more pleasure. And he never ignored his well-honed instincts of a veteran gambler. Yes, he relied on his skill and never played foolish games of chance, but there was also that certain something that told him when to bet high and when to hold back. And right now, it had a feeling about those flowers.
Another frown shot his way. ‘I will not take advantage of a man obviously in his cups. There are plenty of fresh violets for sale on the street at this time of year.’ She made a shooing gesture with her arms.
Why the devil was she being so intractable? ‘Fresh?’ he scoffed. ‘I’ll be lucky if they last until this afternoon.’ He leaned forward, giving her his best friendly smile. ‘I need to make a good impression. Those flowers are better than real ones.’
She eyed him askance. ‘If you want to make a good impression, you will need to sober up first, I should think.’
‘Rather direct and to the point for a shop girl, aren’t you?’
She coloured faintly. ‘If there is nothing else...’
‘I am not leaving until you sell me those flowers.’
‘Then you must buy the bonnet.’
Aha! So that was the game she was playing. ‘I can’t imagine you get many customers stuck away here on this side street. Isn’t it better to have a shilling in your hand than no sale at all?’
She closed her eyes briefly. He felt uncomfortable as desperation won out over what had been a very ethical response to his demand. Sadly, he’d been right. Everything did have a price.
‘Very well. I will sell you the violets.’ She came around the counter. He moved back to allow her to pass in the narrow confines of the shop. Once more he was struck by her height and now got a look at what could only be described as a sumptuous figure. As she leaned over to remove the hat from the window, he ogled the swell of her derrière, its curves beautifully outlined by the dark fabric of her narrow skirts. Surprisingly, for all the fabric’s drab colour, it was of the finest quality of cotton.
Which was strange for a shop girl.
He squeezed back against the shelves as she returned to the counter with her prize.
She took down another bonnet to place in the window, not the one he had suggested, he noted, but a summer hat with gauzy yellow ribbons and a cluster of cherries adorning the upturned brim.
Once she was satisfied, she returned and removed the violets from the bonnet and wrapped them in tissue paper. ‘I hope your lady is suitably impressed.’ She held out her hand. ‘One shilling, please.’
The dryness in her voice struck him on the raw. Clearly, she thought the gift paltry. He glanced down at the wares on display in the glass case. ‘How much is that handkerchief? The one embroidered with violets.’
‘Thruppence.’ She smiled for the first time since he had walked into the shop. It changed her whole face from plain to lovely. Not pretty, exactly. But...lovely. He blinked.
She pulled the drawer towards her, withdrew the delicate square from the case and laid it on the counter.
Another wave of exhaustion washed through him. He forced his spine straight. Besides, he’d already spent quite enough. Silk violets for a shilling? He must be more foxed than he’d thought.
‘I’ll take it, Mrs...’
Again, a wash of colour rose up her face. ‘Greystoke.’
Greystoke. The name sounded familiar. Propped against the counter, he watched her fumble in the drawer. She pulled out a calling card which she wrapped inside the tissue paper along with the handkerchief. ‘In case you should know of anyone who might be interested in one of our bonnets. They are of the finest workmanship. Perhaps your wife...’ She smiled encouragingly.
Once more he found himself staring at her in a bemused fashion. ‘I am not married.’
She glanced at the neatly wrapped package. ‘I see.’
‘Those are for a special lady of my acquaintance.’ Hell, why had he felt the need to say such a thing? The recipient of his purchases was none of her business. ‘A very special lady.’
‘Of course.’ Her voice held not a scrap of interest. She tied the package with a ribbon.
He bowed and hand over his calling card. ‘It has been a pleasure doing business with you, Mrs Greystoke.’
Out in the street he glanced through the window to see Mrs Greystoke rearranging her display of handkerchiefs and watching him from the corner of her eye. Making sure he departed post-haste, no doubt.
He clapped his hat on his head and marched off.
A spray of silk violets for a shilling. He hoped like hell Mimi Luttrell appreciated the sacrifice.
But he would tell her about the bonnets. Because Mrs Greystoke was right. Even in his inebriated state, he could tell they were of the finest quality.
* * *
Whatever hopes Carrie had harboured that Lord Avery’s purchase would result in a swarm of ladies interested in hats had died over the following two days. He hadn’t bought a hat, he’d merely pillaged its decoration. The hat, sans violets, now resided on the highest shelf, there to languish until her return to Kent.
There it remained, a constant reminder of his wheedling smile and beautiful brown eyes rimmed with the longest eyelashes she had ever seen. Disastrously beautiful brown eyes with gold flecks scattered like sunbeams across them. Not to mention how he towered over her, which so few men did. Dash it all, she did not want to think about Lord Avery, the younger son of a duke, she’d realised later, having properly read his calling card. A wealthy young man she should have tried to convince to buy a dozen embroidered handkerchiefs instead getting flustered and wrapping up one. She’d made a proper mull of it, as her father would have said.
The idea of returning to the ladies at Westram with nothing but the grand sum of one shilling and thruppence and a ruined bonnet had given her nightmares. Her handbills had not brought in a single customer and she dared not use any of these meagre funds to print more. All in all, the shop in which she had placed such high hopes was a failure.
They would be able to afford one more week’s rent from what little funds they had saved over the winter before she had to close the doors. It was so frustrating. If the ladies of the ton saw these bonnets, their original design, their craftsmanship, she had no doubt they would snap them up. But how was she to accomplish it?
For the third time that morning she rearranged the items beneath the glass counter top, putting lacy gloves beside the chicken-skin fan Marguerite had painted with a pastoral scene. The bell above the door tinkled. She straightened. Her jaw dropped. ‘Lord Avery?’
He bowed. ‘Mrs Greystoke.’
She glanced behind him. There was no sign of the very special lady he had mentioned. ‘How may I help you?’
‘I have need of another of your fripperies.’ He scanned the hats.
Blankly she stared at him. ‘This is a millinery shop, my lord. You bought the one and only violet nosegay in the shop and I have no intention of demolishing
