by Eva Leigh
“Yes?” The bespectacled man infused this one syllable with hauteur.
Sweeping his hat off his head, the craftsman stammered in a thick Yorkshire accent, “I’m Farrow, of Farrow Ceramics and Tile. I’d . . . I’d like to present . . . to present my tile manufactory to the . . . the gentlemen of the Bazaar.” He hefted the bag that, presumably, held samples of his goods.
The man in glasses held up a sheaf of paper. “Farrow Ceramics and Tile is not on my list of approved presenters, and if you are not on this list, then you are not authorized for entrance.”
“I’ve come such a long way,” Farrow said desperately. “From Sprotbrough—”
“That is obvious,” the door-minder intoned. “And the distance you’ve traveled is not my concern. I suggest that if you do seek to present at the Bazaar, you go through the standard channels and apply to Lord Trask’s man of business.”
“I have.” Farrow clutched his hat to his chest. “For years.”
“Sir,” the bespectacled man said wearily, “you must clear the way. I wish you good morning.” He pointed to the street.
The Yorkshireman’s shoulders slumped, then he dejectedly dragged himself off the stoop and down the street.
Jess stood, stunned at what she’d just witnessed. Clearly, her plan to talk her way into the Bazaar wasn’t going to work. She had to come up with an alternative means of getting inside, and her mind frantically spun as she worked out a new strategy.
One thing was certain: she couldn’t turn back now.
The man in glasses turned his attention to her, and her stomach dropped. “Miss?”
She stepped to the door, her pulse a hard, insistent beat in her ears, and fixed a wide smile to her face that she hoped looked charming rather than desperate.
From inside the house came the sounds of many people talking—the Bazaar was already underway.
“May I assist you?” The man in the spectacles peered at her.
She tipped up her chin. “I’m a guest of the Bazaar.”
“I have accounted for all our female guests,” he replied.
“Likely you didn’t know that I would be in attendance this year.” That sounded logical enough.
“Stapleton?” a voice sounded behind the man in glasses. “Is aught amiss?” An older gentleman with substantial white whiskers and a broad torso emerged, wearing the look of a man completely in his domain. Lord Trask.
The Bazaar’s mastermind stood in front of her, his eyes sharp as he regarded her. This man could be McGale & McGale’s making. Or he could allow it to wither and die.
“My lord,” the man—Stapleton—said deferentially, “this young woman says she is a guest of the Bazaar.”
“Dallying, Trask?” a deep and faintly familiar voice asked. “If I’m not mistaken, you promised us a breakfast with some of those buns your cook makes, so we oughtn’t dawdle.”
The Duke of Rotherby appeared behind Lord Trask. He glanced in her direction before turning his attention to the marquess. A moment later, his gaze was back on her and he smiled at Jess with recognition and pleasure, as if he’d been given an unexpected gift.
“Well, well,” he said. “If it isn’t Lady Hawk of Bond Street.”
“And if it isn’t His Grace, the wolf,” she returned.
“How am I a wolf?”
“One hunter recognizes another.”
“A fine pair we are.” He shouldered the butler aside to lean against the door frame, his arms folded over his chest, one booted foot crossed over the other. “A hawk and a wolf roaming London. Sounds quite star-crossed. And yet it’s the poor people of this town I pity more—to have a duo such as us unleashed on the populace.”
“We predators have a reputation to uphold.”
Jess never spoke this freely with people of higher ranks, but somehow the road to intimacy between her and His Grace had been paved from their first meeting.
“Beg pardon, Your Grace,” Lord Trask said, poking his head around the duke’s long body. “Who is this lady?”
“The brightest mind on Bond Street.” His gaze held hers and a hot bolt of awareness shot through her. It was as though she felt him in every corner of the labyrinth of her being. “Saw it in action myself.”
“Is that so?” Lord Trask raised his eyebrow and considered her, his eyes not especially compassionate.
“You were dressed in slightly more casual garments at the time.” The duke glanced at her borrowed finery.
