A Love by Design, page 16
Ladies apparel and accoutrements took up the third floor, where Mrs. Fenley and her daughters reigned. The walls were hung with hundreds of tiny mirrors and from the ceiling were suspended modern paraffin lamps. Various tables of different sizes were covered in brightly colored silks and upon them rested boxes full of gloves, hatpins, and purses.
Beautiful gifts for women also crowded the second floor of the building. There were no mirrors there and the attendants were all male.
This was Sam Fenley’s brainchild. A refuge for husbands who were searching for gifts for their wives. Some of the same wares as were sold above were laid out, but they came attached with various cards.
Have you done something terrible but she won’t tell you what it is? asked a placard. Beneath the sign were boxes of bejeweled hatpins and brightly colored scarves, pretty bonnets and cleverly embroidered pincushions. Want to make her happy before giving bad news? asked another. A gentleman attendant would ask how dire the situation and guide a male customer to the perfect gift depending on what he heard. The more upset the gentleman, the more expensive the gift.
Pleased to see how men were as gullible if not more so than women—witness a display advertising beard oil made by blind virgins—Margaret always worried Fenley’s encouraged men to buy presents rather than simply grovel.
Every man should be encouraged to grovel.
Margaret headed straight for the center of the first floor, where stood an attractive stand of umbrellas, similar to those designed by Jonas Hanway. They weighed more than the oiled silk Chinese parasols women held in Paris to protect their skin, but this way, Margaret could walk on the street without ruining her bonnets and not have to take as many hacks.
“Yes, yes, the toy is clever. My question is, can you make it bigger?”
Perhaps because she had been thinking of groveling, it called to mind the one person she would love to see on his knees.
That thought made her blush then grow angry with herself for blushing. Would she never learn?
Grantham stood deep in conversation with Sam Fenley. A delightful young man, Margaret thought he had an overabundance of intelligence and too few places to apply it. Perhaps six or seven years younger than her, the handsome youth with the distinctive Fenley wheat blond hair and cornflower blue eyes was well shaped and had an irresistible smile.
“Bigger is not always better, my lord,” Sam said.
Had Sam matured since last they saw one another?
“More expensive, now that is always better.”
No.
Same Sam.
“If you switch out the plain hat for the gilded one, it will shine like . . .”
Sam caught sight of Margaret and paused, mouth agape. A dreamy look drifted across his face, and she rolled her lips inward to keep from laughing at him.
“Madame Gault’s eyes,” he said in an awed tone.
Margaret picked the umbrella she’d selected and made her way toward his counter.
Grantham hadn’t seen her; instead, he stared at Sam with consternation.
“How do you know Margaret’s eyes shine like gilt?” he demanded.
“I’m certain Mr. Fenley meant something else altogether,” Margaret said from behind him. She laid the umbrella on the counter, ignoring Grantham’s surprise, and favored Sam with a smile.
Sam set one elbow on the counter and leaned toward her.
“I did mean you, madame. Why, my mother always says you epitomize the ideal woman with your grace and beauty, and of course your wit, and . . .”
“Hello?” said Grantham, scowling at Sam. He tapped the counter. Hard. “That is all well and good, but we were discussing something ungraceful, inelegant, and irritating.”
Sam ignored him.
“But you cannot mean to purchase this umbrella,” he said to Margaret. “It isn’t magnificent enough for you. You should have something in russet or gold to highlight the color of your eyes.”
Sam leaned even farther forward, the picture of adoration, and went to set his other elbow on the countertop. Unfortunately, because he stared at her and not the counter, he misjudged the distance and instead of leaning forward, he fell and smacked his head onto the counter’s edge.
“Sh—” He swallowed a curse and stood quickly, his hands flying to his forehead, wobbled backward, and before Margaret could reach out to keep him upright, tripped on a box at his feet and fell over with a loud thud.
Margaret gasped.
Grantham, beholding the sight of a prone Sam Fenley, simply scowled with disgust.
“Christ Jesu, Fenley.” He leaned over the counter and scolded the boy. “Have a little dignity.”
“Grantham, stop.” Margaret admonished him, hurrying round the counter to help Sam to his feet.
“Are you all right, Mr. Fenley?”
Sam, beet red from the part of his hair to where his neck disappeared beneath his collar, sat up. A large lump formed between his eyes and his stare was now glassy with pain rather than interest.
“Madame, when I am in your presence . . .” He leaned on her more than necessary as he made to stand. “There is no pain can touch me.”
“Oh, I’m positive I can inflict enough pain even Madame Gault’s presence won’t protect you from,” Grantham said, staring straight at Margaret.
“Lord Grantham.” She spoke sharply, holding Sam’s arm. “Do you not own a newspaper with which to occupy your time rather than purchasing frivolous gifts and tormenting poor Mr. Fenley?”
“A newspaper?” Sam exclaimed; injury forgotten. “Which one?”
“The Capital’s Chronicle,” said Grantham proudly.
“Oh. That one?” Sam’s excitement faded and he turned his attention to Margaret. “But Madame Gault, Letty wrote us you are returned to London for good now. You must come and have dinner with the family.”
