Finally, the presentation ended, and Hart bowed before exiting the drawing room.
Lady Whitfield turned to Mr. Walditch, seated nearby. “Are you all right, sir? The cotton’s origins—” She shook her head, and did not conceal the disgust in her expression.
Walditch offered her a weary look. “It is a fact of life, my lady, that men such as Hart profit from slaves. He will not receive a penny from me.”
Nor, if Noel had any say in the matter, would Hart be given money from anyone in Noel’s wide sphere of influence.
“Tell me you aren’t going to invest in that mill,” Lady Whitfield whispered to him.
“Good God, no.”
Though the movement was slight, he saw her shoulders loosen with what seemed like relief. “Good. That’s good.”
He looked at the line of her profile as she bent over her notebook. Though he would not permit himself to read what she wrote, he did see that her handwriting was much more bold, and far less tidy, than most ladies’ penmanship.
Like her, it defied expectation.
Chapter 7
Jess assessed her reflection in the mirror of the ladies’ retiring room. She tucked a wayward curl back into its arrangement—which had been provided by the abigail she’d hired yesterday. Indeed, the whole of Jess’s stylish appearance today was courtesy of her temporary maid, and a good thing, too. She needed to appear as elegant and worldly as possible when learning more about the remaining Bazaar guests.
Already, she knew that the two other women could be possible investors, and Mr. Walditch had shown that he would support a business helmed by a woman. Viscount Hunsdon was out. The other men, however, were less-known quantities.
She’d find the opportune time, but she needed to be strategic. In all things.
The time on the gilt clock showed that she had just two minutes left before the next presentation was to begin. After smoothing her hand down her skirts, she headed toward the drawing room.
Even though he did not speak loudly, she heard the duke’s voice out in the corridor. Its deep tones stroked along the bare skin above the neckline of her gown, and she fought a shiver. She paused outside the drawing room, collecting herself before facing him once more.
Yielding to the temptation he offered was unwise. She had to remember that.
Jess stepped into the drawing room and her gaze immediately searched for him.
His back was to her, so she had a brief moment where she could openly admire the span of his shoulders, and the athletic ease with which he held himself.
As if sensing her attention on him, he turned, catching her in the act of ogling him.
He smiled devilishly. And no matter how much she told herself that an involvement with him was dangerous, it didn’t stop her pulse from hammering. The knowing look he gave her was pure sensuality—she would have to work very hard indeed to keep away from him.
The deuce of it was, she didn’t want to put distance between them.
Following logic rather than instinct, she approached a red-cheeked man who had been introduced to her as Lord Sundon.
Minutes later, she had learned two things. The first was that Lord Sundon was uninterested in conversing with the female guests of the Bazaar. The second was that no matter how she attempted to approach him regarding McGale & McGale, he would never listen to her as a matter of principle, since, in his words, “ladies are too flighty to understand figures and finance.”
Correction—she had learned three things. The third was that she had far more control over her temper than she’d believed. After all, she hadn’t hit Lord Sundon over the head with a vase.
“My lords and ladies,” Lord Trask announced, “Mrs. Catton’s presentation will commence. Please take your seats.”
“Correction,” the duke said. “We are going to Isabel Catton’s bakery, where we’ll not only hear her presentation, but we are to have a private tasting of her most popular items.”
Jess resisted the impulse to clap her hands together, but she was excited. Isabel Catton’s bakery and sweetshop was one of the most popular of its kind in London, possessing an unparalleled reputation for excellence.
Jess had hoped to visit Catton’s during her brief time in the city. She wanted to taste the country’s finest pastries, and surely there would be lessons to learn at the shop as to the successful management of a thriving business—with a woman as proprietor.
“At this moment,” the duke said, “a caravan of carriages awaits us downstairs. The servants have collected our hats and coats, and