Robert set down the tankard. “Yes, Saunders?”
“There’s a bloke downstairs asking to meet ya. Says he some kind of indust—industrialist. But I don’t believe ’im.”
Robert glanced at Gilley, who smirked. “And why not?”
“Well, he don’t look old enough to be one of those rich chaps. He ain’t even shaving yet. My guess is he’s still in one of those fancy schools and this is some kind a put-on. Told ’im it ain’t funny, but he insists.”
Gilley stood and gathered the baskets and tankards. He leaned close to Robert before turning, his voice almost a whisper. “Told ya. Looks like a boy.”
“But a boy nonetheless. Not a woman.”
Gilley made a noise somewhere between a snort and a growl, then headed for the door.
“Send the gentleman up,” Robert told Saunders, whose look of doubt made Robert shake his head.Eloise Surrey, what are you doing?
The person who entered the room a few moments later was definitely Eloise—no mistaking those amber eyes and high cheekbones—but she also bore no resemblance to the disguised woman from last night. Gone was the woolen tradesman’s suit, with its snug waistcoat and baggy jacket. Instead, a polished dandy stood before him, and Robert’s mouth gaped a little.
The top hat—brushed to a high shine—sat at a jaunty angle. The shirt and collar, blazing white and starched to stiff points, emphasized the burgundy and gold-patterned waistcoat and a gold cravat tied so precisely that even Brummell himself would have been impressed. A black topcoat and trousers finished out the kit, and the burgundy boots gleamed. The cut of the suit—with its broad shoulders and straight, slightly longer-than-fashionable topcoat—emphasized the waist but downplayed the usual curves of a woman. A cane finished the ensemble. Her left hand rested lightly on the top of it.
Only her lack of a beard gave her away.
That and the distinct red lids set within the dark circles of her slightly swollen eyes. Eloise Surrey had been crying—and crying hard.
Gilley tipped his head at her on his way out. “Milord,” he said, gravel stuck in his throat.
She nodded in return, and her alto pitched so low as to sound hoarse. “Mr. Gilley. It is nice to see you again.”
Gilley glanced over his shoulder at Robert, then closed the door as he left.
Robert crossed his arms and leaned on the desk. “Saunders—the man who escorted you up here—did not believe you were an industrialist.”
The cane switched hands. “Why not?”
“He said you were too young. Probably just a schoolboy playing a prank.”
“Ah.”
“I know an actress who can help you look as if you have a beard coming in.”
Now both hands rested on the cane, one of top of the other. “You may not want to believe this, but I do not intend to make this a permanent endeavor.”
“I have to admit that I am pleased to hear that.”
“Why?”
“Because I enjoy the way you look in a well-fitted gown.” He smiled, hoping to bring one to her solemn face. “I especially enjoy the way you look out of all of them.”
There. A brief twitch at the corner of her mouth, a light returning to her eyes.Good.
“You are a wicked man.”
“I never claimed to be otherwise. What brings you into my evil den of iniquity this evening?”
She approached him, gesturing at the pile of paperwork. “I want to offer my help. I realize that you are perfectly capable of understanding all this and gathering a vision for it, or Bill Campion would never have made you his partner.”
“But?”
Her eyes remained focused on the desk. “But you were just that. His partner. It worked best with the two of you involved, one leader, one manager, both working together.” She took a deep breath, and Robert saw her cravat quiver. Nerves. He glanced at her hands, which also trembled. But she pressed on. “Adrienne Chenevert is not my only... client. Once I started helping her, other women who run shops and businesses—many of them widows who have no choice—asked for my help. They trust me. And I have learned a lot from them. I think I can help you.”
