her gaze lowered and offered a hasty curtsey. “Your Grace.”
Sher bowed, damned if he was going to kiss her hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady.”
He was on a mission to locate the sanctity of the card room—at least until a splay of auburn hair topped by a flamboyant spray of ostrich feathers caught his eye. Miss Eleanor Kent was dancing with the elderly Earl of Brixham, and they appeared to be riveted by conversation. Brixham was the chairman of the board at White’s and one of the few men Sher knew who was happily married.
Was Miss Kent undertaking a decorating project for the Earl? Most likely, given their chattering.
All thoughts of fatigue vanished. The woman was nothing short of divine—shaped like the hourglass in his library at Rawcliffe Castle. She wore a gown of fashionable muslin, but there was nothing simple about it. It fit her like a glove, as if her modiste had sewn the dress with the lady in it. Was it possible to paint the bodice over her breasts? How did the contraption manage to stay up, let alone cover her nipples?
As the dance came to an end, Sher craned his neck just to see if those colorful beauties would pop out. But in defiance of the laws of gravity, the muslin moved not a fraction of an inch.
Astonishing.
With the applause, Sher found himself directly behind the beauty. When had he started moving? Onto a dance floor? Good Lord, the woman had bewitched him for certain.
“Ah, Danby,” said Brixham. “Have you signed Miss Kent’s dance card for the next set? I believe it is a waltz.”
“I have.”
As soon as she turned and spotted him, the lady’s face colored. “You?”
Sher took her hand and applied a well-practiced kiss. “Hardly a way to greet a duke, Miss Kent.”
The corners of her eyes crinkled. “But what are you doing here? Your Grace.”
He looked from wall to wall. “Dancing.”
“You’re not one to attend balls.”
“As I recall, neither are you—at least not those held at Almack’s.”
She gave him a dry look as she produced her dance card from a delicate sleeve. “I do believe the next set has been promised to Evesham.”
Danby tapped the paper with his pointer finger, noticing the signatures were all those of married men, and not a one renowned for womanizing. “For a lady who doesn
’t care for dancing, you are quite popular.”
“I do not recall I’ve ever mentioned a dislike for dancing. I merely dislike the posturing that goes along with balls.”
“I see.” Sher took the card and stuffed it into his pocket. “Not to worry. I’ll give Evesham your regrets.”
As the words left his mouth, the duke in question stepped beside them with his duchess on his arm—a very good friend of Eleanor’s, as Sher recalled. “Ah, we were just talking about you,” said the minx.
A crease formed between the man’s brows as his gaze shifted to Eleanor. “All good, I hope?”
“For the most part,” Sher said before the lady could interject. “But it seems you have claimed the waltz. Would you mind terribly if I stepped in on this set?”
Eleanor bit her bottom lip.
“Not at all.” Evesham glanced at his spouse, his eyes filling with adoration. “This gives me an opportunity to dance with my beautiful wife for the first time this evening.”
As the couple departed, Sher offered his hand. “Shall we?”
Saying nothing, Eleanor placed her gloved fingers in his palm. Her warmth seeped through the kid leather, the back embellished with hundreds of tiny beads swirling in a pattern of leaves and rosebuds. He twirled her into place, letting one hand rest upon her waist, the arc of it so very feminine. Leaning in, he sampled her perfume—light with an exquisite orange overtone, and most intoxicating.
In fact, Sher could find nothing about Eleanor’s presentation or her form that was not exquisite and meticulously crafted. Though tall for a woman, her height suited him ideally.
“The hall is lovely this evening,” she said, her gaze shifting upward until her luminous blue eyes met his.
Dear God, when he stared into those eyes, it was as if time stopped. As if they had been transported to another place where they were the only two people in existence. “Lovely,” he mumbled, not caring a whit about the hall.
As the music began, Eleanor effortlessly followed his lead.
Sher allowed the corners of his mouth to turn up as he pulled the beauty a bit closer than decorum allowed. “You were right, you are quite an accomplished dancer.”
“I do not recall boasting, Your Grace.”
“Call me Sher.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Only my mother uses Sherborn. My friends call me Sher.”
“Very well. Though I’m not certain we ought to be on a first-name basis.”
“Whyever not?”
“Because you have engaged me as your chinoiserie consultant.”
“Ah, that.” With a blink he realized the annoying pain in his neck had vanished.
“And I’m afraid to say importers across Britain are fresh out of Mandarin chancellors.”
Sher bit the inside of his cheek. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about the damn statue. Insisting upon having one was merely a way to catch her red-handed—or catch her scheming butler and footman. Though Millward had been ruled out since Mr. Kenrick’s investigation appeared to have turned into a red herring.
“However,” she continued. “I have spoken to an artist who does fabulous work. He’s willing to take a commission to create a replica so exact no one will be able to discern the difference.”
“No one but me.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line while a bit of spark flashed in her eyes. “I believe you are trying to…”
Curious, Sher tightened his grip on her waist and inclined his lips toward the lady’s ear. “Hmm?”
“Forgive me,” she said. “Perhaps I was wrong to agree to consult on your remodel.”
“Not at all.” Sensing she was about to wash her hands of the entire project, he tried a different tack, “Something tells me you aren’t one to let a few inconveniences stand in your way.”
