Page 11 of Would I Lie to the Duke
“Yes?” The bespectacled man infused this one syllable with hauteur.
Sweeping his hat off his head, the craftsman stammered in a thick Yorkshire accent, “I’m Farrow, of Farrow Ceramics and Tile. I’d... I’d like to present... to present my tile manufactory to the... the gentlemen of the Bazaar.” He hefted the bag that, presumably, held samples of his goods.
The man in glasses held up a sheaf of paper. “Farrow Ceramics and Tile is not on my list of approved presenters, and if you are not on this list, then you are not authorized for entrance.”
“I’ve come such a long way,” Farrow said desperately. “From Sprotbrough—”
“That is obvious,” the door-minder intoned. “And the distance you’ve traveled is not my concern. I suggest that if you do seek to present at the Bazaar, you go through the standard channels and apply to Lord Trask’s man of business.”
“I have.” Farrow clutched his hat to his chest. “For years.”
“Sir,” the bespectacled man said wearily, “you must clear the way. I wish you good morning.” He pointed to the street.
The Yorkshireman’s shoulders slumped, then he dejectedly dragged himself off the stoop and down the street.
Jess stood, stunned at what she’d just witnessed. Clearly, her plan to talk her way into the Bazaar wasn’t going to work. She had to come up with an alternative means of getting inside, and her mind frantically spun as she worked out a new strategy.
One thing was certain: she couldn’t turn back now.
The man in glasses turned his attention to her, and her stomach dropped. “Miss?”
She stepped to the door, her pulse a hard, insistent beat in her ears, and fixed a wide smile to her face that she hoped looked charming rather than desperate.
From inside the house came the sounds of many people talking—the Bazaar was already underway.
“May I assist you?” The man in the spectacles peered at her.
She tipped up her chin. “I’m a guest of the Bazaar.”
“I have accounted for all our female guests,” he replied.
“Likely you didn’t know that I would be in attendance this year.” That sounded logical enough.
“Stapleton?” a voice sounded behind the man in glasses. “Is aught amiss?” An older gentleman with substantial white whiskers and a broad torso emerged, wearing the look of a man completely in his domain. Lord Trask.
The Bazaar’s mastermind stood in front of her, his eyes sharp as he regarded her. This man could beMcGale & McGale’s making. Or he could allow it to wither and die.
“My lord,” the man—Stapleton—said deferentially, “this young woman says she is a guest of the Bazaar.”
“Dallying, Trask?” a deep and faintly familiar voice asked. “If I’m not mistaken, you promised us a breakfast with some of those buns your cook makes, so we oughtn’t dawdle.”
The Duke of Rotherby appeared behind Lord Trask. He glanced in her direction before turning his attention to the marquess. A moment later, his gaze was back on her and he smiled at Jess with recognition and pleasure, as if he’d been given an unexpected gift.
“Well, well,” he said. “If it isn’t Lady Hawk of Bond Street.”
“And if it isn’t His Grace, the wolf,” she returned.
“How am I a wolf?”
“One hunter recognizes another.”
“A fine pair we are.” He shouldered the butler aside to lean against the door frame, his arms folded over his chest, one booted foot crossed over the other. “A hawk and a wolf roaming London. Sounds quite star-crossed. And yet it’s the poor people of this town I pity more—to have a duo such as us unleashed on the populace.”
“We predators have a reputation to uphold.”
Jess never spoke this freely with people of higher ranks, but somehow the road to intimacy between her and His Grace had been paved from their first meeting.
“Beg pardon, Your Grace,” Lord Trask said, poking his head around the duke’s long body. “Who is this lady?”
