“You’re a ruddy duke,” McCameron pointed out. “Surely you can find out who she is.”
“I’m not certain I didn’t imagine her. Though, she did manage to knock a few of my Bond Street grovelers on their metaphorical arses.” He chuckled.
“If she was on Bond Street, she likely travels in lofty circles. You’ll see her at some ball or some other gala you toffs throw to keep from dying of boredom.”
“Aristo blood flows in your veins, too,” Noel noted.
“Scottish aristo blood. That makes it stronger and thicker than English toff blood.” McCameron clicked his tongue. “And if you don’t meet her again, there’s no harm in it. You’ve no shortage of female company. If I’m not mistaken, that brunette over there would be perfectly willing to help you forget any Bond Street beauty.” He nodded in the direction of a woman who wore an enticing smile and not much else. “She’ll grind you down to a nub, my friend.”
“I need to save my strength for the Bazaar,” Noel said. Odd, but he felt no pull toward the flirtatious brunette. Not when his mysterious lady continued to haunt him.
Damn it, he was a duke. He could have anything he wanted—surely he had some means at his disposal to learn her identity. As soon as the Bazaar was over, he would do just that.
A woman like that didn’t come around very often. Like hell would he let her slip through his fingers. He would find her, charm her with his standard methodology, and, for a little while, make life very agreeable for both of them. As usual, he would make plain from the beginning that it would be a short-term arrangement. With a handful of exceptions, his lovers accepted these terms. Surely his Bond Street charmer would be the same.
Cheered by that thought, he hooked an arm around McCameron’s shoulders. “Now it’s time for us to show the rest of these English toffs how a few reprobates from Eton carouse.”
Chapter 4
With her plan to gain entrance to the Bazaar firmly in place, Jess walked up Portland Place. She gave her stride the purposefulness that she needed to propel her through the next hour, deliberately ignoring all the voices in her head that told her she was mad. It wasn’t easy, however. The voices were awfully loud.
She tugged on her gloves, making certain they were perfectly in place. As she had planned, the dress she wore today was borrowed from Lady Catherton’s wardrobe. She pushed aside a stab of guilt over the unauthorized use of the garment. To succeed in business, one sometimes had to ignore the rules.
Looking her best was essential if she meant to talk her way into presenting for the attendees at the Bazaar. She’d brought her pack that contained more bars of McGale & McGale soap, along with the flagon of water and small bowl for demonstration, just as she’d done on Bond Street. Today, however, she would secure funding. The guests of the Bazaar were primed to look for investments, and she’d do her damnedest to see that at least one of them provided her the necessary capital.
As she neared Lord Trask’s home, a man in the clothing of a marginally prosperous craftsman stepped to the home’s entrance, a satchel in one hand. He kept licking his lips, and after he knocked smartly on the door, he wiped his hands down the front of his pantaloons. When the door opened, revealing a man wearing eyeglasses and a dark coat, he took a step back.
“Yes?” The bespectacled man infused this one syllable with hauteur.
Sweeping his hat off his head, the craftsman stammered in a thick Yorkshire accent, “I’m Farrow, of Farrow Ceramics and Tile. I’d . . . I’d like to present . . . to present my tile manufactory to the . . . the gentlemen of the Bazaar.” He hefted the bag that, presumably, held samples of his goods.
The man in glasses held up a sheaf of paper. “Farrow Ceramics and Tile is not on my list of approved presenters, and if you are not on this list, then you are not authorized for entrance.”
“I’ve come such a long way,” Farrow said desperately. “From Sprotbrough—”
“That is obvious,” the door-minder intoned. “And the distance you’ve traveled is not my concern. I suggest that if you do seek to present at the Bazaar, you go through the standard channels and apply to Lord Trask’s man of business.”
“I have.” Farrow clutched his hat to his chest. “For years.”