by Eva Leigh
“Ho, there, Trask,” the duke said from across the chamber. “Are we to mill about like so many geese in need of herding, or shall we commence?”
“Presently,” the marquess said. “I’m escorting Lady Whitfield to a seat.”
Lord Trask guided her to a place on one of the numerous sofas arranged in the room. As she sat, a gentleman hurried to take the place beside her. Jess gave the man a polite smile, all the while assessing whether or not he would make for a good investor in McGale & McGale.
“Ilsington.” The duke stood in front of the sofa and aimed a dry look at the man seated beside Jess. He nodded toward a chair on the periphery of the room. “You’ll be more comfortable over there. Good, fresh breeze from the open window keeps the mind clear.”
“How right you are, Your Grace.” The man leapt to his feet, bowed at Jess, then quickly made his way to the indicated chair by the window.
The duke folded his long body onto the sofa, his movements sure and smooth. He glanced at Jess, a small smile notched in the corner of his mouth. “Do you mind if we share the sofa? I’m terrifically old and my hearing isn’t quite what it was. This seat offers the most advantageous position.”
“And if I said that I did mind,” Jess replied, holding back a scandalized laugh, “especially your presumption that I wouldn’t, might you then find somewhere else to sit?”
“Of course,” he said at once. He did seem slightly puzzled that she might object to his company. Likely, almost no one ever did. “Er, do you?”
“As you’re already seated,” she said airily, “and I’d hate to tax your very aged body by requesting you do change seats, you may sit beside me. This time.”
He inclined his head. “My thanks, Lady Hawk.”
“You are welcome, Your Wolfish Grace.” She said this with as much of a regal manner as she could muster, which was a surprisingly large amount, especially in relation to talking with a duke.
The sofa was not very big, and while she’d met men of larger stature than His Grace, he exuded an animal energy that seemed to fill the space between them. He radiated heat, and within moments of being seated beside him, she was warm and acutely aware of her own body. The seat shifted beneath her, and she could feel every scrap of linen between her gown and her skin.
“Ah, Trask.” The duke waved the marquess forward. “Shall we begin?” With those three words, all conversation in the chamber ceased. Everyone looked toward Lord Trask, who now stood in the middle of the room.
“My servants are distributing the agenda for the next five days,” Lord Trask explained. Liveried footmen circulated through the chamber, and Jess took one of the offered sheets of paper. The schedule appeared quite full.
Their host explained, “Today we’ll have a light repast, and then meet again early tomorrow morning for the first of our juries, wherein sundry individuals present their prospective businesses to us. We will take that time to question and investigate them as much as we desire, and then determine which of these businesses shall enjoy the benefit of our investiture. We will also take outside excursions.”
“We’re to be wrung out like so much laundry through a box mangle,” the duke said, but there was no annoyance in his voice.
“Fear not,” Lord Trask answered. “We’ve determined certain hours for leisure. I’m not without compassion.”
“That’s not what they say at the billiards tables,” a gentleman in a floral waistcoat said, and chuckled.
The duke laughed. “Indeed, no, and you still owe me thirty quid, Prowse. Plus another bob for offending the company with your waistcoat.”
Amused chuckles floated up from the company.
“Are we quite finished?” a silver-haired woman clipped. “If you keep nattering on, I may perish of hunger on this sofa.”
“We are indeed finished, Lady Haighe,” Lord Trask said with a bow. He strode to the bellpull and tugged on it. Within moments, footmen entered carrying silver trays laden with sandwiches, buns, and other edible dainties, to which the guests helped themselves.
Now was the time for her to gather more information.
Jess stood and moved toward Lady Farris. “If we’re the two newcomers to the Bazaar,” she said warmly, “we can help each other navigate. Are you at all nervous?”
People loved talking about themselves, and the more you asked them about themselves, the more agreeable they found you.