Grantham frowned, head bouncing between her and Sam. “What do you mean, oh, that one? Yes. The one currently running a series of enthralling stories about geese.”
Grantham’s ears pinkened under Sam’s stare of disbelief.
“Enthralling stories?” Sam’s voice was thick with sarcasm. “I saw the article the other day and saved it for when I had trouble falling asleep.”
“The article was informative and balanced,” Grantham said tersely.
Sam tilted his head. “What kind of paper is The Capital’s Chronicle?”
Grantham looked at Margaret as though for inspiration, but she just shrugged.
“By which I mean, what is the reason for the paper? Are you a political broadsheet? Literary? Gossip and fashion?” Sam asked.
“At the moment we are against anything Victor Armitage is for and for anything Victor Armitage is against.”
“That isn’t going to sell papers.” Sam scrunched his brows. “To sell something, you need to be telling one grand story.”
“It’s a broadsheet,” Grantham explained. “There are dozens of stories.”
“No, it’s more like—” Sam scratched his head, then pulled forward the tin soldier Grantham had been admiring. “See, I’m not selling you a toy.”
“Oh, you aren’t?” Grantham stared at the soldier and frowned. “I liked that toy.”
Shaking his head and wincing, Sam gingerly touched the lump forming there. “That’s not the point.”
Margaret had spent enough time in the Fenley household to guess where Sam was heading and intervened before Grantham grew frustrated.
“You can have the toy, my lord. Along with the toy, Mr. Fenley is selling you the idea of the toy.”
“Exactly.” Sam favored her with a blinding smile full of surprisingly white teeth. “This toy is nothing but a few bits of tin screwed together by a bloke in Limehouse. You could buy it off him for a tuppence.”
“A tuppence.” Grantham pounded the counter with his fist. “You’re selling it for three times as much!”
“I’m selling you the idea of it.” Sam held the toy so it caught the light. “The exclusivity of finding it here. The story of land far away where men who more resemble elves than humans work their magic with tiny silver hammers.”
Grantham grabbed the toy and moved its arms up and down. “I didn’t believe you about the little men.”
Unconvinced, Sam pulled out a small velvet box and packed the soldier away. “You say you’re going to write about geese. These are the greylag geese Flavia is upset about?”
Grantham nodded.
“Maybe instead of an article about birds, you write about the way trains have changed our natural world forever,” said Sam.
Margaret scowled. “The discovery of the steam engine has allowed us—”
“To sully the pristine British countryside with noise and dirt and smells,” Sam said.
Gone were the adoring looks and pretty compliments he’d been throwing her way before. The true Sam Fenley had emerged. What energized him far more than a pretty woman was a prettier story to tell.
“And Armitage—the hypocrite. Presenting himself as the guardian of England while at the same time he wants to decimate all our geese.” Sam tied the box with a huge ribbon.
Grantham, who had been eyeing another toy in a glass case, peered up in consternation. “What? I didn’t say he wants to decimate all the geese in England.”
“I shall tell Lucy to take my counter tomorrow.” Sam spoke over him. “What time does the newspaper office open?”
“What do you . . . ?” Grantham’s brows pulled together as Sam pushed the box toward him. “I don’t think they—”
“Doesn’t matter.” Sam waved off Grantham’s question. “I’ll be there at eight. Tell them to expect me. Oh, and Madame Gault?” Sam handed her the umbrella. “Please, take this as a gift and use it in good health.”
Margaret considered. She wasn’t well pleased with Sam’s interference, but the umbrella cost six shillings after all.
“Do not forget,” Sam told her with a suggestive waggle in his brow. “Today is Wednesday. You remember what Mam makes on Wednesdays?”
Oh, did she ever. “Roast?”
“Da and Mam will be so pleased to see you again. Please say you’ll come for dinner?”
Margaret said yes because of the roast and not because it made a vein stand out on Grantham’s neck.
Served him right.
* * *
GRANTHAM BOUGHT THE damn toy anyway, despite his disillusionment, and followed Margaret out of the store.
“That stripling should stick with what he knows,” Grantham grumbled. “And what was that doggerybaw about your eyes and such? The boy is far too forward.”
Margaret unfurled the umbrella and Grantham jumped back a foot so as not to get poked in the eye.
“He did his job,” she said. “He could make you buy a piece of stone and have you convinced it was a diamond from the Queen’s coronet. You are lucky to have him come help you ruin my livelihood.”
With that, she spun on her heel and walked away. Grantham kept behind her, trying to duck under the umbrella and having to fall off the walkway instead.
“I am not—ow,” his foot slipped off the edge of a rotting board and he stepped in a pile of manure.
“Damn—Margaret, I am not trying to—oof.” Having moved off the walkway while trying to scrape the manure off the bottom of his boot, he hadn’t looked where he was going and ran into a gentleman walking the other way. “Excuse me,” Grantham apologized, lifting his topper.
Margaret meanwhile was half a street away already with her firm stride. Grantham took a moment to admire the sway of her backside as folks made way for her.
