Page 11 of Her Beast

Chapter 2

London

“Mr. Barton?”

Malcolm ignored the voice, his single eye riveted to the spot where the angel had stood before she’d disappeared into the exclusive bridal salon.

Plenty of women bought their trousseaux at Barton’s Emporium—it was a supplier for the House of Worth, among other exclusive ateliers—but the bridal salon was reserved for those customers who paid enough money to merit both luxuryandprivacy.

“Um, Mr. Barton?”

Malcolm scowled and whipped around. “What the hell are you jabbering about, Butkins?”

To his credit, John Butkins held his ground where bigger, richer, and braver men would have recoiled. But then Butkins had been tolerating Malcolm’s foul temper for over a decade.

The poor bastard.

“I’ve received the telegram from the New York store, sir. You said—”

Malcolm waved his left hand—or claw, rather—dismissively. “Later. Right now, I want you to go down to bridal and find out who that woman is.”

Butkins came closer and peered out the window. “Er, what woman?”

“She’s just gone into the private salon with one of the mannequins—a tall, buxom brunette.”

Butkins’s thin, homely face creased into a shy smile. “Ah, that would be Miss Amelia Brown, sir. She’s quite—”

“Whatever,” Malcolm snapped. “Get down there and find out that woman’s namenow.”

Butkins fled, not bothering to ask foolish questions or dally—part of the reason he’d lasted so long in Malcolm’s employ. If there was one thing Malcolm didn’t tolerate, it was employees or servants who didn’t obey orders quickly and efficiently.

You never did like anyone disobeying you, Mal—not even before you were swimmin’ in lard.

He smirked at Sukey’s mocking, but accurate, observation.

Back before Malcolm wasswimmin’ in lardhe’d used his huge body and hard fists to intimidate people to do his bidding; now he used money and power.

Neither behavior had earned him friends and every employee and servant in this building either disliked or feared him—or perhaps both—thanks to his brusque behavior.

Fortunately for Malcolm, he wasn’t in the friend-making business.

He turned back to the window, one of many that lined the four corridors that made up Malcolm’s world and overlooked his London department store.

Each of his other six stores—soon to be eight—were constructed the same way. They were marvels of modern architecture that rose five stories, with his apartments occupying the top floor. A massive dome in the style of St. Paul’s held up the four walls and allowed for a cathedral-like, awe-inducing openness within. Only the ground floor was complete, the other levels, and Malcolm’s lair, were mezzanines.

In addition to providing a stunning environment for his wealthy clientele to spend their money, the cunning construction meant Malcolm could observe every part of his domain without leaving his perch.

Well,almostevery part.

As much of a voyeur as Malcolm was, even he drew the line at spying into the female dressing areas.

The statuesque brunette—Amelia, Butkins had called her—came out of the salon door and headed toward a matron with two younger women.

As Malcolm watched and waited for Butkins to return, Miss Brown managed to sell not three, but five hats to the proud mama. Malcolm made a mental note to look at Miss Brown’s commission report; a saleswoman that skilled deserved a bonus.

The door he’d been glancing at repeatedly for the past thirty minutes finally opened and the head of his bridal department, Miss Clemmons, exited the exclusive salon. Right beside her was the young woman he’d already christenedAngel.

Malcolm removed his tinted spectacles and raised his gold-chased, single draw opera glass—which had once belonged to the Empress Josephine—to get a better view of the angel.

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