Words flew from her lips. “That was my traveling ensemble. I’d just come to Town from my country estate and didn’t want to sully something finer with dust from the road.”
“Sensible.” The duke nodded.
“Forgive me, madam,” Stapleton said, frowning in puzzlement. “You are?”
Her gaze swept over the foyer she glimpsed behind the trio of men. A painting of idealized farmers in an idealized field of wheat caught her eye. “Lady Whitfield,” she blurted. “My husband, that is, my late husband was the baronet Sir Brantley Whitfield.”
She smiled at Lord Trask as if he should recognize the name. Which of course he couldn’t as she’d literally just made it up.
So, naturally when Lord Trask could only frown at her confusedly, she supplied in a helpful tone, “Sir Brantley went to Cambridge with your cousin . . .” She’d spent many nights at Lady Catherton’s country estate carefully reading and memorizing Debrett’s. It was important to keep apace of the aristocracy’s unions and deaths, since such information often came in handy when reading the Money Market column.
She searched her memory for Lord Trask’s page in Debrett’s. “Mr. Edward Melrose.”
“Edward is something of a rapscallion,” Lord Trask said with a hint of exasperation.
“The very word to describe Mr. Melrose, but not all of his intimates are of the same stripe.” She trilled a laugh, and felt the duke’s warm interest on her. “In any event, your cousin had enjoined Sir Brantley to attend the Bazaar almost three years ago. My late husband was especially fascinated by the realm of finance, and unfortunately his final illness came on before he could request entrée.” She fumbled in her pack and was relieved to find a handkerchief, which she used to dab at her eyes.
“My condolences on your loss,” the duke said somberly.
“Thank you.” She tucked the square of cambric back in her pack. “But I’ll not speak of grim matters.” Jess smiled again. “My mourning is over and at last I’m able to attend in my husband’s stead. I realize that there is a more formal procedure for securing a place at the Bazaar—”
“We can bypass that,” the duke said in a voice that was both commanding and convivial. “Can’t we, Trask.”
It did not escape Jess’s notice that this last statement was not a question.
God bless this man, Jess thought, and his gorgeous face and even more gorgeous confidence.
“I . . .” Lord Trask looked back and forth between Jess and the duke. She gazed at him sunnily, and the duke’s expression held such assurance that she could not imagine anyone denying him anything.
“We already have two ladies as guests of the Bazaar,” Lord Trask said.
“Aside from yourself, unless His Grace is the only other male guest,” Jess said with a polite smile, “you need not concern yourself that women might outnumber the men. You have more than three men as part of the Bazaar, yes?”
It was always a good idea to ask someone a question to which they would have to reply in the affirmative—thus making them predisposed to be agreeable.
“Well . . . yes,” Lord Trask said slowly.
“Then it’s settled,” the duke pronounced. His glance toward her made it clear that he was well aware of her strategy.
With a small grumble, Lord Trask stepped back to make room. “Do come in, Lady Whitfield. It’s a pleasure to welcome you to the Bazaar.”
“Indeed, a pleasure.” A flare of heat in the duke’s eyes scorched her. “Looking forward to seeing you hunt.”
“Be ca
utious,” she replied. “I cannot be held responsible for the devastation I wreak if you step into my path.”
He gave her an endearingly lopsided smile, which he implemented with all the skill of a seasoned rake. “But I will die happy.”
Oh, he was trouble. But then, so was she.
Jess stepped across the threshold.
As she climbed the stairs in Lord Trask’s stylish home, she made certain to keep her back straight and her steps confident.
Pretend to be a lady for the next three days. Mingle with England’s elite. Steer them toward financing McGale & McGale, but it must be done subtly. She could do this.
“You are enjoying your time in Town, Lady Whitfield?” the duke asked behind her.
“I am now,” she said—which was true. She’d pull off this coup and then, when Lady Catherton healed, they’d be off to the Continent. Jess need not worry about seeing the duke, or anyone else from the Bazaar, again. In the interim, she’d at last have the chance to do what she’d always desired: to be a viable player in the game of business.