“I am trying to apologize,” he said to himself as she turned a corner and he lost sight of her. Apologize for what exactly, he wasn’t sure. Everything, he supposed. Not having preventatives. Not foreseeing a need for preventatives. Not finding the words to explain while he’d imagined her naked in his bed hundreds of times since the kiss they’d shared at the ball, he’d never believed she would be there in the flesh, so to speak.
That she was so long a dream, he didn’t know what to do with the real woman.
Too late.
Once again, he’d made everything worse between them.
Thick, greasy drops of rain fell on the brim of his hat and Grantham glanced at the beautifully wrapped box in his hands.
Ah well, at least the day wasn’t a total waste.
* * *
“THE FECK THIS is made by elves on a mountainside. You can buy this in Limehouse for a tuppence.” Arthur Kneland crowed with delight as he pulled the toy from its elaborate wrapping. Grantham had made his way to Beacon House after his unsatisfactory encounter with Margaret.
“The box you brought it in is worth more than this toy,” Kneland said.
“Fine,” said Grantham glumly. “Give Baby Georgie—”
“Her name is Mirren.”
“—the box. She can use it to hide in when she learns she’s half-Scottish.”
Grantham selected a biscuit from the tray in front of him then set it down, his appetite having fled. He’d climbed through a window this time to avoid the footmen Kneland had set to watch him and nearly scared the wits from a parlor maid. In retaliation, Arthur had asked a footman to bring him the last of Mrs. Sweet’s biscuits rather than Cook’s shortbread.
Grantham rubbed his face and covered a yawn with his hand. After Margaret had left last night, he’d spent the hours until dawn castigating himself for having ruined the chance of a lifetime. Missing a night’s sleep was a far sight easier in his boyhood than in his advancing years.
“What ails you?”
Grantham stared at the other man in surprise. “What?”
“What ails you, man?” Kneland asked again. “You look like you haven’t slept in days, your jokes aren’t even up to your worst standards, and you have this . . .”
He waved his hand around and frowned.
Annoyed, Grantham mirrored the gesture. “This what? Godlike physique? Abnormal beauty for a mortal?”
“No,” Kneland spat. “You have this air about you as though you’ve lost your best friend.”
Twenty years a protection officer for figures as varied as a corrupt Italian prince and the head of the Greek Army had left Kneland with a rudimentary ability to read another man’s face.
Which disconcerted him more? That his problems with Margaret had left such a mark on him or he had the sudden urge to confide in the other man? Both thoughts made him queasy.
“Simply a stomach upset,” Grantham said.
They were in the Beacon House library, where Kneland had been in the act of letter writing when Grantham arrived.
Grantham enjoyed the library. A large room, all four walls fitted with dark oak bookshelves. Unlike the decorative libraries found in most of society’s town houses, the books in here had been read and reread. Some of the spines were so creased, the titles were illegible. Thick blue brocade curtains kept the light from bleaching the cloth covers, and a huge mahogany desk sat next to a cozy arrangement of wide-seated Georgian chairs and settees. The fireplace wasn’t lit yet and the lovely landscape by Joshua Reynolds of Richmond brightened the room. Bowls of dried lavender and rose petals scented the air and someone had left a shawl hanging over the back of a chair.
It reminded him of the library at Grange Abbey, where he and Violet had come up with their more outrageous schemes. Since Margaret was present only during the summers, she wasn’t always able to temper his and Vi’s ridiculous inventions, and the worst of their transgressions always occurred around Christmastime.
Kneland stared at him while he walked in a circle around Grantham’s chair.
“ ’Tisn’t a stomach upset. You’ve the intestinal constitution of a goat. No.” Kneland stopped, leaned in close, and sniffed. He leaned back and scrutinized Grantham’s shoes. Then he reached over and plucked a hair from Grantham’s head.
“The devil!” Grantham roared.
Kneland didn’t even blink as he squinted at the hair then held it to his ear, nodding mysteriously.
“As I suspected,” he said, his near-black eyes narrowing as if in deep thought.
Grantham snorted. What rubbish was this?
“Woman trouble,” the Scot pronounced.
“The only trouble I have is I haven’t punched anyone in days,” Grantham said, leaping to his feet. “You cannot tell me you’ve diagnosed women trouble from one hair.”
Kneland dropped Grantham’s hair in a small rubbish bin and took out a handkerchief with which to wipe his hands.
Bounder.
“No, but your face when I pulled it amused me. I don’t need your hair to tell you what ails you. Although one of the members claims she can tell a person’s sex from their hair.”
“Ridiculous,” said Grantham.
“Stuff and nonsense,” he agreed, holding up a finger with obnoxious certainty. “The question is . . . who? I haven’t heard your name linked with anyone lately. The gossip columns say the Untamed Earl is like a fox run to ground by the persistent pack of matrimonial mamas. Unless this obsession with the greylag goose . . . you’re not sniffing ’round Flavia Smythe-Harrows, are you?”
Of all the . . .
“I am not sniffing after her. I don’t sniff. I am man. I draw a powerful breath, or I inhale mightily. Either road, I am not courting Flavia.”
Grantham threw himself onto the settee, taking great pleasure in the horrific creak of the wooden frame. “I don’t sniff.”
