“Not at this moment,” she gently pointed out for all their sakes. “Given how loudly you are—”
Strange, garbled noises emerged from the old man’s throat.
And proof that Henry was deserving of the title “friend,” he positioned himself between Fleur and the blustering proprietor.
Mr. Rundell’s gaunt, bony face darkened to an alarming shade of red. “In all my years…all of them…the bloody au-au-dacity…” He spat to finish his sentence.
Fleur huddled closer against Henry’s back. “I fear he’s having an apoplexy.” She stole a glance about; by their expressions, Mr. Rundell’s staff shared her concern.
“If anyone could drive a man to his death, it would be you,” Henry muttered.
“That is unkind.”
Henry cast her a glance over his enormous shoulder. “Not as unkind as killing Rundell.”
This was really enough—the shop owner’s reaction. Her letting—of all people—the Duke of Hartwell smooth things over. Herhidingbehind Hartwell.
Fleur stepped out from his shadow and raised her voice over his impressive rant. “Mr. Rundell?”
“What do you think you are doing, minx?”
Henry could command his way out of anything, but when it came to proud Mr. Rundell, who cared even less about his rank than Fleur, he was useless.
Ignoring Henry, she swept forward. “This has all been a misunderstanding. I am not concerned about your discretion.”
That stopped the gentleman mid-expletive. “You’re not?”
“Far from it,” she said, shaking her head. “Do I strike you as one who is worried about scandals and gossip?”
That penetrated.
Creases formed at Mr. Rundell’s brow.
“Why, if anything, the duke is more likely to fear his reputation.” She trilled a laugh. “Isn’t that right, Henry?”
The jeweler put narrowed eyes on the gentleman in question.
A low growl rumbled so deep from within Henry that Fleur felt the reverberations within her own belly.
Clearing her throat, she headed off another explosion—this time, coming for Henry. “As I said, I implicitly trust you and, naturally, your staff.”
“How lovely of you, my lady.” The faintest hint of amusement skimmed his gravelly voice.
But there was amusement, and she was back to being “my lady.”
“Who exactly is it you are asking to leave, Fleur?” Henry asked, a warning in his voice.
This was going to be awkward.
Fleur kept on going, right over his question. “Henry, you might not know this, but most of Mr. Rundell and Mr. Bridges’staff are, in fact, family. Based on their striking resemblance, the dashing gentleman nearest and very protective of Mr. Rundell would be his nephew, Mr. Edmund Waller Rundell.” Henry followed her gaze to the tall, well-dressed man with a smile he fought to repress.
She had a glimpse of what the elder Mr. Rundell had been like when he was the younger gentleman’s age.
Fleur nodded and smiled in acknowledgment.
“The other comely gentleman there, who also shows hints of Mr. Rundell, is none other than his sister’s son, Mr. John Gawler Bridge.”
One by one, she correctly identified nearly all: from Rundell, to Bridges, Bigges, and ultimately finished with Mr. Storr. “And last, but certainly not least, the master craftsman.” Fleur rested her hands on her hips and spoke in a teasing whisper. “Mr. Storr, I believed you had given up the workshop two years ago?”