“I’ve raised three children into adulthood.” The countess patted Jess’s arm. “Nothing inured me to life’s vicissitudes like waking up to find a child covered in vomit standing beside my bed. Multiple times.”
“At least you weren’t covered in vomit.”
“Believe me, I have been.”
“Surely then you’ll find investing a relatively tame experience. Have you much proficiency in it?”
“None, and I’m looking forward to a new experience.” Lady Farris’s expression grew serious. “After my husband passed away, my eldest son and I did a thorough accounting of the title’s coffers. We discovered some appalling things—sugar plantations, and the like. I made certain we divested from those holdings.”
“Understandable.”
Lady Farris was eager to try something new, which could mean she would be eager to explore the world of a small business. She also cared about the ethics of her investments.
Some people didn’t think about the origins of their wealth. They only wanted to increase their fortune, regardless of its source. How many Bazaar guests held the same attitude? They might have deep pockets, but did Jess want to work with them?
She glanced toward the duke on the other side of the room, surrounded by people. The Duke of Rotherby was never alone. How . . . exhausting. Surely he would prize a moment to himself from time to time.
Two of the men vying for the duke’s attention seemed satisfied with the conversation, and bowed before retreating to another part of the chamber. One man, however—Lord Hunsdon—continued to hover close.
The wisest thing would be to steer clear of the duke and spend her time learning more about her fellow Bazaar guests.
And yet she walked purposefully in his direction—as if she could not stop herself. As if she was ruled not by her mind, but something far wilder and entirely unpredictable.
Chapter 5
Noel barely listened to Viscount Hunsdon’s words as, without moving his head, he tracked Lady Whitfield walking toward him.
She brightened the atmosphere of Trask’s drawing room. Their brief conversation on the doorstep and then on the landing had reverberated over and over in his mind, drowning out Trask’s usual introductory remarks.
It had not been a very long exchange, but damn him if it hadn’t been the most stimulating conversation he’d had in years. Outside of the four men he considered his closest friends, he couldn’t remember meeting anyone who had been able to meet him verbal blow for verbal blow.
As he’d sat beside her on the sofa, there had been a palpable vibrancy to her, as though, like the hawk he’d likened her to, she could spread her wings and take flight at any moment to wheel through the sky. Anticipation coursed through him—he looked forward to a delicious pursuit.
“It’s rudimentary knowledge that English agrarian systems are infinitely superior to those which are practiced on the Continent,” Hunsdon droned on. “I was saying to Liverpool the other day—we’re quite intimate, you know, the prime minister and I—that what English farmers do best is . . .”
Noel drew straight as Lady Whitfield came to stand nearby. A warm, sweet scent teased him, and brought his body to full attention.
“I beg your forgiveness for interrupting,” she said in a husky voice. Her gaze slid past Noel and she smiled as she looked at Hunsdon.
“My lord,” she said, “I believe that your opinion on crop rotation is being solicited by the gentlemen over there.” She nodded toward Trask and three other men engaged in serious discussion.
“Oh, indeed?” Hunsdon’s eyebrows rose in surprise,
then he quickly assumed an expression of jaded superiority. “Naturally. There’s few who know as much about turnips as I do. Excuse me, Your Grace, Lady Whitfield.”
He bowed, then strode across the room to the other group. Before any of the men could speak, Hunsdon launched into a considerable lecture, with the words Pliny the Elder and taproot being repeated several times. His audience could only listen dazedly.
“That makes us even, I believe,” Lady Whitfield murmured.
“Madam?”
“You gained me entrance to the Bazaar, and I liberated you from your agriculturally minded friend’s verbose company.” She glanced at Noel, her lips quirking. “Unless I was presumptuous. It did look as though you were moments away from throwing Lord Hunsdon out a window.”
“You’ve no idea how often I entertain that thought.”
She nodded, her expression serious. “I imagine the streets of Mayfair would be covered with unconscious noblemen.”
