Page 5 of Would I Lie to the Duke
“And yet you’re rubbing elbows with the country’s sharpest financial players.”
“I can beboth, youknow,” Noel snapped. “And I’m not the sort to sit back and just watch my money pile up, regardless of its origin. The Bazaar tells me what I need to know, which enterprises are the most profitable, and which utilize unscrupulous practices. I’m a man of influence—”
“So you keep telling us,” McCameron said drily.
“And other powerful people look to me for direction,” Noel plowed on. “So I take what I learn at the Bazaar and pass it on to trusted colleagues.”
“Here I thoughtwewere your trusted colleagues,” Curtis said. “Now we learn there are others you value more? Shameful.” He appeared to sulk, but he spoiled the effect with a smirk.
“Don’t be an ass,” Noel retorted. “To you lot, I’ll always be that spoilt boy in the Eton library.”
“Notentirelya spoilt boy,” McCameron said. “More like a spoilt nob.”
“You are cordially invited to go fuck yourself,” Noel said cheerfully.
McCameron made a rude noise. “Just the same, you’re going to the Bazaar, aren’t you? Being the virtuous duke—to a point.”
“Only moderately virtuous,” Noel said. “And as Curtis so eloquently put it twenty years ago, everybody’s got their noses up my arse. Might as well do some goddamned good with the power I’ve been given.”
His friends had helped him learn that lesson at the age of fourteen, and he’d carried it with him in the two decades that had followed. When he’d become the Duke of Rotherby at the age of twenty-three, he had two intentions: enjoy the hell out of himself, and don’t abuse his privilege.
He’d been remarkably good at both of those.
And in the midst of his whirlwind life, he had the friendship of four men—blokes who would never see him as a means to an end, never play him false, and, above all, be truthful to him and to each other. They kept him sane and anchored when the rest of his existence reeled as quickly as a spinning globe.
He’d neversayas much, of course. Just the same, they knew how he felt about them, and their feelings for him.
“Now,” he said with a grin, “it’s time to get back in the ring and pummel each other. That’s what friends do.”
Energy hummed through Jess, echoed in the buzzing traffic all around. Stylish pedestrians crowded thepavement and the street itself was thick with glossy carriages and equally glossy horseflesh. It was a shame Cynthia could not be here to see this, for Cyn always had a love of fashion and the doings of Society.
Jess walked up Bond Street, keeping her stride even but brisk. Much as she wanted to linger in front of the shops’ windows and marvel at the sparkling merchandise within, she had an objective here.
Each elegant person here represented Opportunity. And in her reticule, the bars of McGale & McGale soap represented the keys to that opportunity, and keeping her family together.
A sign painted in regal white letters over a navy background proclaimedDaley’s Emporium—she’d reached her first destination. Her heart thumped with a combination of excitement and nervousness as the bell on the shop door chimed upon her entrance.
Inside, glass-fronted cases held artfully arranged displays of products, including bottles of toilet water, ceramic pots containing the most refined cosmetics, cunning scissors and blades for trimming hair and whiskers, and the complete equipage anyone might need to maintain their fingernails.
Carpet muffled Jess’s steps as she moved deeper into the shop. A lone gentleman wearing the shiniest top hat she’d ever seen browsed the cases, while two women wearing shawls that must have come from India murmured to each other as they contemplated a hair-curling iron.
“Might I assist you, madam?”
She turned to face a gentleman with hair so paleas to be almost colorless. As expected, his dress was subdued and neat, precisely what a shop clerk catering to the elite would wear.
“I would like to speak to the individual responsible for selecting and purchasing stock for this emporium.”
“That would be myself. Charles Daley, at your service.” He bowed.
She held out her hand. “Miss Jessica McGale. A pleasure, Mr. Daley.” When he shook her hand, she continued, her voice even but direct as she spoke. “When I came to London, I knew you were the first person I had to meet. You see, sir, I’m here to present you and your shop with a marvelous opportunity.”
“What opportunity might that be?” He lifted an eyebrow.
“To be the first shop in all of London to supply its patrons with England’s finest soap.” From a small pack, she produced a wrapped bar. The scent of honey surrounded her and Mr. Daley as she lifted it up. “This, Mr. Daley, is McGale & McGale soap. Manufactured in Wiltshire, and of a quality so superior as to make French soap seem coarse in comparison.”
She held the soap out to Mr. Daley, and he took it gingerly. “I’ve never heard of McGale & McGale.”
“The scope of our operation has been limited,” she said. “But we are known locally for the excellent quality of our product. Examine it for yourself, and you’ll see I speak the truth. I invite you to experience its fragrance.”
