down, he did actually like her. He always saved the best of each shipment for her, as he’d proven two days earlier when the red sable brushes had arrived.
Which was why she had decided to try to enlist his help in her unorthodox plan, “try” being the operative word. As good a customer as she was, she wanted to think that he would agree to help her, but the truth was, she couldn’t be sure of such an eventuality.
She placed her gloved hands on the utilitarian counter and leaned forward the slightest bit. “I think not, actually. As it turns out,
That earned her little more than a flicker of his eyes before he returned his attention to his work. “Perhaps you will wish to come back when I am less busy,
Definitely not. There wasn’t a soul in the shop other than the two of them since she’d convinced her maid to pop in the small bookstore next door and choose a new book. And besides that, it had taken quite a bit of nerve to come here today, with the carefully rendered drawing tucked in the crook of her arm for safekeeping. “Never fear. I’ll take only a moment of your time.”
He grunted in acknowledgment, somehow infusing incredulity into the inarticulate sound.
“Tell me, monsieur, do you ever break the rules?”
His hands paused for a second or two before he resumed his task. “I am a Frenchman living in London, my lady. A man in my position admits to no wrongdoings.”
“I don’t mean anything nefarious. I merely wondered if you have ever tried something . . . a bit outside of the accepted norm.”
He sighed, setting down his carving tools beside the small steel plate. She could see what he was working on now: a fashion plate of a stylish morning gown.
“And what is the norm? I wonder. I suspect my normal and your normal are quite different.”
“True,” she allowed with a bob of her head. Her eyes landed on the small, framed print hanging on the wall directly over his workspace. Rendered in the limited medium of lines and crosshatchings, it was a masterful portrayal of a laughing young woman looking playfully over her shoulder. It was the sort of piece that would have taken hours upon hours of careful, delicate work. Every time she visited the shop, the young woman’s portrait drew her notice. And she had a pretty good idea of who the lady must be.
It was time to test her theory. Changing tactics, Bea met his skeptical gaze head-on. “Are you married, monsieur?”
His bushy brows snapped together, eyes narrowing. “I used to be.”
It was exactly as she thought. “Did you love your wife?”
An Englishman might have kicked her out of the shop right then and there. In fact, many Frenchmen would have as well, and she braced for the possibility of his anger. But one look at his softening expression, and she knew her hunch was correct.
“Ah, yes. Very much.”
“I thought that might have been the case,” she said, her tone soft and sincere. “It’s why I hope you’ll help me now.”
He crossed his arms, his stubby, callused fingers fanning out across the coarse gray wool of his chunky knit sweater. “And what is it you think old Georges can do to help the daughter of a marquis?”
Beatrice bit her lip, hoping she was making the right decision coming to him. “First, I think this is something that can help both of us. Second, well, perhaps you should take a look at this.”
She pulled out the rolled sheet of paper and handed it to him. He didn’t know it yet, but she
The seconds stretched on as she waited for some sort of reaction from the old man. Nothing. She curled her hands at her sides to keep from fidgeting. Her gaze flicked to the image, studying it with fresh eyes. Her idea had turned out better than she had even hoped. Apparently, anger fueled the arts as effectively as passion. It was slightly brilliant, if she did say so herself.
His head remained bent over the page, his countenance giving away nothing as the low sounds from the busy street outside filled the silence. At last, he looked up at her, his magnified eyes unusually bright behind their lenses. “Very interesting, mademoiselle. Am I to assume you have plans for this piece?”
“I hope to. Anonymously, of course. And only with your help.”
He grunted, a noncommittal sound that could have either meant she was mad, or she had his interest. She decided to go with the latter. “I’ll pay you, of course. For your time and talents, as well as your trouble.”
He sat back in his chair, studying her as if gauging her mettle. She lifted her chin, a gesture she found herself doing whenever she wished she weren’t so small. Long seconds ticked by, but still he didn’t say a word. Anxiousness tugged at her belly, and she couldn’t keep quiet another second. “What do you think?”
“I think,” he said, coming to his feet and turning to face her fully, “that you will either get us both in much trouble . . .” He trailed off, tilting his head as he considered her.
“Or?” she prompted.
“Or make us the talk of the town.”
She grinned, confidence that he would help her flooding her chest. “Let us hope,” she said, leaning forward with a bit of mischief, “that it will be the latter.”
“Christ Almighty, have you seen this thing?”
John strode into the breakfast room waving a small publication of some sort. Colin’s mind had been so far away at that moment, immersed in his plans for the day, that it took him a moment to realize what his cousin was holding.
A ladies’ fashion magazine.
Colin raised an eyebrow. “No, actually. Though I am riveted to hear why you have seen it.” He set down his coffee and reached for the rag, holding it between two fingers as if the vapidness contained within was somehow catching.
“You’re lucky I did. My stepsister was positively agog over the thing.” His cousin began to pace the length of the breakfast room, turning sharply at the end of each circuit. “Go on; read it.”
Colin looked down at the rather hideous fashion plate that was illustrated on most of the page. With a shrug, he read the caption.
Stalking back toward where Colin sat, John snatched the magazine from his hand and flipped it around. “Try again.”
Damn but the man was in a snit. Colin sighed and refocused on the page before him, turning it to catch the dim light filtering into the room from the dreary morning outside.
John rolled his hand in a “keep going” gesture, and Colin returned his attention to the page. “‘It has come to my attention that there are some things for which a young debutant may not be adequately prepared. I should know—I myself have been one. I know exactly what it feels like to have the admiring eyes of a handsome gentleman bring a blush to one’s cheek and the elation of being asked to dance by a long-admired suitor. In that moment, an innocent young miss can easily be misled by a man whose intentions are not as they seem.
“‘I speak of the type of person known as a fortune hunter.’”
Colin’s gaze jerked up. “Bloody hell.”
“It gets better,” John said, resuming his pacing.
Returning to the letter, Colin forged on. “‘A fortune hunter has no care for the lady herself, only the promise of the money she is attached to. If he succeeds in marrying a hapless young lady of fortune, the lady herself is no longer of interest. His fortune secured, he’ll carelessly set aside his wife and carry on with whatever behavior