“I most definitely am not. Though I might be more successful if I were to take another trip to Constantinople—or China, for that matter. Tell me, Duke, would you be willing to finance the voyage if I promised to return with your coveted statue?”
Good Lord, she’d called his bluff. Pay for a voyage for a bloody statue? “Not necessary. I’m sure if you try harder, you’ll be able to find one.”
“You are persistent, are you not?”
“When was your last trip to Constantinople?” At least he’d learned about her voyage from Kenrick. The man had taken it upon himself to travel to Brighton and drum up a conversation with the chap who worked on the pavilion’s additions. Evidently, Eleanor purchased a number of items for the gallery in the Ottoman state.
“Some years ago.”
“I take it you did not sail into the Pool of London upon your return?”
She narrowed her eyes as if she knew exactly what he was trying to do. But the music ended before she replied. Stepping back, the lovely curtseyed. “Your Grace.”
“Eleanor,” he said, letting her first name lazily roll across his tongue.
A single eyebrow arched as she gave him a leer—one that said far more than she could possibly utter within the blink of an eye. It was an expression that said do not cross me, do not grow too familiar and, most of all, do mind your own affairs.
Never in all his days had a woman flabbergasted him with a mere arch of an eyebrow. Aside from Miss Kent, every unwed female in this ballroom would sell her firstborn to win his attentions. Which was exactly what made them unappealing. On the contrary, the lady’s rebuff made Eleanor the most enticing woman in England.
The problem? She turned on her heel, locked arms with the Duchess of Evesham, and headed directly to the women’s withdrawing room.
Thank heavens Georgiana was nearby at the conclusion of the waltz. Eleanor’s head spun, her skin was afire, and her knees had grown ridiculously unstable. She had managed to survive seven and twenty years without allowing a man to discombobulate her. Why was it every time she saw Danby, he managed to do just that? She fanned her face and tightened her grip on her friend’s arm. “Why are you taking me to the lady’s withdrawing room? Anything we say in there will be in the morning’s gossip columns.”
She had known Georgiana since childhood and they had been inseparable friends until Her Grace had married the love of her life, a poor inventor. Unfortunately, the chap had met with an untimely accident, after which, Georgiana returned to London and, by a stroke of luck, she fell in love with the Duke of Evesham, one of the wealthiest men in Britain.
Waggling her eyebrows, the duchess pulled a key from the cleft of her cleavage. “Follow me.”
Eleanor chuckled as they skirted past the withdrawing room to an ingress where Georgiana unlocked the door to a small sitting room with ornate rococo panels, each painted with carefree ladies dancing in Grecian robes. A small fire crackled in the hearth. “It looks as if you were planning this.”
Georgiana pulled her to a settee. “Are you jesting? I loathe balls if you do not recall.”
Eleanor remembered very well hosting dancing lessons with an actor from Covent Garden to help Georgiana cope with the demands of the Season. “Then why host one?”
“What better way to rub elbows with London’s elite?” Her Grace patted Eleanor’s hand. “You taught me that.”
“I did, and how is the fire pumper project?”
“Absolutely fabulous. The factory is producing one per fortnight now.”
“Oh, my heavens, that is amazing.” Eleanor opened her fan and gave her face one last cooling. Now that they were away from the crowd, the rhythm of her heart had settled. “Do you need anything from me?”
“I think we have the lines of supply running smoothly but if anything should go awry, I know where to turn.”
“Wonderful. Being under Danby’s scrutiny has made things rather troublesome, anyway.”
“Danby?” Georgiana pulled over a footstool and propped her feet atop it. “I was surprised to see you dancing with the duke. He doesn’t seem your type.”
Perhaps Eleanor’s heartbeat wasn’t quite back to normal. Type? W
hat on earth was her type? “Oh? Why would you say that?”
“Because you prefer anyone who desperately needs your imports, otherwise he’s of no use to you. After all, everyone knows the duke is fast allies with the prime minister.”
Eleanor filled her cheeks with air and released it noisily. “Do not remind me. Our paths crossed in Brighton at one of Prinny’s dinners and the man has been hovering ever since. I’m afraid he’s either going to ruin me or drive me into retirement.”
“Ruined by a duke? I attest, the idea has its merits, my dear.”
Eleanor looked to the cherubs above, silently pleading for their intervention. “Please.”
“Ah well.” Georgiana chuckled. “In all seriousness, can you not do something to dissuade him?”
“What? Beg Prinny to intervene?”
“If Danby is badgering you, then I say yes. After all, the prince can be blamed for the duke’s sudden curiosity, I assume. You did supply his Brighton palace with unfounded chinoiserie rich enough for five kings.”
“Hush.” Even though they were alone and her friend had locked the door behind them, Eleanor glanced over her shoulder. “Who knows, His Grace may have spies about.”
“I assure you, not in here.” Georgiana grasped Eleanor’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “How is your father, dearest?”
“Making progress, I do believe.” Thanks to the Duke of Danby. Eleanor looked to the plaster relief on the ceiling and the painting of three cherubs in the center. “He’s responding a little.”
“Oh, my.” Georgiana clasped her hands. “That is wonderful news.”
“It is. But enough talk about me. How long do you and Evesham plan to stay in London?”
“No longer than necessary. The ball was to help the factory’s overseer to establish the right connections. Once my husband is happy that task is accomplished, we’re heading back to the country. I do hope you’ll visit us soon. I miss you ever so.”