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Due to her mother, obviously.

Inherited from Julia. Though, thankfully, Julia didn’t offer any commentary.

Without planning to, Cleo found that she was smiling a welcome.

“Let me off this litter,” her grandfather barked. “No, not like that, fool. Get me to my feet. Hand me my cane. You, whoever you are, cover yourself so that these womenfolk don’t faint. We already have one invalid in the room.”

Up on the platform, Jake laughed and tossed the length of silk to a seamstress. Cleo’s grandfather hobbled to a chair, and Cleo followed him, sitting down and taking his hand.

She and her grandfather had fallen into a happy friendship. She stopped by once a day, sometimes merely for tea, sometimes sharing a meal. His hand curled around hers, knobby from arthritis but still strong.

“Now,” the viscount said, slamming his stick against the floor, “where’s the owner of this establishment?”

Martha Quimby stepped forward, hands clasped before her. “I am she, my lord. Mrs. Quimby, the owner of the emporium.”

“I am Viscount Falconer,” he announced. “Dismiss this naked fellow so that my granddaughter can order a monstrous amount of clothing. Men’s clothing, because I damned well don’t understand the world any longer, but that’s what she wants to do.”

Cleo’s hand tightened around his. “Grandfather, the fellow is Mr. Addison, and the clothes I order will be worn by him.”

Off to the side, Byng was caught in a paroxysm of silent laughter.

“We have measured the gentleman,” Martha said, nodding. “My lead seamstress, Mrs. Andrewes, has begun making sketches of clothing that will turn Mr. Addison into the most elegant man in all London.”

“Impossible,” her grandfather said flatly. “That fellow will never look refined. Not a monstrous body like that. Legs that could hold up an elephant.”

Jake had stepped off the platform and pulled a white shirt over his head. Peeking from under her lashes, Cleo watched as he stuffed the shirttail into his breeches.

He walked over and bowed before them. “Miss Lewis, what a pleasure to meet you again.”

Cleo inclined her head. “Mr. Addison, good morning. Grandfather and Byng, may I present Mr. Jacob Astor Addison? Mr. Addison, these two gentlemen are my grandfather, Viscount Falconer, and a dear family friend, Mr. Byng-Stafford.”

“Good morning, Lord Falconer. Mr. Byng-Stafford,” Jake said, bowing again. His bow was respectful but abrupt, not part of a choreographed series of gestures intended to impress the onlookers with his grace.

Because he wasn’t graceful, Cleo thought with amusement.

“I don’t understand what my granddaughter has to do with you,” Falconer grumbled, examining him.

Jake’s eyes were thoughtful, amused. Perhaps she could find fabric that precise shade of indigo blue.

“My lord, Miss Lewis and I are friends,” he said, bowing again, “as well as business rivals. Your granddaughter outbid me for this very establishment.”

“Good Lord, your voice is a piece with the rest of you,” Falconer remarked. “Thundering and twanging at the same time. I can never understand Americans.”

Cleo gave him a narrow-eyed look.

The viscount sighed. “Mr. Addison, how pleasant to meet you.” He held out his hand. “Forgive me if I don’t rise.”

Perhaps her grandfather expected that Jake would bow over his hand? He shook it.

“Any relation to John Astor?” Byng asked, coming forward.

“My paternal uncle,” Jake said, shaking hands with Byng as well. “I’m named after him, as a matter of fact. He is John Jacob Astor.”

“Then why are you called Addison?” the viscount demanded.

“I changed my name.”

“You what?”