Page 140 of Oddity of the Ton
To Monty, BishopsgateStreet looked as if it belonged to a different world, not just a different part of London. Even the people looked different—citsbustling along the street as if they were driven by a purpose, as opposed to the aimless wanderings of theton.
Perhaps that was what the necessity of having to earn one’s living did to a man.
And a woman. Here, women jostled the men on the pavement, striding out with the independence that Society ladies lacked—women who earned their own living and thought, as well as spoke, for themselves.
Women such as…
He approached the door and knocked. At that moment, a couple approached. The man glanced at Monty’s carriage, taking in the Whitcombe crest. Then he turned his attention to Monty himself and stared—an open, direct gaze, filled with curiosity and a little disdain.
In Society, Monty was revered, but here, where meritocracy ranked above aristocracy, he was nothing more than an idle creature who languished on his estate while better men worked. Against the neat, plain attire of thecit’s perfectly tailored, but simply designed, suit, Monty must seem like an over-frilled fop.
The man tipped his hat, gave Monty a nod, then strode past, his wife on his arm.
“Ahem.”
A young woman in a plain gray gown stood in the doorway, a set of keys dangling from her waist.
Who in the name of the devil employed theirhousekeeperto open the front door?
“Oh,” he said. “I’m at the wrong house.”
“Who have you come to visit, sir?” she asked.
“Sir Leonard Howard.”
“This is Sir Leonard’s house. Whom shall I say wants to see him?”
“The Duke of Whitcombe.”
“Very good. Come in.” She ushered him inside and led him into a parlor. “Wait here. I’ll see if Sir Leonard is happy to receive you.”
Before Monty could respond, she exited the parlor. No curtsey.
And rather than pander to his sensibilities and tell him she’d check whether Sir Leonard was at home, she gave him the more direct narrative of whether Sir Leonardwantedto see him.
He didn’t know whether to find her frankness insulting or refreshing. Perhaps those who worked in commerce were required to adopt a more open and honest approach to their lives—and he’d noticed such frankness in her.
My Eleanor…
Footsteps approached, and his heart rate quickened.
Then the door opened and the young woman appeared. “Sir Leonard will see you. Follow me.”
Feeling as if he were a wayward schoolboy at Eton on the way to the provost’s office for a birching, Monty rose and followed her up one flight of stairs and along the hallway to a heavy, oak-paneled door. She knocked and paused.
“Send him in,” a voice said from the other side.
She pushed the door open, and Monty entered the room.
Unlike the parlor, which was almost stark in its simplicity, Sir Leonard’s study was the peculiar contradiction of extreme order and chaos that Monty recalled from their previous meeting—row upon row of books filling one wall, and opposite, an array of brightly colored silks and jars of spices. At the far wall, behind a squat mahogany desk, silhouetted against the window, sat the figure of a man.
A chair had been placed in front of the desk, presumably for interviewees or subordinates, but Monty remained standing. In his world—in Mayfair, where everyone submitted to his rank—he’d sat without a qualm.
But he wasn’t in his world.
The figure rose, and Monty caught sight of two bright eyes regarding him coldly.
“Whitcombe.”
