Men had power, but women had some too. Fleur had only just learned the trick—and value—of fluttering one’s lashes this Season. Before he could speak, she smiled her best coquette’s smile and batted her lashes.
“Never say neither your uncle nor Mr. Rundell will meet with…a lady.”
Her efforts had the intended effect.
The fellow’s face grew all flushed, his eyes dazed.
Her victory was near, only to be promptly dashed.
Another clerk rushed to his colleague’s rescue. “That is right,” the smooth-faced man said in tones as stiff as his starched white shirt.
How adorable. The crusty staff member believed he could stand between her and her attempts at earning Mr. Bridge’s support.
Fleur stepped nearer the younger Mr. Bridge. She looked up at him from under the fringe of her eyelashes. “Surely you are not a man who would deny a lady in need of help?”
“N-Never.”
Somewhere within the shop, a door closed. There came the rush of footfalls above stairs. Those same footsteps pounded down a stairwell.
A small lad rushed in through a narrow hall behind the counter. His freckle-filled cheeks were flushed from his exertions. He waved a cream-folded page.
“From Mr. Rundell,” he said, out of breath.
“Mr. Rundell is here!” she cried happily.
Fleur was too excited by the news to be annoyed by the clerk’s earlier lie.
No one paid her any mind. The boy handed the note to Mr. Bridge’s nephew. The gentleman unfolded the sheet. His eyes flared.
“The blinds!” he shouted, his voice climbing an octave. “The blinds!”
His second order was hardly necessary. Around them, the clerks had already rushed into action.
Allthe gilded sconces were lit. The gold candelabras atop the cases next. Sashes were released from the hangings over the bay window—light managed to spill through the slight opening left in the curtains, while also preserving the store’s privacy. The Rundell and Bridge team moved faster and more efficiently than the London fire brigade, which was fitting, as Fleur saw her earlier efforts go up in smoke.
Heading for the largest crystal case, Mr. Bridge began calling directives and pointing as he went.
“Mr. Bridge,” she said, rushing into step beside him. Her skirts whipped about them. “I require a moment of Mr. Rundell’s time. I have discovered a piece of significant value and…and…”
“You must leave,” he said. The clerk snapped and pointed.
Fleur stared on wide-eyed as a fresh set of clerks came pouring from the back. In their cream, palm-length, limerick-gloved hands, they carried mahogany boxes. They set those cases throughout, the same way they might set chessboard pieces.
She rescued her reticule just as a new set of staff followed the first stream and filed to the left side of the shop. Some carried velvet sacks. Other smaller mahogany cases.
They were opened as one, and Fleur found herself…briefly…dazzled by the glitter and shimmer all around. She may as well have stepped back in time to the Golconda Sultanate, which she had read stories of.
“You must leave, ma’am.” Mr. Bridge snapped her back to merry Old England.
“I am afraid that is not possible,” she said, giving him another smile.
“We have an esteemed patron due to arrive. If you return later—”
“And I have already told you, I cannot, sir.”
“—On the morrow or some other day.”
Mr. Bridge could not fathom how difficult it was to escape the enormous McQuoid clan. No one could.
