But then something happened. Something normal.
The surly goldsmith cursed.
“If you toss your biscuits on all my things, after all the work I’ve done for you, I’m going to be peeved, Lady Fleur.”
Blinking several times, Fleur found Mr. Rundell hovering over her. The gentleness in his rheumy eyes belied the sharpness of his tone.
This was the closest she suspected the notorious goldsmith came to compassion and warmth and that he bestowed it on her…?
She found a small smile. It proved short-lived.
A fresh onslaught of tears threatened.
Mr. Rundell shoved a dusty kerchief into her open hand. “Be warned, I draw the line at crying, chit. If you weep, I’ll toss you out myself.”
“I understand, Mr. Rundell.”
These blasted tears. Would they not cease?
“Before you get yourself shown the door, permit me to return your piece to you.” He placed a mahogany jewelry casket in front of Fleur.
Fleur stared at the box for a long, long time. How was it possible that she collected the case, that her fingers stayed steady? She popped the box open, not sure why the gentleman’s name didn’t pop out. It felt like she should know. Because sheshouldknow.
In a land where she had behaved as a proper lady, the ancient signet she stared at would belong to the son she even now carried. Or was it a daughter?
Was the life of a bastard worse for a lass or lad? Or were their fates equally cold and cruel?
Fleur had to clear her throat several times. “A-And y-you i-indicated you know whose it is?” she said, unable to take her stare from the piece.
“I do.” Mr. Rundell grunted. “And you do too.”
You do too…
Did that mean he knew about that night? Which would mean the gentleman whom she had…the man whose child she carried. She cringed. What did that say about him? What did that say about her future, her child’s future, and…?
This was a glimpse of what her life would be like… Fleur would be damned if she let anyone make her feel small.
She squared her shoulders. “Why did you not return it to him?”
“Thought you would want to do it yourself,” he said, checking his timepiece. “With him being a friend of yours.”
Her head swimming, Fleur stared blankly at him. What was he saying? Everything was unclear. Nothing would be clear ever again. “That…friend?”
“The Duke of Hartwell.”
Mr. Rundell’s voice came from down a long tunnel.
She relived the masquerade in her mind.
Her lover, as he’d caressed her, had made her body sing.
“…There is no instinct like that of the heart…”
His low, husky baritone as he uttered Byron’sDon Juansoftly into her ear.
And then, who had appeared at Lord Chilton’s auction to bid onDon Juan?
The Duke of Hartwell, who despised the McQuoids.
