Chapter 4

4

T uesday, November 7, 1826

Kenton & Bullock Drapers

Cheapside, London

John Kenton, one-half of Kenton and Bullock Drapers, looked up in annoyance. A group of three obviously self-important customers had marched through the front door, and the men were clearing a path through the day’s crowd of purchasers eager to get early access to their recent shipment of hand-painted linens from India.

And then he saw the tiny woman with the bulldog-like attitude they shielded between them. Lady Camilla Bowles Attington Carrington Whitby . Jupiter, James, and Joseph! That woman could make or break their business amongst the ton’s highest echelons. Not to mention the patronage of the newly rich merchant families who loved to ape the aristocracy.

As they neared the front counter, he was struck by something else: My God, an Adonis of a man was guiding her carefully by her upper arm . The gorgeous man glared at him, as if daring him to complain, but with a touch of apology in the glint of his eyes. Lionel Carrington-Bowles, the grand lady’s beloved nephew. Had to be him. The man’s physical beauty was legend throughout London.

At that moment, his rugged partner, Will, chose to appear at his side, and with his usual Irish brashness demanded of the newcomers, “Who in Hades do you think you might be, scattering aside our customers like that?”

John cringed internally, but was grateful Will allowed him to be the manager who smoothed the way whilst his wild, untamed partner could be the one to demand answers.

The man to the other side of Lady Camilla reminded him of a whippet in his intensity. “Whom do you think you’re addressing with such callow remarks, sir?”

John chose that moment to place a gentle hand on Will’s arm. “Do you suppose you could find James and get him to bring us some tea to the blue room?”

Will’s bright blue eyes snapped fire, but he sensed John knew more about the interlopers than he did. He nodded curtly and turned on his heel to make arrangements for refreshments.

John addressed the customers still straining to be waited on. Some had uttered angry growls at the current interlopers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please accept our deepest apology at the interruption of regular business hours. An emergency has occurred that requires we close down our showrooms until tomorrow morning. Our man at the door will provide tokens for a substantial discount if you overlook our rudeness and choose to return with your kind patronage tomorrow morning.”

With that, a small army of employees appeared to help herd the substantial crowd back out into the London late-day gloom. There were still grumblings, but he suspected the offer of tokens would more than make up for their being barred temporarily from the Kenton and Bullock showrooms.

After he’d seen to the mollifying of his other customers, he returned his entire attention to the tiny woman with silvering blonde hair who ruled the small, but wealthy world of Mayfair from her St. James Square drawing room.

The soft rose silk redingote she wore belied the will of steel that dwelt beneath. Not only did she personally re-decorate her mansion at least once a year, but an on dit about their firm could be the making of all of them. One false step and the opportunity would slip through their fingers forever. He had to tread lightly.

Her nephew, Carrington-Bowles, smoothly intervened. “Mister Kenton, I presume?”

“Yes.” John extended his hand for a firm handshake.

Carrington-Bowles turned toward the woman who fairly vibrated with impatience. “May I present my aunt, Lady Bowles Attington Carrington Whitby?”

“My establishment is entirely at your disposal, milady.” John bent low over the hand she extended.

She abruptly interrupted the polite discourse. “Is there somewhere we might have a private interview with you and your partner? I have a proposition to discuss.”

John straightened and stiffened. For a split second, he considered what in the hell she was up to before remembering all the ways this tiny woman could make or break them. “My partner is waiting in the Blue Room with a tea service and some of Nathaniel Charpentier’s famous raspberry macarons.”

“How did you manage to come by Nathaniel’s macarons? Carrington Bowles’s voice was sharp. “He doesn’t engage in public trade off the street.”

A thump somewhere between an “aha” and sheer terror resounded in John’s chest where his heart should have been. He merely smiled and regained his equilibrium.

“My partner Will was an assistant chef once under Mr. Charpentier. They became close friends, and he still supplies him with his favorite macarons for old time’s sake.” John smiled again at Carrington-Bowles. “I prevailed upon Will to share with our esteemed guests.”

Carrington-Bowles said nothing, but something sounding like an ominous rumble emanated the depths of from his chest.

Lady Camilla, apparently sensing the miniscule slice of tension between the two men, said, “Tea with Nathaniel Charpentier’s macarons would be wonderful. Did you know he occasionally supplies his macarons to Prinny?”

“I’m not surprised,” was his only comment as John led the way through the doors to the Blue Room and experienced a momentary bit of pride mixed with jealousy at the sharp intake of breath from Carrington-Bowles when Will turned from the table he’d been helping arrange with their butler, James. They kept a full staff to ensure wealthy patrons who wanted to see the latest furniture designs from the Continent were well taken care of during their visits.

Will was a passionate force of nature who drew people to him with barely any effort on his part. He was a beautiful, giving man who forged through life, attracting the attention of both men and women.

John noted with approval that Will had returned to their office to retrieve his fine blue woolen coat that emphasized the depths of his dark blue eyes. He’d also donned a fresh, snowy white shirt before welcoming them to the Blue Room. When he wasn’t quite so harried from managing their huge warehouse or keeping customers happy, he could be a very charming man.

When they’d first met as lads on the docks of London, each of them had been escaping the East India guards who prowled the perimeters of their vast warehouses. One of the many river lightermen had spread a rumor in several riverfront taverns that a portion of a load from a certain merchantman recently returned from the Far East would be for sale to the highest bidders amongst the riverfront gangs that night.

Unfortunately, the East India Company spies had overheard the rumors as well. Which ended with young John Kenton running for his life and flinging himself off the land edge of the London bridge near Pepper Alley. He’d landed hard in one of the many river skiffs tied at the water’s edge for hire. He’d knocked himself out, and in the guards’ frantic chase after his fellow thieves, they’d left him for dead. John thought he was dead as well until a string of Gaelic curses hurled directly into his ear.

He’d fallen on fellow thief and adventurer, Will Bullock. The sound of “Heave yer bony arse off me neck, ye miserable, unbaptized excuse for a thief,” woke him, emanating from beneath a heavy piece of canvas in the bottom of the boat.

After a gruff introduction, the other boy had led John through a series of “safe” taverns and houses until they were out of the path of the East India army of guards.

John had been about ten and Will, only eight, but from that day forward, they’d moved through the stews surrounding the riverfront like brothers. They’d shared whatever food or goods they could cadge during the day. By night, they’d hidden in an ancient rooftop coop of pigeons used by the priests of St. Mary’s. They’d both laughed at how the birds were fed much better than the children in the massive church’s orphanage.

They could never figure out whether Father Morgan, who faithfully cared for the pigeons, knew they were there. He seemed almost as ancient as the pigeon coops, and the boys surmised his hearing was probably inadequate.

But they did wonder at the way sometimes he’d absentmindedly leave a bag of stale bread outside the coop instead of returning it to the kitchens below. They didn’t know whether his carelessness was deliberate or not. On days when they couldn’t afford the pennies to buy bread from a street vendor, they’d gratefully wolfed down the hard, stale chunks.

Camilla looked up into the humor-filled blue eyes of the younger of the two partners and had a hard time masking her excitement. These two were perfect for what she had in mind for Mistress Number Five, the stubborn Margot, and her free-spirited lover, Gabrielle. Camilla had nearly attained her secret goal for Derek.

Next to her, Barrister Stephen Forsythe added entirely too many sugars to his cup of tea and took a bracing sip before coming bluntly to the point without any preliminary explanation. “We have a situation which requires the presence of both of you for a week or two at the residence of one of the mistresses of the Earl of Framlingwood.”