of his existence reeled as quickly as a spinning globe.
He’d never say as much, of course. Just the same, they knew how he felt about them, and their feelings for him.
“Now,” he said with a grin, “it’s time to get back in the ring and pummel each other. That’s what friends do.”
Energy hummed through Jess, echoed in the buzzing traffic all around. Stylish pedestrians crowded the pavement and the street itself was thick with glossy carriages and equally glossy horseflesh. It was a shame Cynthia could not be here to see this, for Cyn always had a love of fashion and the doings of Society.
Jess walked up Bond Street, keeping her stride even but brisk. Much as she wanted to linger in front of the shops’ windows and marvel at the sparkling merchandise within, she had an objective here.
Each elegant person here represented Opportunity. And in her reticule, the bars of McGale & McGale soap represented the keys to that opportunity, and keeping her family together.
A sign painted in regal white letters over a navy background proclaimed Daley’s Emporium—she’d reached her first destination. Her heart thumped with a combination of excitement and nervousness as the bell on the shop door chimed upon her entrance.
Inside, glass-fronted cases held artfully arranged displays of products, including bottles of toilet water, ceramic pots containing the most refined cosmetics, cunning scissors and blades for trimming hair and whiskers, and the complete equipage anyone might need to maintain their fingernails.
Carpet muffled Jess’s steps as she moved deeper into the shop. A lone gentleman wearing the shiniest top hat she’d ever seen browsed the cases, while two women wearing shawls that must have come from India murmured to each other as they contemplated a hair-curling iron.
“Might I assist you, madam?”
She turned to face a gentleman with hair so pale as to be almost colorless. As expected, his dress was subdued and neat, precisely what a shop clerk catering to the elite would wear.
“I would like to speak to the individual responsible for selecting and purchasing stock for this emporium.”
“That would be myself. Charles Daley, at your service.” He bowed.
She held out her hand. “Miss Jessica McGale. A pleasure, Mr. Daley.” When he shook her hand, she continued, her voice even but direct as she spoke. “When I came to London, I knew you were the first person I had to meet. You see, sir, I’m here to present you and your shop with a marvelous opportunity.”
“What opportunity might that be?” He lifted an eyebrow.
“To be the first shop in all of London to supply its patrons with England’s finest soap.” From a small pack, she produced a wrapped bar. The scent of honey surrounded her and Mr. Daley as she lifted it up. “This, Mr. Daley, is McGale & McGale soap. Manufactured in Wiltshire, and of a quality so superior as to make French soap seem coarse in comparison.”
She held the soap out to Mr. Daley, and he took it gingerly. “I’ve never heard of McGale & McGale.”
“The scope of our operation has been limited,” she said. “But we are known locally for the excellent quality of our product. Examine it for yourself, and you’ll see I speak the truth. I invite you to experience its fragrance.”
The shopkeeper brought the bar of soap to his nose and inhaled. His expression turned from wary to pleased. “Honey.”
“Our soap is made using honey harvested from our own bees. Not only does it provide a delightful scent that both men and women can enjoy, honey also keeps the skin supple and soft, as well as helps to provide exceptional lathering ability.” She pulled from her pack a flagon and a small bowl, which she set on top of a cabinet. “Will you permit me a minor liberty?”
She unwrapped the soap, then poured a splash of water into the bowl, then gestured for Mr. Daley to make use of them both.
His expression had turned dubious, but then, as he washed using the soap, he looked agreeably surprised. “It does lather nicely.”
“And your hands will feel soft, not dry, after use. Observe.” She tugged off her glove and held out her palm. “I wash with McGale & McGale soap, several times a day, and yet there’s no roughness to my skin.”
He peered closely at her hand. “Indeed, that’s true. The cost?”
“We sell to you a ha’penny per bar.”
“Reasonable.”
“And as good as but less expensive than French soap.”
He nodded, so she knew it was time to continue in her pitch. Though she dreaded