An expression of slight puzzlement printed itself on Lord Tiverton’s face. ‘I’m delighted to hear it.’
‘Of course you are,’ Conniston said. ‘We’ll all soon have our houses fashioned after Prinny’s Brighton extravaganza.’
For a moment Archibald was unsure Lord Conniston considered that to be an advantage. He pushed the thought away. ‘I hope we may have the honour of seeing you and your good ladies at the opening on Wednesday?’
Tiverton was in no doubt as to his wife’s response to the invitation. Conniston, however, was married to a woman of more charitable disposition. ‘I am sure Lady Conniston will be pleased to attend,’ he said. ‘I shall bring her myself.’
‘Most kind, my lord. Most kind. Now, you’ll take some more wine?’
Tiverton leant back in the red leather armchair. ‘I must say you’ve settled yourself very pleasantly, Neave. I’d no idea that Cits did themselves so well.’ He imbibed a large mouthful of Madeira. ‘A bit strange to see that church and temple place so close together though. Especially after the prison.’
Archibald and Conniston exchanged glances. ‘I believe you refer to St Paul’s cathedral and the Bank of England Company,’ the Earl explained. ‘If you recall, we came down Newgate Street and Cheapside.’
‘Did we? Well I dare say we did. I’ve never been to the City before.’ The faintest of recollections of a youthful visit to an establishment of dubious reputation that had once occupied a house not too far away entered his mind. He cleared his throat. Replacing his glass on the desk, he lifted he ample rear from the chair. ‘I think we’re finished, are we not?’
‘Not quite, my lord.’ Archibald opened the leather folder in front of him. ‘If you remember, my lord, you offered to extend the lease and guarantee my stay.’ He swivelled the blue leather folder squarely in front of Lord Tiverton. ‘Here is the agreement, my lord. It only requires your signature.’
Tiverton peered at the papers displayed. ‘Did I?’
‘I believe so,’ Conniston said. ‘When Mr Neave and his daughter visited Darnebrook Abbey.’
‘Ah, yes. Very well.’ Lord Tiverton subsided onto the red leather again.
Archibald lifted a nibbed pen. He flipped up the silver top of a cut glass inkwell at the front of the desk. Its position would inconvenience Lord Tiverton’s reach. Archibald moved it aside and dipped the pen into the tiny reservoir.
Tiverton took it and scribbled his title at the bottom of the page. Two large drops of ink landed beside the scrawl. Archibald grabbed a half-moon blotter and rocked it backwards and forwards over the paper. Tiverton pushed the folder away. ‘That’s done then.’ He pushed himself out of the armchair. ‘What say you to luncheon at the club? I could fancy a side of mutton.’
Archibald put his hands on the arms of his chair ready to rise.
Lord Tiverton turned. ‘No doubt we’ll see you at your shopping place, Neave.’ He nodded and processed towards the door.
Conniston bowed to their host. ‘Good day, sir. I’ll be sure Lady Conniston is one of your first customers.’
Archibald rose and half bowed. He escorted his guests to the door, yelled for Wixhill to escort their lordships to their carriage and shut the door firmly behind them. Sinking back into his chair, he opened the folder and smiled. The deal had been a good one. A very good one indeed. Beside that, sharing a side of mutton was not worthy of an instant’s regret.
Chapter Ten
Arranging and stocking his two new emporia had cost Archibald Neave a dizzying amount of money. He expected the grand opening to cost him a considerable amount more, possibly permanently. His bankers had made it stunningly clear to him that, unlike his business associates, the nobility were notorious for living on credit. When it came to paying their bills, noblesse oblige did not come into it at all. Not unless it was a gambling debt. Paying for clothes, furnishings and everything else barely troubled anyone’s conscience.
Nevertheless Archibald was undeterred. His scheme would offer a whole new way of obliging the noblesse. That, he hoped, would lead to the influx of hordes of the more financially considerate middle classes. Where the ton went, the eager new rich followed.
