“You will take one hack back to the Grand Palace on the Thames, Miss Woodville, because Fleegle’s Emporium of Wonders, whatever the devil that is, won’t be open after dusk. And I will take the other back to Lucifer’s Fall to address a little business before I return to the boardinghouse. I’m prepared to escort you to Fleegle’s tomorrow afternoon about two o’clock.”
His presumptuous ordering her about still abraded her nerves, but less than it had even hours ago. His sheer competence, and the money he threw about like he was Midas himself, made her nervous. She was afraid to get accustomed to it, but it wasn’t easy to resist. It was as though a too-tight belt she’d worn around her rib cage for years had finally beenloosened a few notches. She wondered if it was a strategy, on his part. If she didn’t put up a bit of a fight, sooner or later he’d order her to lie back and hoist her skirts and she would obey out of sheer habit.
She could see no reason to argue with him about her own personal hack, however.
Instead of lifting her this time, he offered his hand to help her up, and she took it.
She was shocked when her cheeks went warm as he closed his fingers around hers.
She ducked her head briefly and released him swiftly.
When she looked up again, she caught an expression she could not quite interpret fleeing from his face. She might have called it rapt if he’d been any other man.
As far as she was concerned, he’d been instrumental in her family’s catastrophe, but he also could have easily let her twist in the wind. She was still a lady.
She remembered her manners, because he deserved that much.
“Thank you for your help today,” she said almost shyly.
He touched his hat. “Anything to keep you from ruining me, Miss Woodville.”
Chapter Ten
“This is Mrs. Cartwright’s worst nightmare. The dusting!”
Ginny was agog at the sight of row upon row upon row of little vases, dishes, bowls, match keepers, salt cellars, and more stretched on into infinity in Fleegle’s Emporium, which was milling with people picking things up and putting them down again.
“It’s a lot of people’s worst nightmares,” Marchand said grimly. “Imagine the crashing sound after one mighty sneeze.”
“Or if you swung a cricket bat in here,” Ginny said.
Marchand had in fact presented a cricket bat to her a half hour go when he’d returned to the Grand Palace on the Thames. He’d been at Lucifer’s Fall all morning interviewing new guards to replace the one he’d fired for letting her in, or so he told her. He’d been out at Lucifer’s Fall last evening, too, as the boardinghouse rules allowed. While she’d played a rousing game of whist with the ladies, Ginny worked up a little resentment by imagining him strolling through a thicket of drunk heirs happily engaged in losing their fortunes. It was an attempt to offset something that felt disconcertingly like disappointment. The room felt diminished by Marchand’s absence.
“Apparently, this is one of the ‘whimsical’ things your brother won,” he said when he handed the cricket bat over to her. “It was sent to him care of Lucifer’s Fall. And look, it’s even signed by Silver Billy Beldham.” Silver Billy was a famous batman. Her brother worshipped him. “It might actually be worth something.” Marchand had paused. “Not anywhere near as much as Hogarth wagered for it, of course.”
Ginny had sighed heavily and brought it up to her boardinghouse room, muttering beneath her breath about her brother.
“Let’s speak to Fleegle’s proprietor,” Marchand said now.
They waited in line as several people ahead of them made purchases.
Mr. Fleegle turned out to be a bald gentleman with a long, regal nose and bushy white eyebrows. He flicked his eyes over the two of them and adjusted his posture to ever-so-slightly straighter. Likely he smelled money.
“Good afternoon, sir. Would you be Mr. Fleegle?” Marchand asked.
“Yes, sir. And you would be?”
“A potential customer. Mr. Fleegle, would something you purchased from a customer three days ago already be out on your shelves?”
“Anything pretty we received three days ago would have already been sorted and recorded by our staff and put out on the shelves. Anything ugly we use for target practice for the fun of it or sell for skeet.”
“How do you determine ugly from pretty?” Ginny wondered. Only slightly ironically.
“Taste, my dear.” Mr. Fleegle tapped his temple. “You have to be born with it.”
“How interesting! One learns something new every day, don’t they, ah, dear?” She turned to Marchand.
He fixed her with a quelling look.