“As for myself,” he said, “I consider London suddenly quite delightful.”
“I’m certain you find everywhere delightful.” She reached the landing and waited for him to join her.
“Well, everywhere finds me delightful.” He reached the landing, and while he kept a respectful distance, her head spun at having him so near, without the protective span of a Bond Street sidewalk between them. “People are inclined to become excessively agreeable in my presence.”
He was spectacularly attractive, and his eyes managed to be both flirtatious and insightful, so astute that she wouldn’t be surprised if he could see her all the way down to her shift and drawers.
“An understandable reaction to a duke.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Madam, are you suggesting that it’s my title that makes me so welcome wherever I go, and not the excellence of my person?”
“Your Grace likely receives bounteous flattery from all and sundry. Surely you can’t be so desperate for a compliment that you thirst for mine.”
A laugh burst from him, intimate and velvety, and heat unfurled within her.
“But you do have my thanks,” she murmured. “It was kind of you to gain me entrance to the Bazaar.”
“Nothing to thank me for.” He waved his hand dismissively. It was a rather beautiful hand, large and veined and masculine, and she had a quick image of that hand stroking up her back. “The Bazaar will benefit from your presence. We need sharp minds. And I’m nothing if not motivated by pure self-interest. I wanted you here.”
A small explosion of pleasure went off in her chest, though it was dangerous to feel it. “Again,” she said, “you are excessively kind.”
“I’m not excessively anything.” He shrugged, but the movement was sleek and drew attention to his superbly tailored coat, and the shoulders that filled it.
“That is untrue, and we both know it. You are the definition of excess.”
He laughed again, and the world narrowed so that it contained only them. “You are indeed a hawk. No one but a bird of prey can strike with such cutting accuracy.”
“And wolves take particular delight in the hunt.” She was freed from the cage that being a hired companion had locked around her. And he seemed to enjoy her own pleasure in being unchained. “I do agree with you that adding me to the Bazaar will benefit it.”
“A bold claim. Some of the country’s most esteemed financial minds are within that room.”
“They don’t know what I know.” She tapped a finger to her temple.
“I do not doubt that.” His gaze was equal parts sensuality and intelligence. And entirely admiring. “My lady.” He bowed and then moved into the drawing room.
There was a knock from downstairs. From her vantage on the landing, she could observe the butler opening the door. A man with slicked hair stood on the step, a portfolio beneath his arm. She couldn’t quite hear what the man said, but the tone of the butler’s response made it plain that his presence wasn’t welcome. The door closed firmly as the man on the step protested piteously for entrance.
“Damn importunate rascals,” Lord Trask muttered beside her. “Every year, they turn up, hands out, begging for entrance, and every year, I have them turned away.”
“How unfortunate,” Jess said. For them, she added silently. Minutes earlier, she’d been one of their number.
“One came in as a guest,” the marquess continued, his expression grim. “Pretended as if he was here to take part in the Bazaar. But he gave himself away.”
“Gave himself away?” Cold trepidation inched up her back.
“In truth, what he was actually here to do was drum up investors in his own scheme.” Lord Trask scowled. “Thought he was so clever, slipping hints, ingratiating himself, and then, ‘Oh, I happen to have a venture in need of funding,’” he said in a nasal voice. “Bah! I had Stapleton show him the door as soon as I rooted him out. A blackguard and conniver.”
“Indeed,” Jess murmured. “What a dreadful person.”
She made herself smile serenely. Inside, however, she felt as though she stood on the edge of a cliff, waving her arms to keep herself from plummeting down.
She needed a new strategy—one that was so subtle, so carefully deployed, that not even the highly sensitized Lord Trask would be aware of her maneuvering.
“Suppose I ought to introduce you to the others.” Lord Trask held out his arm.
She placed her hand on the marquess’s sleeve. Not but a few days ago, she was fetching Lady Catherton’s hat and making certain that her mistress’s luncheon was appropriately hot when it was served, and now here she was, walking on the arm of one of England’s most significant people.
