Page 48 of Never a Duke
“Begging your ladyship’s pardon,” the footman said, “but Mr. Wentworth has said I am to accompany you home.”
He spoke with a slight accent, German or Scandinavian.Mr. Ventvorth.
“Very kind of you,” Rosalind replied, “but I’m sure that’s not necessary. I thought to make a stop at the glovemaker’s and who knows how long we might tarry there?” She tried for her gracious-lady smile and got exactly nowhere. This footman might have been the King of Sweden for all his dignity, and he was every bit as formidable a specimen as Walden himself.
“Then I will carry your packages.”
Then I vill carry your peckages.Snapped off with a full complement of masculine implacability.
“Your name?” Rosalind asked.
“Ivor, my lady.”
He was somewhat lacking in deferential manners, and Rosalind could not determine his age. Ivor could be a slightly weathered thirty or a splendidly vigorous forty, but no footpad with a brain in his head would test Ivor’s mettle.
No kidnapper either.You are a marvel. A blazing, beautiful marvel.The words could have been teasing, but the look on Ned’s face when he’d spoken them had been nearly reverent. Rosalind had no delusions about her desirability generally. She was not a young, comelylady’s maid, but Ned Wentworth found her attractive.
Found hermarvelous.
“My lady.” Mrs. Barnstable stood by the door, bonnet and gloves on, parasol in hand. “One does not offend a ducal family by refusing the services of one of their domestics.”
First, there was nothing domestic about this toweringly muscular footman. Second, to blazes with the ducal family, though Rosalind would not casually offend Ned Wentworth.
“Of course I appreciate Ivor’s escort.”
Mrs. B toddled along at far below her usual pace, doubtless delighted to be seen on Mayfair’s streets with a footman in ducal livery. When Rosalind would have ducked down a shady alley, Ivor shook his head.
“No alleys, please, my lady. I am but one man with two ladies to safeguard.”
Drat all cautious footmen. Rosalind would investigate the alley another time, for it was the route Francine Arbuckle would have taken to the cobbler’s.
“The longer route then,” Rosalind replied, ignoring Mrs. Barnstable’s curious glance.
At the glovemaker’s, Ivor assumed the usual post near the door. The proprietress took one look at him—and his livery—and hustled forward to greet Rosalind.
“My lady, good day. Have you come to complete your collection of spring gloves? We have the most delicious assortment of colors and fabrics, and I would be happy to measure either of you for future orders.”
“Let’s start with Mrs. Barnstable,” Rosalind replied. “I believe she can use some new everyday gloves in the colors of her choice, several pairs of reading gloves, and an extra pair of evening gloves in preparation for the Season’s social demands.”
The proprietress’s smile outshone the noonday sun on a sparkling sea. “Fabric choices first, then. Ifmadamewould step this way?”
Amelia Barnstable loved to shop, while Rosalind viewed it as a necessary chore. The purpose of the visit to the glovemaker’s was not to procure gloves, but rather, to engage the young clerk re-arranging the offerings on a table toward the back of the shop.
“These are the less-expensive choices?” Rosalind asked him.
“Aye, ma’am. Just as well made, but without the embroidery and whatnot. Can I help you find something in particular?”
He was a handsome, brown-haired youth, and as a clerk at a thriving shop, he had a good post.
“You can help me find someone,” Rosalind said. “Do you recognize this woman?” She passed him a sketch of Calliope Henderson.
“Is the young lady in some sort of trouble?”
“Not in the sense you mean. She isn’t suspected of committing any crimes. She left her post without notice, and we fear for her safety. She did not collect her wages or gather up her belongings. Do you know her?”
Rosalind pretended to examine the stitching on a pair of black gloves. Their intended use was for reading newspapers and new books, to preserve a lady’s hands from the ink. Rosalind didn’t bother with gloves for reading, because they made turning pages nearly impossible.
Mrs. Barnstable did wear reading gloves. She was fluttering away about the differences between velvet and kid in terms of durability and warmth.
