by Eva Leigh
She recognized the name Buxton from her daily perusals of the newspaper. He was a noted figure in manufacturing, and to ask the duke a question about the realm of industry was odd. Clearly, he was a man devoted to the pursuit of pleasure, and likely had no interest in finances and commerce.
“Not at present, it isn’t,” the duke said. “Production will be down and orders won’t be fulfilled.”
That was unexpected.
The man who’d asked the question made a scoffing noise. “Not so. Buxton himself said a fortnight ago that he’d hired men by the score to ensure demand’s met.”
“The duke is correct.” Jess didn’t realize she’d spoken the words aloud until the duke and his cronies all stopped midstride and turned toward her. Hellfire.
“Your pardon, miss,” one of the acolytes said with a condescending smile, “but you speak of matters which a young person of middling means cannot understand.”
“And which do not concern you,” the first man added. “Certainly not a woman.”
“But you’re wrong,” she said.
Jess found her gaze locked with the duke’s. Though a distance of several feet separated them, she sensed his awareness as if their bodies were snugly pressed together. It was not unlike being drawn into the dark, hot depths of a midnight lagoon. She might drown but never miss the lack of air.
He raised one of his eyebrows, his look subtly daring. “Go on, miss.” Beneath his words, the message was clear. You got yourself into this situation. Can you get yourself out? “Tell us how I’m correct.”
The hell with it. All day she’d listened to people telling her that she was wrong and her energies misguided. Now it suddenly became extremely important that Jess prove to him and to the men hovering around him that she knew exactly of what she spoke.
“The storm three days ago caused part of the roof to cave in at Buxton’s other business,” she said. “The furniture mill in Lambeth.” As she spoke, the duke slowly nodded.
“We are speaking of his silver plate manufactory,” the first man said as if she was a child. He added in a condescending tone, “Which is located in Croydon. The storm could not have harmed both establishments.”
“And it did not.” She spoke as calmly as possible, since any hint of feeling in her voice would immediately be seized upon by the men as proof that she was overly emotional. “But Buxton has pulled nearly half his laborers employed at the plate manufactory to work on repairing and rebuilding his furniture mill. With that many men absent from the plate manufactory, it will be impossible to deliver his goods by the promised date.
“Therefore,” she concluded, “as the duke said, investing in Buxton’s silver plate operation is not a sound decision. Not at the moment. But I would advise reconsidering the possibility by the end of summer, when buyers are beginning to think of entertaining their families for Christmas and Boxing Day.”
It was as though all traffic had stopped on busy Bond Street. The silence that followed her pronouncements reverberated outward, so that even the hoofbeats of horses pulling carriages seemed muffled. The men surrounding the duke gaped at her, while the duke smiled.
It was a devastating smile. Brilliant and assured and ever so slightly carnal. Yet what made her breath catch was the genuine admiration in his eyes. He touched his fingers to the brim of his hat, which, given the disparity in their ranks, was astonishing.
A hot flare of desire sparked in her belly—something she hadn’t felt in a long time. Not that long ago, she’d been engaged. She and Oliver had grown up together, gone to the same dame school, sat three pews apart at church. The attraction between them had been gradual, more like a warm blanket than a devastating conflagration. Even his lovemaking, after they’d agreed to marry, had been undemanding and gentle.
When he’d withdrawn his suit, she had barely missed him. Her body craved touch and release, but she’d barely gotten that with Oliver. So she’d resigned herself to a life deprived of sensation. It wasn’t what she wanted for herself, but there were things in life she had to accept.
Now, on this stretch of Bond Street, she was flushed and more fiercely aware of the duke than she’d ever been for any man.
“You are a veritable hawk amongst the doves, miss,” he murmured.
She heard herself reply, “Meaning, Your Grace?”
“That you’re an expert hunter, as opposed to this cote of prey.” He made a flicking motion with one long, elegant finger toward the men surrounding him. “Have pity on them and try to eat only one or two.”
