Nellie brushed out the woman’s greying hair and began backcombing it to give the thinning locks more volume. ‘That must have been fun. It’s rather grand and luxurious, isn’t it?’
The woman huffed her disapproval. ‘Luxurious, is that what you call it? Well, I don’t. They’ve put that horrid electricity all through the dining room. It’s outrageous. It shows up every line, every blemish. Candlelight is so much more flattering to a woman’s complexion.’ She frowned at her reflection. ‘I admit, electricity is good for street lighting, but it should never be installed inside. No woman in her right mind would have it in her home. Mark my words, it will never catch on. Not when candlelight is so much more flattering.’
‘Hmm,’ Nellie said non-committally as she smoothed the woman’s tresses over a roll of false hair which would give it a fuller look. She chose not to point out that for the woman’s maid it would be so much easier to just flick a switch rather than lighting countless candles, trimming all those wicks, scraping spilled wax off table cloths and furniture, and extinguishing all those flames at the end of a long working day.
‘But I did see that Daisy Brook, the Countess of Warwick, when I was there,’ the woman continued, puffing herself up with self-importance. ‘They say she’s the Prince of Wales’s latest mistress.’ She pursed her lips in excited disapproval. ‘I don’t know what this world is coming to, men in his position having mistresses. I pity England when the old Queen dies and that reprobate becomes King.’
Nellie teased out a few curls around the woman’s face and stood back to assess the effect. ‘Well, Queen Vic has lived this long, maybe she’ll outlive her son.’
‘Yes, we can only hope. With Bertie’s eldest son, Eddie, dying so tragically the second son will be King eventually. We can only hope the good Queen does outlive that philandering Bertie and George becomes our next ruler. Then we won’t have to put up with these endless scandals.’ The woman nodded once, as if that was the final word on the matter. Then she smiled at her reflection. ‘Oh, yes, Nellie, you’ve captured that look perfectly.’ She moved her head from side to side.
Nellie returned her smile. ‘I’m pleased you like it. It’s very flattering on you.’
‘Oh, yes, it’s perfect. We’re off to see that new play tonight, The Shop Girl, at the Gaiety Theatre. Have you seen it yet?’
‘Yes, I treated my assistants to it a few weeks ago.’
‘I’ve heard it’s rather good, even if the plot is a bit silly. I mean, a shop girl marrying her wealthy suiter would hardly happen in real life, but it makes for an entertaining musical comedy.’
On this point, Nellie had to agree with her client.
Harriet parted the gold shot silk curtains that separated the parlour from the shop and quietly informed Nellie that a gentleman wanted to talk to her. ‘He said he needed to see you immediately.’
Nellie teased out one more cascading curl, excused herself and went through the curtained divide. Her smile of greeting died. She froze to the spot, gripping the silky curtain tightly as if she was in danger of falling. It couldn’t be. But it was. It was him. Mr Lockhart. He had followed her to London. This was getting ridiculous.
What on earth was wrong with the man? Didn’t he have anything better to do with his time? Apparently not.
Harriet and Matilda were smiling at her and raising their eyebrows up and down in admiration. They obviously thought there was nothing wrong with Mr Lockhart. But they could only see a sublimely handsome gentleman, his masculine presence somewhat out of place among all the feminine bits and bobs. They didn’t know that he was also a pompous, authoritarian ass and he was here to give Nellie a telling off.
While Mr Lockhart continued to look disapprovingly at a display of artificial flowers and coloured ostrich feathers, Nellie took a moment to compose herself. She released her hand from its grip on the silk curtain, smoothed down her apron and wished she was wearing something a bit more attractive than the simple brown skirt and jacket she wore to work.
Now, who was the one being ridiculous? Who cared what she looked like? Did she need to be dressed up and looking her best just so Mr Lockhart could reprimand her? No, she did not.
She coughed lightly to clear her dry, constricted throat and walked up to the counter. He replaced the hair comb decorated with peonies and forget-me-nots back on the display and turned to face her.
‘Miss Regan. You left before I had a chance to talk to you.’
Nellie drew in an agitated breath and breathed out slowly. That had been the whole point of yesterday’s early-morning departure, so he wouldn’t have a chance to berate her. Yet here he was, still wanting to get his revenge, just because he’d been the subject of a small joke.
It seemed he was more than just a pompous ass. He was an insufferable pig who deserved his come-uppance and Nellie would really like to be the one to give it to him. But now was neither the time nor the place for her to let him know just what she thought of him and his high-and-mighty behaviour, or which animal, pig or ass his behaviour most resembled.
He continued staring at her, waiting impatiently for her answer. She refused to be affected by those dark eyes boring into her. She refused to be cowed by his handsome countenance, his perfectly symmetrical face, strong jawline and high cheekbones that looked as if they’d been carved out of granite. She would not be overawed by his full, sensual lips. And she most certainly would not be undermined by his height, his wide shoulders, or the way his masculine presence seemed to fill the room.
She tilted up her chin and stared back
