Page 24 of Never a Duchess
MacTavish moved past them. He leaned closer and whispered, “Ailsa likes the rosewater. The rest stinks like a horse’s sweaty ballocks.”
Callan laughed aloud, much to the assistant’s horror.
“We require yer help and undivided attention,” he said when a persistent lady at the end of the counter complained about the slow service. Callan removed a calling card from his silver case and handed it to the assistant.
Christian’s eyes widened as he read the elegant script. He looked ready to have the gilt chairs carried in, serve the finest canapés and aperitifs to honour the esteemed duke’s patronage.
But Callan leaned over the counter. “Ye’ll nae mention my name or make any grand gestures. Ye’ll tell us what we need to know, and we shall be on our way. Do ye understand?”
Christian blinked and nodded rapidly.
“We are investigating a matter of grave importance,” Miss Ware said quietly. “We need the names of those who purchased your lily of the valley perfume during the past twelve months.”
The man gawped like she had asked him to dance naked on the counter. “But the information is confidential, madame.”
“Would you rather we fetch the magistrate?” she said firmly. “One whisper of trouble and your clients will go elsewhere.”
“But we do not keep records.”
“Ye expect me to believe that?” Callan growled. “Know, my friend is clumsy and prone to accidents. I would hate for him to break anything.”
The fellow started shaking when MacTavish balanced a bottle on one finger. “Lily of the valley, you say? The scent, it was taken off the shelf a month ago. Monsieur Baudelaire, he is a perfectionist. Customers complained it was not as authentic as the one sold at Valmary’s.”
Callan slapped his hand on the counter. “Aye, but ye keep a list of patrons’ names and addresses.”
The sudden sound of shattering glass on the tiled floor had all the customers gasping. Aghast, poor Christian looked like he’d seen the ghost of Bronny Moor.
“Och, the thing just slipped from my hand.” MacTavish picked up another delicate glass bottle, ready to demonstrate how easily it was done.
People hurried from the shop as if a horde of marauding pirates had taken occupancy. Shrieks accompanied the tinkling of the bell and the constant slamming of the door.
“Wait! Madame! Monsieur!” Christian called to those racing away down the street—while his colleague arrived with a brush and cloth and knelt to clean up the mess before they choked on the fumes.
“Give us the names,” Callan said, taking advantage of the chaos, “and I’ll get rid of the Scotsman before he breaks yer wee neck.”
“Monsieur Baudelaire keeps all documents locked in his office.” Christian’s French accent slipped to reveal something of a coarse East London twang. “But I can recall a few off the top of me head.”
Miss Ware reached into her reticule and withdrew her notebook and pencil, the thrill of excitement dancing in her intelligent blue eyes. “I’m listening.”
“Mrs Gregory, Captain Gregory’s widow,” Christian began, his gaze flitting from them to MacTavish as the lord examined another bottle. “Lady Sheridan. Erm, Miss Hudspith, daughter of Sir Gerald. Please. Tell him to put the bottle down, or I’ll be forced to shine shoes on Piccadilly.”
Miss Ware looked up from her notebook. “An authentic lily of the valley fragrance is considered the height of luxury. More than three ladies must have ordered the perfume.”
Christian gulped a breath. “Mrs Jarvis. Last I heard, she was Major Rowlands’ mistress. Oh, and the opera singer Madame Delafont. I can’t remember the others.”
They had enough information to begin their investigation. The obvious place to start was with Mrs Gregory as one of her initials matched those on the handkerchief.
“Have ye recorded the names, Miss Ware?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” She finished scribbling and closed her notebook. “For obvious reasons, we should begin with Mrs Gregory.”
“An excellent idea.”
MacTavish coughed a few times. The pungent stench of aromatic oils wafting through the shop had irritated his nostrils. “We’ll wait outside.” He captured Ailsa’s arm, propelling her towards the door. “I need some air before I choke.”
Callan turned to the fake French assistant. “Ye have my direction. If ye recall anyone with the initials A. G. who purchased lily of the valley, send word, and I’ll reward ye for yer efforts.”
“For Lily,” the assistant said, nodding profusely.