A smile tugged at her lips. “I cannot help if they are so easily devoured. The meat would be too flavorless, though.”
He laughed, the sound warm and husky. “A palpable hit.”
Words sprang to her lips, but before she could speak them, the crowd around the duke surged back to life—and new men joined the swelling group of hangers-on.
“Your Grace,” many voices cried out at once. “A moment of your time, Your Grace.”
The crowd moved like a flood pouring down the pavement, carrying the duke along with it. He glanced back at her.
“Your Grace,” she called after him. He could have some advice for her, some insight as to how to crack the difficult London marketplace.
But she couldn’t be heard above the countless other demands for his attention. And in a short moment, he was gone, swept up in the human tide.
She stood alone on the sidewalk, watching the space where he’d been.
Today on Bond Street had been a setback, yet she wouldn’t admit defeat. She hadn’t time for flirtations with a duke.
Perhaps, someday when she was old, she’d reminisce fondly about the time she flirted with a duke. Right now, however, she needed a dram of whiskey, and solitude.
The moment she stepped into the foyer of the rented town house, the butler appeared. “A letter arrived for you, Miss McGale.”
She picked up the missive on the side table in the entryway. The thin cursive indicated that it was penned by Lady Catherton.
Jess carried the letter up to her room. Breaking its wafer, she frowned to discover a pound note folded within the missive. She read:
Miss McGale,
Due to an unfortunate incident getting out of my carriage in the rain, I have sustained an injury to my ankle. The physician insists the only way to make a full recovery is through a strict program of non-activity. I am not to put any weight upon my ankle, nor jostle it, for no less time than a fortnight.
The entire situation is most irritating, and has curtailed my plans to come to Town before my departure for the Continent.
However, the property has already been leased in the city. It makes no sense for you to return here, since we will set off from the London docks. Thus, I have determined that I desire you to remain in the city. Doubtless, I shall join you at the end of the recuperative fortnight. I have enclosed a pound to cover any expenses you might incur during this time, but I urge frugality, and I anticipate receiving the remaining balance when I do finally arrive in London.
Yours, &c.
Lady C
Jess stared at the letter for a full minute to absorb its contents.
There was still time. Today had been a wash—with the exception of her quick interlude with the duke—but she could take advantage of her brief reprieve and come up with some way to secure McGale & McGale’s future.
Her gaze fell on the newspaper that she’d left on her bedside table. She’d read it this morning, and a single line from the Money Market column had stood out to her.
In two days’ time, the annual convocation of investors known to its intimates as the Bazaar will commence at the Marquess of Trask’s London residence.
Picking up the paper, she ran her finger back and forth across the line of print announcing the Bazaar, until the ink smudged on her skin and the sentence turned illegible.
She was here in London at the same time as the Bazaar. If she could find some way to get inside, and pitch her family’s business as a pos
sible investment opportunity for England’s most wealthy and influential, she might be able to save McGale & McGale. All it would take was one investor, one person to believe.
But it was notoriously difficult to exhibit one’s business at the Bazaar. The process of applying could take years. She didn’t have years—she had days.
In forty-eight hours, she’d go to the Bazaar and finesse her way inside. It would be challenging, but she would use every bit of her persuasive abilities to gain entry. Once inside, she could give a presentation about her business to people predisposed to look for investment prospects.
She glanced down at her dress—it was clean and neat, but surely everyone expected someone to wear their finest garments at the Bazaar as a sign of prosperity, and respect. Unfortunately, these were Jess’s finest garments.
Perhaps she could borrow one of Lady Catherton’s gowns. Just for a few hours.
What was it the duke had called her? A hawk. He wasn’t wrong, and she would use every ounce of her hunting ability at the Bazaar.
“Step lively, gents,” Noel said over his shoulder. He crossed the threshold of the foyer to the gaming hell, already smiling. “If you dally, they might change their minds and turn you away.”
