That didn’t mean, Fleur told herself, that she was impressed.
The clerks—stationed like gatekeepers—clearly felt the same about Fleur. They moved about, carrying trays, polishing cases, and dusting mahogany. The boy had delivered the news to everyone. All the smartly dressed men pretended they weren’t watching her.
They had none of Fleur’s furtiveness.
Fleur edged her enormous, wide-brimmed bonnet back just enough to reveal her eyes, telling them without words: “See, I am perfectly sane.”
A strained-looking fellow appeared to draw the short straw. He bowed to Fleur.
“Good morning, ma’am. You have arrived early. Pray tell me how I may be of assistance.”
More like, pray, how may I be rid of you as quickly as possible?
Fleur invited herself over. Alas, she knew how men were—a product of being a sister with many brothers whose friends were from all walks of life. At least, as it came to men. They were rogues, sailors, and gentlemen. Men always responded better with a smile.
Not Hartwell. Her smile elicited his ducal horror and disdain.
“Hello, I was wondering if you might be so good as to assist me on a matter of grave importance.”
Her current scowl ruined her attempts at charming the wary clerk.
“I would be delighted to help.” The hitch there said he’d prefer walking barefoot over glass and manure.
Fleur set her reticule on the glass counter. “If you would please be so good as to inform Mr. Rundell, I request an audience.”
For the look that passed between her nervous assistant and the fellows around him, Fleur may as well have asked for their Lord and Maker.
“As in Mr. Philip Rundell,” she clarified.
There came more looks, and an even longer silence. “He is not here,” she said, filled with a childlike need to stomp her foot. “Mr. Bridge will also do.”
“I am afraid that is not possible.”
“Neither of them is here? Do you know what time they will arrive? I can wait.” Fleur looked around for a chair.
Apparently, patrons weren’t encouraged to sit.
“Patrons do not speak directly with Mr. Rundell and Mr. Bridge.”
Fleur searched for the one who had called out that announcement.
The brave soul stepped forward. “The owners of the establishment do not meet with patrons, ma’am,” he repeated.
The mustached staff member with thick mutton chops delivered an almost smooth statement.
Almost.
Even the tiny pause between “with patrons” was still a pause. It said what the employee wouldn’t voice; the esteemed proprietors only met with the noblest noblemen.
Letting her annoyance show, Fleur reminded herself, wasn’t going to help her efforts.
“Mr… I am sorry.” Fleur loosened the pearl and lace ribbon ties of her cloak and let it slip open enough to reveal her finest garment. “I’m afraid I did not gather your name.”
His gaze slipped. The knob in his throat moved several times. “Mr. Bridge.”
“Mr. Bridge?”
“I am Mr. Bridge’s nephew.” That was handy.