Years of importing goods from east and west only to see middle men make the major profits were, as far as he was concerned, over. From now on, the items he imported would only be available from his own establishments. Exclusively from his own establishments. And he intended them to be very exclusive. He also intended to nurture his customers in much the same way as he had nurtured his daughter. That is to say, by supplying their every need. The four main floors of the two buildings he had leased and rearranged – one for gentlemen and one for ladies – would stock all that his customers could possibly require, except for snuff and jewellery. Even those might appear later.
Araminta had been too occupied by Miss Orksville’s lessons or engrossed in Pegasus to follow her father’s achievements. His progress, however, had not been overlooked by Wilhelmina. More than once her advice had alerted him to an issue he had not previously considered. She it was who suggested a way of bringing the new venture to the attention of the ton. As a result he had placed advertisements on the front page of The Times that were four times larger than any others. He, however, was proud of his own idea for alerting the town to his emporia. A small army of men, old soldiers to the last, had walked the most fashionable streets with hoardings slung around their necks, back and front. Elegant script had declared the advent of a new, more convenient way to purchase the latest fashions in both apparel and items for the house. The men were not dressed in such remnants of their old uniforms they still possessed. Archibald had seen the effect battles had on garments. That would never do. No. Each man was garbed in a simple livery of bottle green jacket and dark pantaloons. A top hat braided round the brim and beribboned round the crown with brilliant yellow bands completed the outfit.
Today only half of them still paraded the streets. The rest were lined up either side of the pair of newly-painted double doors, lavender for the ladies, green for the men. Their orders were to hurry forward to help every potential customer alight from their carriage or dismount from their horse. Two sweepers armed with besoms stood with them, ready to sweep clean the lengths of red carpet that ran from the kerb to the doors.
Dressed today with exceptional care, Archibald crossed his fingers behind his back and prayed it did not rain. By the time the wide doors were flung open at eleven in the morning he was happy. A small crowd was hovering outside. Some were pretending disinterest. Others were breathing on the windowpanes so keen were they to see the goods enticingly arranged within.
The first customers did not deign to rush in. This was only to be expected of such superior personages. Nevertheless, a gratifyingly constant steam of ladies entered through the Ladies’ Emporium’s lavender doors. The stream of gentlemen ambling through the dark green ones was somewhat smaller.
True to her husband’s promise, the Countess of Conniston was among the first to alight from her carriage. Smiling her thanks to the green-clad man who assisted her, she entered the shop and looked about her. A row of young women fetchingly attired in pale green gowns with yellow ribbons at the neck, stood in a line near the door. The nearest of them curtseyed.
‘May I help you, ma’am?’
‘I really cannot say,’ Rowena answered.
She surveyed the scene again. A spacious area near the door had been left clear apart from two displays. In the nearer one, three lengths of embroidered silk were draped over a chaise longue of lavender damask. Miss Orksville had chosen their colours. Chinese yellow, rose and pomona. She had even herself draped a white satin ribbon across them and clipped onto it birds of paradise plumes the like of which London had never seen. The result was stunning. So was the display flowing over a polished table next to it. It was specifically designed to temp the ladies further inside. A cornucopia of ribbons, spangles, silk
flowers, lace and semi-precious stones carved into buttons spread around the latest fashion plates from Mr Ackermann’s print shop in The Strand. A scroll was balanced in the centre. It said ‘For the Discerning Patroness’ in flowing script.
Beyond these artifices, two long counters stretched into the depths of the shop. Several lavender-upholstered chairs stood before them. Green-gowned women waited decorously behind. High above their heads bolts of fabric unrolled from gilt bars topping banks of glass-fronted drawers. Loops of coiled silk cord held the precious cloths clear of the floor.
Rowena gasped. ‘There’s so much to see.’
‘Indeed, ma’am.’ The girl indicated the counters. She drew a deep breath. ‘As you will observe, ma’am, materials are here and more trimmings further inside. If you would care to ascend,’ a hand was raised stiffly towards a flight of stairs, ‘there’s a wide selection of millinery on the next floor. Also gloves, fans and reticules.’ Voice and hand were lowered. ‘There are items of clothing of a more personal nature up there too.’ A slight colour entered her cheeks. She cleared her throat and continued. ‘Also pom . . .’ She inhaled to recover herself. ‘Pomatums. Perfumes and lotions,’ tumbled out of her mouth. ‘Should you wish to consider any material for a gown, ma’am, there are three modistes lately of the French court on the floor above. They can be called down in a moment to wait upon you. There’s also . . .’ She began to count on her fingers. ‘A shoemaker, a glover, and a variety of parasols. And if you should welcome some refreshment, there is a tea room serving ices and cakes at the rear of this floor.’