“Might throw you out on your arse, too,” Curtis noted as he kept pace.
Striding onward, Noel shot his friend a look of patent disbelief. “This is me we’re discussing.”
“Right,” McCameron said drily. “Your Sodding Grace.”
“That’s Your Sodding Grace Who Got Me Into the Most Exclusive Gaming Hell in London, thank you very much.” He paused on the threshold to the main chamber of the gaming hell. The establishment was so de rigueur it didn’t have a name. Even so, there had been a long queue outside its door.
He never had to wait in the queue, and made certain that he brought his friends in with him. Pleasure was always best shared.
The Bazaar began tomorrow, and though he looked forward to discovering new opportunities for ethical investments, he would have to abstain from his more riotous evening revels in order to stay alert during the day. Thus, here he was with his friends, gleaning pleasure from the night while he could.
The clock crept toward one o’clock in the morning, and yet, judging by the throngs within the main chamber, the sun could have been at its zenith. Men in their evening finery and women adorned in jewels stood cheek by jowl at the tables offering hazard, vingt-et-un, and faro.
He nodded at the ethereal blonde woman who managed the club, and she snapped her fingers to summon a server carrying a tray of flutes of sparkling wine. She took the tray from the staff member’s hands and walked toward him.
“Cassandra,” he said warmly as she approached. “My dear, how can you be more lovely than all the ladies’ diamonds? You outshine them tenfold.”
“Your Grace is always so complimentary.” She handed him a glass before doing the same for Curtis, McCameron, and Rowe. “Planning on winning big tonight?”
“Haven’t decided, but I know of a certain that I will show my friends a splendid time.” He smirked at the trio drinking their phenomenally expensive wine. “Do try not to embarrass me, chaps.”
“We’d never dream of it,” Rowe answered.
“Not when you do such a marvelous job of it on your own,” McCameron added.
Cassandra’s eyebrows rose, no doubt shocked that a duke would permit anyone such liberties.
Noel only grinned. “Ingrates, the lot of you. I’m staking them tonight. There’s no limit to the amount. No arguments,” he added when all three of his friends made noises of objection. “It was my idea to come here, and it’s my responsibility to ensure you enjoy yourselves. So button it.”
“I’ll bring the chips, Your Grace.” Cassandra dipped into a curtsy before striding away.
“Staking us isn’t necessary,” McCameron said.
“We’ve been friends for two decades, you oaf,” Noel replied genially. “If I can’t guarantee my closest comrades a good time, then I consider myself utterly useless. Curtis, Rowe,” he said to the others. “Wend your way to the hazard table and stake unreasonable amounts. I need a few more of these”—he hefted his flute—“and then I’ll join you.”
Rowe and Curtis nodded, then moved toward the hazard table, where shouts of exultation mingled with groans of despair.
As he’d promised, Noel downed his sparkling wine in a few short swallows. The moment his glass was empty, a server appeared with a full one to replace it. Noel tucked a crown into the servant’s pocket, and the man stammered his astonished thanks.
“You’re burning as bright as Vauxhall fireworks tonight,” McCameron murmured when the servant hurried away.
Noel grinned. “A night out with my friends necessitates a grand display.”
“This display’s noisier than most.” McCameron studied him. “I’m not here to gamble, but I’d wager something’s on your mind.”
Curse McCameron for being an excellent soldier. Nothing escaped his notice.
At Noel’s pause, McCameron said, “Out with it. Or I’ll be forced to sing regimental songs at the top of my lungs and nobody wants to hear that.”
“Nothing we need to discuss.” When McCameron continued to bore into him with his gaze, he relented. “It’s about a woman.”
“Ah.” An internal struggle waged behind McCameron’s eyes, and Noel hated the shadows that lurked there, knowing they caused his friend pain. McCameron shook his head. “I can talk about women, you know. I’m not going to dissolve into a puddle of tears.”