Oh, but he liked her, and the fact that she was entirely unexpected made her even more delightful. “Makes it difficult to drive one’s phaeton.”
“Let’s not be hasty,” she said pertly. “It might add some zest to the experience—a living obstacle course that will try the skill of anyone who claims to be an expert at the ribbons.”
Her eyes were the color of dark honey, and the mind behind them fascinated him. It was rare for him to converse with someone and not know what they were going to say next. He felt slightly off balance, a shade uncertain, and the most shocking thing was the pleasure that sensation gave him.
“I . . .” He searched his mind for something to talk about. “Are you long out of mourning?”
Very nice, you ass. Perhaps next you could splash lemon juice in her eyes.
“I’d rather not discuss it,” she said.
“My apologies if I’ve been indelicate with your feelings, or if I’ve upset you.”
To his surprise, she gave a soft laugh. “Fear not, Your Grace. I’m made of sturdier stuff, and it takes more than a handful of words to cause me injury. Now, if you promise me a pint of bitters but give me pale ale instead, then, perhaps, I might take offense.”
“I will never wrong you thusly, madam.” A lick of heat traveled along his spine as they shared a smile. “I am disappointed in myself, however.”
“That is highly unlikely.”
A startled laugh leapt from him. She had no fear, certainly not of him, and his heart thudded in his chest to be so clearly seen beyond the glossy veneer of his title.
“But I am,” he insisted. “I can remember, for example, what I saw at the Imperial Theatre last February—an excellent burletta, incidentally, written by Lady Marwood—and I can remember that my younger sister’s favorite flower is the harebell. So I have considerable faith in my memory, but,” he went on, holding her gaze with his, “I cannot remember meeting you before the other day on Bond Street.”
“No,” she said, her voice soft. A hint of pink crept into her cheeks, enthralling him. “You wouldn’t.”
Yet she didn’t explain herself or offer a reason why she, a woman of sufficient rank to marry a baronet, would have never crossed Noel’s path until two days earlier. He knew everybody, but he didn’t know her.
Now he did, however. And it didn’t matter so much as to where she’d been, but that she was here with him at this very moment.
“What of you, Your Grace? How did you come to be so invested in the world of investing?”
He waved his hand dismissively. “Perhaps I find it amusing.”
“I see.” A look of disappointment flashed across her face.
It was clear that she had hoped for a more thoughtful response. His usual repartee would not suffice. And, in truth, he’d had too many conversations with too many women—too many people—where all that had been offered were pretty blandishments and shallow observations.
“The world is changing,” he said after a moment. “The country’s changing. It’s not the fixed, unmoving castle on a hill, with England above it all. We have to open our eyes and see that our actions have repercussions.”
Her gaze was bright. It seemed she appreciated the fact that he’d gone beneath the surface, and actually spoke from his heart. “An unusual position.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
“Your Grace.” A Black man approached, removing the spectacles perched on his nose as he did so. He had gray hair and the look of a man who knew exactly how to get what he wanted out of life. Noel had been introduced to him that day, and recalled that his name was Mr. Victor Walditch. He’d made himself a fortune through supplying materials to the hundreds of building and improvement projects throughout the country. “Is there a particular presenter that you’re looking forward to seeing at the Bazaar?”
“Isabel Catton, of course,” Noel said without hesitation. “Best cakes in London, if not the world. I have a fervent, nay, unseemly amount of hope that we’re to sample her shop’s wares.”
“I must agree,” Mr. Walditch added.
“Intriguing,” Lady Whitfield said, “that she alone is the head of her operation. There’s no male figurehead.”
“Why should that matter?” Mr. Walditch asked. “I should hope that the soundness of a business is entirely dependent on the individual, regardless of their gender.”
Lady Whitfield nodded, and the corners of her mouth lifted, as if Mr. Walditch’s answer pleased her.
Noel turned to the woman beside him. “Lady Whitfield, you’ve met Mr. Walditch?”
