“Then the rumors are true. What I overheard you discussing with Lady Rose at the Eatonton Ball is true.”
The Eatonton Ball? Robert’s mind flipped back a few weeks, recognition settling in. It had been at the Eatonton Ball, earlier in the spring, when he had confessed to Rose that he was her informant, Robbie Green. They had been sitting on Spinster’s Row. “Ah. You were there. Among the spinsters.”
Lady Eloise nodded. “I did not understand it at the time. And Lady Rose did not give you away. She mentioned later that one of her informants was a man named Robbie Green.”
Madame Adrienne gasped, and they both looked at her. “I do not believe it! You”—she gestured up and down as if his purple kit was the anathema of the ages—“this is Robbie Green?”
Lady Eloise stared at her friend. “Adrienne?”
Madame Adrienne put a hand on her chest, as if trying to catch her breath. She looked from Robert to Lady Eloise. “Robbie Green! He works for Bill Campion! My girls—” She stopped, successfully drawing in deep breaths now, and her voice lowered out of its excited stratosphere. “He—Jeannie and Esther—they do hems for me.”
“I have seen them. Tiny girls.”
Madame Adrienne nodded toward him. “Robbie—he pulled them out of the brothel, gave them money, a lot of money, told them to feed their families and go back to their needles.”
Lady Eloise frowned. “But why...?”
Robert remembered the two young ladies well. “Because they were not yet twelve. There are houses that cater to that trade. We do not.”
The frown became a scowl. “So it was just business that you sent them away. For your own best interest.”
Before Robert could answer, Madame Adrienne grabbed her friend’s arm. “No! It would not be in his own interest to give each of them ten pounds. Ten pounds!”
Robert watched as Lady Eloise absorbed the information. Ten pounds could feed a family in the rookeries for months. His gift to them had been an impulse, a failure to remember where he was and who he was supposed to be. Even Bill had chided him for such a gift, reminding Robert that his casual regard for money would give him away faster than any other aspect of his nature—even his eyes.
“So you admit youareRobbie Green.”
“Denial seems a useless option at this point.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I suppose you will be obligated to tell Lady Lydia.” He looked at her again, waiting for the axe to fall. For Society to discover he was Robbie Green could bring ruin on his entire family.
Lady Eloise, however, simply observed him, her amber eyes never leaving his face. He returned the gaze, realizing for the first time that a spray of freckles—a serious beauty flaw among ladies of theton—danced across her nose and high cheekbones. His gaze once again followed that lustrous strand of brown hair down toward her breasts. Her neckline was modest but not high, and the pale skin over her collarbone seemed to gleam in the candlelight of the shop. Her figure was trim and compact. In a most scandalous way, her hands were not only ungloved, but she had turned back the sleeves of the gown, exposing lean and elegant forearms. Bared in order to work on a budget. To help a friend.
And, suddenly, it was not Lydia Rowbotham’s approval he wished to win.
Robert did not wait for her response. He gestured at the ledgers. “If you will use a quill from the right wing of a crow, you will get finer lines, fewer smears.”
Lady Eloise’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”
“My brother Thomas is left-handed as well. He also tried to use a pencil instead of a quill, but he wound up with the same stains anyway. It’s more about the quill you choose. Most quills are made from the left wings of geese. Broad tips, and they curve the wrong way for a left-handed person. A crow’s feather has a smaller tip. If you will request one from the right wing, you may find it is easier for you to use.”
The modiste made a noise deep in her throat, an abrupt “Hmph” crossed with a smothered laugh.
Lady Eloise’s mouth twitched, but her focus remained on him. “Is this a common habit of yours, Lord Robert? A shift in subject in order to distract?”
“Was it successful?”
“No.”
“I should try harder. Did you know—”
“Why do you want to marry Lady Lydia?”
Not the question he had expected. “I beg your pardon?”What was good for the goose...
“Truthfully, sir. Because I know you do not love her.”
Honesty it was to be, then. “You know Lady Rose’s situation?”
A single nod. “I do.” He waited, and the understanding lit her eyes. “Ah. You need an heir. Preferably one as high ranking as possible.”