Noel almost wished McCameron would weep. Surely that had to be better, more productive, than forcibly ignoring past pain.
“I meant what I said about singing regimental ditties,” McCameron said. “Unless you come clean and tell me about the woman that’s lit all of your fuses.”
There was no hope for it but to tell his friend everything. “I met a woman. She was . . .” How to explain the hawk of Bond Street?
The lady had possessed an angled jaw, which revealed her dynamic personality as much as the words that came from her lips. Her slightly arched dark brows had lifted in silent defiance when he’d challenged her, and he’d been enthralled by the energy and intelligence in her tawny eyes.
She hadn’t looked away. She hadn’t retreated in deference. Every word from her lips had been like a perfectly cut gem. Blow for blow, she’d met him, and damn him if that didn’t make her the most alluring person he’d encountered in a decade.
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her,” he admitted.
“Who was she?”
Noel snorted a laugh. “Hell if I know. I got dragged down the street by a swarm of sycophants before I could learn her name or anything about her.”
“You’re a ruddy duke,” McCameron pointed out. “Surely you can find out who she is.”
“I’m not certain I didn’t imagine her. Though, she did manage to knock a few of my Bond Street grovelers on their metaphorical arses.” He chuckled.
“If she was on Bond Street, she likely travels in lofty circles. You’ll see her at some ball or some other gala you toffs throw to keep from dying of boredom.”
“Aristo blood flows in your veins, too,” Noel noted.
“Scottish aristo blood. That makes it stronger and thicker than English toff blood.” McCameron clicked his tongue. “And if you don’t meet her again, there’s no harm in it. You’ve no shortage of female company. If I’m not mistaken, that brunette over there would be perfectly willing to help you forget any Bond Street beauty.” He nodded in the direction of a woman who wore an enticing smile and not much else. “She’ll grind you down to a nub, my friend.”
“I need to save my strength for the Bazaar,” Noel said. Odd, but he felt no pull toward the flirtatious brunette. Not when his mysterious lady continued to haunt him.
Damn it, he was a duke. He could have anything he wanted—surely he had some means at his disposal to learn her identity. As soon as the Bazaar was over
, he would do just that.
A woman like that didn’t come around very often. Like hell would he let her slip through his fingers. He would find her, charm her with his standard methodology, and, for a little while, make life very agreeable for both of them. As usual, he would make plain from the beginning that it would be a short-term arrangement. With a handful of exceptions, his lovers accepted these terms. Surely his Bond Street charmer would be the same.
Cheered by that thought, he hooked an arm around McCameron’s shoulders. “Now it’s time for us to show the rest of these English toffs how a few reprobates from Eton carouse.”
Chapter 4
With her plan to gain entrance to the Bazaar firmly in place, Jess walked up Portland Place. She gave her stride the purposefulness that she needed to propel her through the next hour, deliberately ignoring all the voices in her head that told her she was mad. It wasn’t easy, however. The voices were awfully loud.
She tugged on her gloves, making certain they were perfectly in place. As she had planned, the dress she wore today was borrowed from Lady Catherton’s wardrobe. She pushed aside a stab of guilt over the unauthorized use of the garment. To succeed in business, one sometimes had to ignore the rules.
Looking her best was essential if she meant to talk her way into presenting for the attendees at the Bazaar. She’d brought her pack that contained more bars of McGale & McGale soap, along with the flagon of water and small bowl for demonstration, just as she’d done on Bond Street. Today, however, she would secure funding. The guests of the Bazaar were primed to look for investments, and she’d do her damnedest to see that at least one of them provided her the necessary capital.
As she neared Lord Trask’s home, a man in the clothing of a marginally prosperous craftsman stepped to the home’s entrance, a satchel in one hand. He kept licking his lips, and after he knocked smartly on the door, he wiped his hands down the front of his pantaloons. When the door opened, revealing a man wearing eyeglasses and a dark coat, he took a step back.