Page 28 of Not Quite a Lady
Chapter Seven
The next day Jack breakfasted early, applied a plaster to his temple and set out on a round of visits. Two possible investors who had sent a cautiously encouraging response to letters plus Sir James Arbuthnot, considered to be one of the authorities on steam power, promised a full day, especially for a man intending to walk and not waste his blunt on hackney carriages.
And besides, an early start meant there was no risk of running into Lily.
Not that the thought of an encounter with Lily was unwelcome, the reverse in fact, which was what worried him.
Jack shifted his portfolio from left hand to right and crossed Oxford Street, flicking a coin to the crossing sweeper as he went.
He should never have kissed her and, what was worse, he was beginning to believe that the earlier kiss, the one he had convinced himself was a feverish dream, had been real.
Under normal circumstances any young lady twice kissed by a man would have considerable justification for expecting an offer.
Jack passed the end of Berners Street, dodging a coal cart, a sedan chair and almost getting his boots splashed with milk from the buckets suspended from the pretty seller’s yoke. ‘Cup of milk, sir? Yours for a penny and a kiss, sir.’ She fluttered her lashes at him and Jack grinned back.
The smile faded as he strode on towards Bloomsbury. But these were not normal circumstances. The young lady in question could buy him out twenty times over. At least. Just how rich was she?
What Lily France wanted was not kisses but a title and a place in society.
The grin crept back. She might be surprised by what JackLovell could offer her, but a place in London society was not included. In any case, if he fell to one knee and offered her his hand in return for having compromised her she would laugh in his face. Thank goodness.
It was a long day, and a mixed one. Sir James had offered encouragement, confirmation that his ideas were not so outlandish as he feared and some useful papers to read. But no suggestions for investors.
His two prospects might have been reading from the same script. They were dubious about his projections for the growth of demand for heating coals in London: personally they preferred to concentrate on the markets in the Midland factories. But the canals did not exist to get the coal to them and they treated Jack’s suggestion that steam power might eventually be harnessed to a network of tramways reaching far out into the country as fantasy.
They agreed that it was used in that way in one or two localities in Wales, but only close to the mines. Steam locomotion was the province of dreamers and visionaries, not down to earth businessmen they explained with a patronising tolerance that set his teeth on edge.
He was beginning to get heartily sick of keeping his tongue between his teeth. He was used to action, to making his own decisions and not to waiting on other people’s convenience or pandering to their opinion.
London made his skin itch. He wanted to tear off his starched neck cloth, tie a spotted Belcher handkerchief round his neck instead, and go and work off his frustration by wielding a pick alongside the men.
By the time he reached Chandler Street he was, as he admitted to himself, as cross as a bear with a sore head and within an inch of packing his bags and going home.
His mood was not improved by finding the street outside the house a scene of activity, although this time it was orderly and respectable.
A groom on foot was holding the reins of a grey gelding that made his mouth water with envy. A second man waited alongside, mounted on a respectable bay hack, and Lily’s maid was poised on the steps, a whip and gloves in her hands.
Other than crossing to the other side and striding past, he had little choice but to slow down and acknowledge the staff. In any event, one close look at the gelding brought him to a standstill.
‘Is this Miss France’s?’
‘Aye, sir.’ The head groom was respectful, although what he thought of Jack’s status, given his lodging over the carriage house, Jack could not tell. ‘Her agent bought it for Miss Lily at Tattersall’s last week.’
As though recognising the attention the grey tossed its head and rolled an eye at Jack.
‘Bit of a handful?’
‘Miss Lily’s a good rider, sir, she likes them with a bit of spirit. This one’s not got any harm in him.’
‘Admiring Spindrift, Mr Lovell? I am bound for Rotten Row.’ It was Lily, pulling on her gloves and smiling at him from the top step.
If she felt any awkwardness after yesterday evening, it did not show. She probably regarded it as a trivial incident or was too innocent for it to cause her any anxiety.
Not that he could concentrate on her face, he was too struck by her riding habit.
A deep sea-green, the plain fabric of the bodice was laced and ornamented by row after row of military frogging. There was a pert little jacket made without fastenings which served only to emphasise her curves. The sleeves were cut and frogged, the shoulders of the jacket bore epaulettes and the long skirts of thehabit swept over her arm.
To top it off she wore an outrageous hat, modelled vaguely on a shako. But no soldier ever wore anything so frivolous as this concoction with its cockade of French lace and its plume of ostrich feathers.
