Page 49 of Never a Duke
“I haven’t seen this lady for some time,” the clerk said. “Miss Henderson used to come in with Mrs. Abercrombie. Mrs. Abercrombie goes through black gloves at a great rate, but then, she is a widow.”
“Can you think of any reason why Miss Henderson would leave her post?”
He passed back the sketch. “She had very fine eyes, Miss Henderson did.”
Mayfair shop clerks were required to be friendly, attractive, attentive, and in some venues…more than that, where the female customers were concerned. This fellow had all the requisite qualities, but he was turning up bashful now.
“She is quite pretty,” Rosalind said. “And I knew her to be charming. Did she attempt to charm you?”
The clerk went back to straightening up rows of gloves already quite tidy. “More the other way about. Part of my job, but…” He sighed, conveying bewilderment and defeat. “She let me slip the gloves onto her bare hands and take them off. Let me trace her hands on the pattern paper. But she was only playin’. I asked to take her for an ice on her half day.”
Rosalind had never appreciated how sensual an undertaking glove-shopping could be. In the clerk’s vast amorous lexicon, an ice was probably akin to a declaration of abiding regard.
“She was not receptive to your advances?”
He re-arranged the gloves, though Rosalind could see no pattern to their order. “Miss Henderson said she already had a beau. A fine gent who would offer for her as soon as the Season was over. She said she did not want Mrs. Abercrombie to have to change companions at the busiest time of year.”
“A fine gent?”Oh, dear.
“Handsome as the day is long.” His expression could not have been more mournful. “Dark and dashing, she said, and his family was wealthy. To be honest…”
The clerk pulled a pair of red gloves from a row of red gloves and set them aside.
“To be honest?”
“What fine gent marries a companion, ma’am? Miss Henderson is pretty, but she hasn’t been in London all that long. Mrs. Abercrombie was her first post, and I had the sense the gent were stringing Callie along.”
Callie. Perhaps the clerk had done more than trace the lady’s hands. “You mean he had no intention of proposing?”
“Why wait for months to marry a woman like Miss Henderson? The Season is only getting started, and wouldn’t he want to show off his sweetheart? Introduce her around? Mrs. Abercrombie has had companions before, and she’ll have a new one soon enough. I tried to tell Callie that she was being foolish, but she laughed at me.”
Rosalind suspected the fair Calliope was no longer laughing. “What is your name?”
“Allard Brock, ma’am. I’m London born and bred, and I fear for Miss Henderson. I can understand a woman with her looks and ways not settling for a clerk, but the fine gents aren’t all gentlemen, are they?”
“No, they are not. Did Miss Henderson tell you anything else about her suitor?”
“All I know is, she thought he was Quality. A girl newly in from the shires wouldn’t necessarily know the difference, though. Would not know custom gloves from ready-made. Wouldn’t know a flash cove from a lordling or a cit’s scapegrace son.”
An interesting observation. “You think he was deceiving her as to his station?”
The clerk glanced around, though the proprietress and Mrs. Barnstable were still rhapsodizing over fabrics, and Ivor was at his post by the door.
“The Quality marry for business reasons, meanin’ no disrespect. Money, standin’, land, that sort of thing. A gent with real means don’t look on a bride the way I might. Even if he does, his family don’t look at marriage that way. Callie had nothing but her wages and her smile, if you know what I mean. A fine gent don’t generally marry a gal for that, and if he’s truly smitten, he don’t wait months to speak his vows.”
“You make a frightening degree of sense, Mr. Brock.” Rosalind passed him her card. “If you hear of anything relating to Miss Henderson’s disappearance, please send me a note. I am very concerned for her.”
He slipped the card into a pocket. “As am I.”
Rosalind offered him a coin, at which he shook his head, so she bought a pair of driving gloves, not that she was allowed to drive herself anywhere.
“Ivor will see me home,” she said, when Mrs. Barnstable and her co-conspirator had switched to debating colors. “I will send him back for you, Mrs. B. You are not to stir from this fine establishment until Ivor returns for you—your word on that, please—and of course, your purchases will go on my account.”
The proprietress beamed at Rosalind like a benevolent goddess, while Ivor’s expression betrayed some relief.
“I will not set foot outside the door until Ivor is once again at my side,” Mrs. Barnstable said. “Away with you, my lady.”
“We will take the alley,” Rosalind said, when she and Ivor were out on the walkway. “There might be only one of you, but there’s only one of me as well, and if needs must, you will toss me over your shoulder and depart the company of any footpads. Or do I mistake the matter?”