At the end of the litany, her shoulders relaxed.
Rowena suppressed a smile. ‘I think perhaps the millinery.’
The girl curtseyed. ‘Of course, ma’am. If you would be kind enough follow me.’
She led the way past the counters and up the stairs. After some thirty minutes of hovering attention the Countess of Conniston ordered three hats. The girl’s later reward from the chosen milliner was whole three farthings.
Rowena had left by the time Araminta arrived. She had tried her utmost to persuade Wilhelmina to let her ride there on Pegasus but to no avail. Her new riding habit of approved style donned in expectation had to be changed. It had delayed them both. A lecture on Punctuality being the Politeness of Kings had occupied most of the journey in the barouche.
Araminta paused at the threshold so abruptly, Miss Orksville was three paces ahead before she realised.
‘Good gracious,’ she said. ‘Whatever has Pa . . . Papa done? I hadn’t realised he’d been so ambitious.’
‘Indeed, child.’ Wilhelmina was well aware her assistance to Archibald, including selecting his female staff, was unknown to his daughter.
The opportunity had delighted Wilhelmina. Her fascination for distant and exciting lands had spurred an interest in Archibald’s business. Tales of her ancestor’s exploration had always enthralled her. It had not faded with advancing years. Regretfully, she had to admit gratifying her ambition to travel was becoming more remote by the year. Had she permitted herself to envy, she would have easily succumbed.
Archibald Neave had been equally delighted by her interest. Musing after dinner one evening while Araminta was discordantly practising scales on the piano he had been surprised to discover Miss Orksville supported many of his ideas. She had not, however, approved of one of his proposals. Offering the foremen of London’s most fashionable businesses superior wages to leave their employers and join him must be abandoned. It would guarantee unpopularity with the deserted employers. The last thing he needed was a disgruntled tailor muttering of him to a valued and significant patron. Gossip like that would soon tarnish Neave’s business. The ton, as she well knew, could be most fickle. They would quite probably desert him. Instead Archibald had enthusiastically adopted her suggestion of inviting the best tailors and craftsmen from some major cities to join him.
Wilhelmina walked further into the shop. ‘Stop gawping like a simpleton, Araminta.’
A green-gowned woman approached but was forestalled by a tall, thin man with drooping eyes and long hands clasped behind his green tailcoat. The lacklustre appearance of his eyes was misleading. Archibald had suspected, rightly, that nothing would escape his sharp attention. The name of his patron’s daughter certainly did not.
He bowed. ‘Miss Orksville. Miss Neave. My name is Crompton. I’m Mr Neave’s manager for the ladies emporium.’ Crompton would have preferred the gentleman’s shop but he was not about to miss the opportunity offered here. He had adequately disguised his ambition to manage both. Or so he thought. Archibald was not deceived. He knew that ambition would drive Crompton to greater efforts.
‘Allow me to show you the results of Mr Neave’s vision.’
He had barely escorted them to the nearest counter when a commotion developed behind them. He turned. Araminta saw his face drain of colour.
‘What is it?’ she said.
Crompton gulped. ‘I must beg you to excuse me, ma’am. I think . . . I’m almost certain it’s His Royal Highness with your father.’
At the door, Archibald Neave stood to one side to allow a vast, gaudy personage to enter. He followed him in, leaving the gaggle of favourites hovering on the threshold. Silence descended on the front of the shop and slowly engulfed the rear. Only the rustle of skirts as all the ladies present curtsied broke it.
‘Well, I say, Neave,’ the royal voice boomed. ‘I never expected to see the like.’
His Highness ignored the ladies, several of whose curtseys were beginning to wobble. He stared about the long room.
‘Thank you, sir. I must own to be a little pleased with the result.’