“Only this morning,” she said, “and we hadn’t much time to get acquainted. Perhaps later we might discuss McAdam’s road-building proposals.”
Noel learned something every day. Today, for instance, he learned that hearing a woman discussing transit routes aroused him. No, not hearing a woman discussing pavement and transit routes. This woman.
“You’ve a wide range of interests, Lady Whitfield,” Noel said.
“Always.” She added after a moment’s pause, “Not everything, in truth. For example, I know very little about reptiles.”
“I know a woman who would be most eager to illuminate you on the subject.”
“Ah, it’s kind of you to suggest that, but natural philosophy is a subject that will never be my main point of focus.”
“And what might that be?” Noel asked.
“To be candid,” she said, “it’s money. Finance. The world of business.” Her expression brightening, she continued. “All of it is as fascinating as any scientific discipline. Dynamic, too. Never the same from day to day as the world changes so quickly. These concepts such as capital and demand are so abstract, but also grounded in the reality of people’s lives. I cannot help but think—”
She abruptly went silent, and in the quiet, Noel suddenly craved the sound of her voice, and the passion in her words.
“Tell me,” he urged. “What do you think?”
“Yes, do,” Mr. Walditch added.
She shot them both a cautious glance. “You truly want to know?”
“Why shouldn’t we?” Noel demanded.
“Because women aren’t to speak of such things. It’s crass and beneath us, soiling our purity with the grime of commerce.” She grimaced.
“Prevailing wisdom can go hang,” he said. “Many mouths speaking the same words doesn’t make it true. Besides,” he added, “sex doesn’t determine one’s intellectual ability any more than one’s preference for eel pie.”
Mr. Walditch shuddered. “Speak no more of eel pie. Even the smell sends me to my bed.”
“There, you see.” Noel nodded at the magnate. “He’s far more intelligent than I am, and cares not for eel pie.”
Lady Whitfield chuckled. “Then I count myself fortunate to be amongst friends. New friends.”
“You and I first met the other day,” he noted, “so we are old friends.” He plucked a glass of sparkling wine from a servant’s tray, then handed it to her. Noel also took a glass for Mr. Walditch and for himself.<
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Once he’d received his wine, Mr. Walditch bowed and excused himself, leaving Noel alone again with Lady Whitfield.
She took a sip. “I would think you have no shortage of friends—one more might be excessive.”
An easy quip rose to his lips, something charming but without substance. But that wouldn’t be enough. Not for her.
“I’ve no shortage of people eager to tell me, Yes, Your Grace,” he said, his words dry. “And I have an abundance of others that attempt to inveigle me to sponsor a bill, or finance their schemes.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I cannot fathom you.”
“Madam?”
“I do read the papers,” she said wryly. “Accounts of your enjoyment are plentiful. By this point, I’d wager Oxford could ask you to lecture on what it means to be a rake.”
Noel had once spent three days at a house party where he and a lovely, experienced opera singer had circled each other, their conversation ripe with blatant innuendo, her every look in his direction calculated to seduce and enflame him. When they had at last gone to bed together, it had been explosive.
These few minutes with Lady Whitfield enticed him far more.
“Rakes are very learned fellows,” he said.
“But infrequent in their attendance at gatherings such as the Bazaar, where there may not be many opportunities for debauchery.” She tilted her head, regarding him, and the depth of her perceptiveness scoured him. He felt raw, exposed.
The sensation wasn’t unpleasant. It was . . . delicious.
“Which are you, then?” she asked after a moment. “The rake, or the man who carefully considers the basis of his wealth?”
He debated for a moment. With how much of himself could he trust her?
Other than his friends from Eton, he trusted few others. Yet in the short time he’d come to know Lady Whitfield, he found that he wanted to trust her. Her cutting brilliance beguiled him and her warm, sweet scent reminded him of sunlit fields and long summer nights. A scent that was hers alone.
“I will tell you something,” he finally said. “Something few know about me.”