A Dash of Scandal(43)

Millicent found the traffic in the streets shockingly busy for midafternoon. She had never seen so many gigs, phaetons, drays, and other types of conveyances in her life. Some of the carriages were quite ornate with elaborate trim and gold crests on the doors. Those were pulled by two or four well-matched horses that were driven by coachmen in handsome livery. As they continued down Oxford Street toward the City, the congestion was further complicated by the addition of street sweepers, the throng of pedestrians going about their daily business, and the rough barrows of the numerous street vendors.

Millicent noticed they passed several shops that sold fabrics, lace, and sewing notions, but obviously none of them were their intended target.

The housekeeper was taking Millicent to Aunt Beatrice’s favorite place. Her aunt had told her the quaint shop would be the perfect place for Millicent to buy her mother a length of lace, a bit of ribbon, embroidery thread, or any number of other things that could easily be sent to her by mail coach.

Millicent had not had much time to think about her mother since arriving in London. She had posted only one short letter to her. Millicent hoped to make up for her lack of attention by purchasing her mother a small gift.

The moment they walked in the shop Millicent saw that Mrs. Brown and the shopkeeper knew each other well. When asked about her employer, Mrs. Brown discreetly told the clerk that her employer’s recuperation was progressing as expected, and then she introduced Millicent.

Millicent smiled at the clerk and insisted she needed no help in picking out her purchases. She left the two at the front of the shop and went immediately to the table that held lace and carefully looked over the intricate patterns. From there she walked over to the ribbons, which came in so many different colors and widths Millicent didn’t know how she would ever be able to make up her mind.

She heard the door open and close two or three times while she looked over the beautiful fabrics in the shop but paid it no mind. The shopkeeper offered again to help her, but Millicent assured her she would rather take her time and look over everything before making a decision.

The clerk and Mrs. Brown continued to talk as if they were long lost friends who hadn’t seen each other in years. Millicent would have sworn that Mrs. Brown wasn’t capable of saying so much to anyone, but Millicent had just been proven wrong.

Wanting to give Mrs. Brown time to finish her conversation, Millicent slowly made her way to the rear of the store where the fine fabrics were located. She was pressing her palm over a length of blue velvet when suddenly a hand pressed her back, gently ushering her forward. Her head snapped around and she saw Lord Dunraven at her side. She gasped, but allowed him to maneuver her to the end of the aisle, where large bolts of dark velvets were stacked high.

“Stand here and look at these fabrics,” he said as he quickly stacked several bolts of cloth on top of each other. Within moments he had two piles of cloth tall enough for him to stand behind without being seen by anyone in the front of the store.

When he was finished he turned to her and said, “There. That should hide me from your chaperone.”

“What in heaven’s name are you doing in a fabric shop?”

“Looking for you, of course.”

Millicent took a deep breath and said, “I believe you are developing a bad habit of startling me, sir.”

“That is because you are so easy to startle, Miss Blair, but why does it have to be a bad habit? Why can’t you say I have a good habit of startling you?”

He reached over and added another bolt to the stack closest to Millicent and took a step closer to her.

“Can a startle be good?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“How so?”

“I’ll show you sometime, but in order for it to work you can’t have a guilty conscience.”

She lifted her shoulders and her chin. “Whatever do you mean?” she asked and looked over her left shoulder. Mrs. Brown and the shop attendant were still engrossed in their conversation. “A guilty conscience about what?”

“You tell me.”

“You are talking in riddles, sir.”

“Perhaps I am, but you are a mystery to me, Miss Blair, and of course that intrigues me.”

“I have no intentions of being a mystery to you, Lord Dunraven,” she said, wondering if her hat was on straight, because his eyes seemed to be studying her so intently.

“Then why don’t you answer any of my questions directly? It makes me wonder if you have skeletons in your closet.”