‘Indeed. Indeed. Now you said you had some jewelled plumes.’ The Prince’s eyes fell on the birds of paradise feathers on the chaise. ‘Ah.’
‘Imported from the depths of Africa, sir. I beg you will choose whichever pleases you.’
A smile spread across the fat royal face. He grasped a spray of vivid yellow plumes in a holder of carved yellow jade chased with gold. Another of the deepest blue of a summer sky bound with silver trembled in the royal hand.
Confident the plumes gathered into his fat fist would so please Prince that he would not object, Archibald said, ‘Perhaps, sir, you will permit me to present my daughter and her companion?’
His Highness glanced up briefly from wafting the plumes back and forth. ‘What? Oh, yes, yes. Do. Do.’ The curtseying ladies caught his eye. He bowed and gesticulated with the feathers. ‘Up ladies, up.’
Relieved sighs accompanied more female rustling. Wilhelmina Orksville put a gentle hand in Araminta’s back and propelled her forwards. Six paces from the Prince’s portly figure she stopped and sank into a deep curtsey. Araminta dragged her eyes from the vast magnificence before her and did the same.
‘My daughter Araminta, sir,’ Archibald said, oblivious of the convention that required the senior lady to be presented first.
The Prince eyed the titan hair. ‘Magnificent,’ he sighed. ‘Delighted. Delighted, ma’am.’ He gestured them up.
Wilhelmina Orksville rose. So did Araminta, honest enough to be grateful for Wilhelmina’s insistence practising her curtsey so much.
‘And her companion, sir, Miss Orksville.’
His Magnificence frowned. ‘Orksville? Orksville? Wasn’t he secretary to m’grandpapa?’
‘My grandfather had that honour, Your Highness. Gasperd Orksville.’
‘Ah, yes, well.’ The Prince’s interest faded. ‘Thank you, ladies.’ He bowed to Wilhelmina and bestowed a final, approving smile on Araminta. ‘I hope I may see you again.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Wilhelmina inclined her head a fraction. Only willpower kept the delight at such recognition from her voice.
His Royal Highness, still wafting the glorious plumes that had cost Archibald a considerable weight of guineas, waddled towards the do
or. His cronies hovering there parted. He passed out of the shop with Archibald scurrying in his wake. One of Prinny’s friends lingered. He stared in Araminta’s direction. His gaze scrutinised her from stunning hair to open face to the one cream slipper that peeped from under the charming gown. The Prince had smiled at her. It was something to think of. As was the fortune this place must be costing her father. Lucius Renford, fifth Viscount Trelowen, smiled to himself.
Chapter Eleven
The very shop itself seemed to sigh with relief when the portly figure departed from view.
‘Well,’ Araminta announced, blinking.
‘Well indeed.’ Wilhelmina leant closer and lowered her voice. ‘We could not have wished for a more fortunate event. You have been presented to Royalty. Excellent. Excellent.’ A frown deepened the single wrinkle across her brow. ‘Admittedly it was quite informal.’ A smile banished it. ‘Not that any royal attention is ever completely informal.’ She patted Araminta’s arm. ‘It bodes well. Very well. And your curtsey was everything one could wish.’ A slight sniff qualified the praise. ‘You must continue to apply yourself and remember how to accomplish it.’ Miss Wilhelmina Orksville did not approve of excessive praise.
A certain amount of whispered conversation eddied from the ladies at the counters. Araminta turned round to find they were all staring at her. Not normally given to bashfulness, she felt colour rise to her cheeks at the naked curiosity.
‘Keep your chin up,’ Wilhelmina whispered. ‘Let us –’
‘Miss Neave.’ Well-modulated tones interrupted her. The Countess of Conniston was walking towards them. ‘How delightful to see you again.’ She extended a gloved hand.
Araminta took it and curtseyed. ‘Rowe- . . . Miss . . . I mean, ma’am.’
Rowena smiled, well aware that the scrutiny around them was reaching a greater pitch. ‘I don’t believe I have had the pleasure of meeting your companion.’
‘Oh, no. Please allow me to present Miss Wilhelmina Orksville. Ma’am, Lady Conniston.’
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