“What did His Grace mean about Bond Street?” Lord Trask asked. “I gather you encountered him there and made something of an impression.”
She made an offhand gesture. “He was receiving poor counsel from some hangers-on—I simply offered better advice.”
The marquess lowered his voice. “A bit of a comet, the duke. Dazzling as he streaks across the firmament.”
“Who attracts his fair share of satellites.” On Bond Street, he’d been trailed by hangers-on, and was clearly used to being the center of attention.
How he felt about being the center of attention, that was a matter of greater study. It was as though he did enjoy being the most important man within a mile radius, and also found it a bit tiresome.
“They all revolve around him,” Lord Trask said, “but they never stay in orbit for long.” He lowered his voice. “Don’t know much about how astronomy works, but the duke possesses his own physics, and he’s got a way of loosening his gravity whenever his interest wanes.” Lord Trask gave Jess a look fraught with meaning.
“There’s no danger of that,” she replied. “I’ve my own arc to trace across the firmament, and can’t be distracted by a bit of celestial dazzle.”
She and Lord Trask stepped into the drawing room. Her gaze moved over the score of gentlemen and ladies milling around the chamber. She wasn’t precisely awed by the genteel company—Lady Catherton often entertained members of the aristocracy and gentry—but never before had she been amongst them as an equal.
Her gaze touched on the men—and two lone women—in the chamber as she worked to formulate a new plan. The first thing she needed to do was determine who would be the most responsive to the possibility of investing in her business. She had too little time to try to sway anyone unwilling or, worse, hostile.
For the next quarter of an hour, Jess met people whose names she’d read about in the financial and gossip sections of her newspapers. She did her best to keep her outward appearance calm and even, but there was so much opportunity in this one room she practically vibrated with interest.
“Lord Hunsdon,” the marquess said as he guided her toward a thin-framed man with papery fair skin, “this is Lady Whitfield. She’s joining us this year. Lady Whitfield, the Viscount
Hunsdon.”
“My lord,” Jess said.
The viscount coolly nodded at her, barely interested in her presence as he turned his attention to Lord Trask. “We’re starting soon, aren’t we?”
“We are,” the marquess said. He glanced at Jess. “Lord Hunsdon is one of the Bazaar’s returning guests. Been coming here for over a decade.”
“You must enjoy the prospect of finding new enterprises,” Jess said. “Exciting, isn’t it?”
“Only when they’re sizable,” Viscount Hunsdon said sourly. “Those small, trifling schemes are worthless to me.”
So much for Lord Hunsdon, she told herself.
From the corner of her vision, she caught sight of the Duke of Rotherby as he listened politely to a stooped, elderly gentleman. The frailty of the older man highlighted the duke’s robust vitality.
Awareness bloomed in her stomach. If she was wise, she’d give him a wide berth. She had a purpose here, and it wasn’t flirting with an outrageously handsome duke. Oh, but she liked it, though. Liked him.
What were the layers beneath his polish? It would be an adventure to find out. And, given what the marquess had said about the duke’s easygoing attitude toward his amours, His Grace would never ask for anything substantive.
“Lady Farris,” her host said as they approached a handsome woman with streaks of gray in her dark brown hair. “This is Lady Whitfield. I believe this will be the first year both of you have attended the Bazaar.”
Lady Farris’s eyes brightened. “Oh, thank goodness I’m not the only virgin here.”
Lord Trask coughed into his fist, but Jess laughed.
“I promise I will make our first time gentle and respectful,” Jess said.
“Not too gentle and respectful, I hope. Or else I may find myself nodding off.”
Their host looked slightly scandalized. “Ladies! This is a serious gathering.”
“Absolutely correct, Lord Trask.” Lady Farris gave his sleeve a consoling pat. “Your pardon. I’m only just out of mourning and I forget myself. I will endeavor to be on my best behavior.” But she shot a wink in Jess’s direction before drifting away.
“She used to be so decorous,” Lord Trask murmured. He shook his head.