Time to break the bad news to Robinson. “I need an experienced lady’s maid, but I am hoping you may find your way to acting as her assistant.”
To her relief Robinson appeared more delighted than disappointed. The dowager wouldn’t have approved of her beam.
Maids were supposed to behave coolly and appear as invisible as they could manage, considering they were as corporeal as everybody else.
One more hurdle crossed.
Making another decision, she turned to the maid. “Could you come with me this morning, Robinson? I need to shop after our visits in the City. I’d appreciate you taking a list, otherwise we’ll forget half of it. I need black ribbons, black gloves, stockings...” Still reciting her list, followed by her maid who was murmuring the items after her, since that was the way Robinson took lists, Faith nearly collided with her husband.
She jerked up her head and almost toppled backwards. “You look magnificent.” The words left her mouth before she could put a guard on her wayward tongue. He did. Tall, powerful, dressed in black, since they were going out that morning. Black that fitted him perfectly, displaying his powerful shoulders, deep chest and strong thighs.
Unabashed, he bent and touched his lips to hers in a brief salute that gave her a flash of heat, though he straightened immediately afterwards. “You look lovely.”
“I look ordinary.”
“If this is how you appear in black, you’ll look wonderful in colours.”
She laughed and took his arm. “Flatterer!” She didn’t believe him for a minute, but she enjoyed him telling her. To have a man who actually noticed her appearance came as a pleasant surprise, although to do him justice, her late husband had no chance to tell her so. Women who followed the drum had little opportunity to display their fashion skills. “Cerisot is a genius.”
“She certainly knows her trade.” Although his words sounded mild, the heated glance he shot her was anything but.
Downstairs, Robinson helped her into her hat and wrapped her old black cloak reverently around her shoulders. “Add shawls and a new black cloak or pelisse to the list,” Faith said and glanced up at her husband. “I plan to shop at the Exchange after our meeting.”
He smiled. “Good.”
She realised she’d expected him to castigate her for wasting money on female fripperies. Old habits, apprehensions she should kill. They had no part in her life, had not for two years. John had not nearly so much money, nor the need for display, so every purchase had been modest and practical. Sometimes it seemed a great deal longer than two years. Not even that, because Waterloo had taken place in June, and they were only in late March.
Heaven knew what the house in the country looked like, and it was but the main one of half a dozen. Ridiculous. Extravagant.
Necessary.
The coach awaited them, a town carriage with the Graywood crest on the doors, the smell of fresh paint still lingering from the mourning wreaths painted on to the crests. Inside, the pale blue upholstery showed not a speck of dust. The footman swung up behind and they set off with a rattle of harness and a warning shout from the coachman.
John put his hand over hers. “I asked for one footman only. Lady Graywood wanted the complete panoply of footmen, runners, all the trappings and in a way she has the right of it.” Surely one emblazoned servant and a maid was enough.
She leaned back and watched the passing wonders of the city.
They travelled from the fashionable West End to the decidedly unmodish East End, through the City and down to the loop in the river known as the Isle of Dogs. Not that they ventured inside the loop. Rookeries abounded there, haunts of the outlaw and the outcast.
They came to the working part of the Thames, the docks. East India Docks was a huge complex, with buildings varying from shacks to imposing warehouses fit for a King. The riches of the world resided here before the dock workers loaded, unloaded and sent them to their various destinations. Carriages and carts rolled in and out, men with arms the width of a normal man’s legs heaved bales, boxes and bundles. Masts bristled up into the sky, a dead forest come back to life, sails rolled and lashed, and everywhere she heard the cacophony of activity.
Dazed, she allowed John to help her out of the carriage. He retained his hold on her hand as he led her into the nearest building, one in a cluster that had brass plaques fastened to the soot-blackened brick walls outside.
Inside, the air smelled strange, sharp with spices, probably from a nearby storage area, or maybe a ship carrying that cargo had just disembarked. Must and dampness combined with the underlying stink of wood rot permeating everything.
Lifting her skirts she climbed the stairs, the polished wooden rail attesting to its frequent use, rather than the assiduity of the housemaid. A stocky man stood in the gloom of the narrow landing. Instead of bowing, he shook hands with John, then he nodded to her. “Ma’am.”
“It’s ‘my lady,’” John said, but he said it with a smile. “I don’t think she’ll object to your address, though. Did you have a good trip, Burrows?”
The man grinned. “Aye, sir. Not as eventful as yours. Will you come this way?” They followed him into a room at the front of the building.
A blaze of light greeted her from the huge expanse of glass facing the door. Like a bow window in a great ship. It could have been taken from one, which would explain its incongruous appearance here. It afforded a magnificent view over the docks; a panoramic sweep of working London, as impressive in its way as the fashionable hour in Hyde Park, or the interior of Carlton House.
She had John to thank for bringing her here, giving her a new experience. She savoured every one, stored them up like a hungry squirrel, to take them out in the future, look at them and then tuck them away once more.
A man stood behind the substantial desk before the window, his silhouette and shadowy features all she could see until her eyes adjusted to the glare. Then he became clearer.
As tall as John but thinner, he still appeared the kind of person who could break a lesser being with a twist of his wrist. She should have felt intimidated in his presence, but she’d met too many powerful men for that. If they wanted to hurt her, they would, but most did not. This man did not. His normal mien of sternness was obvious from the lines bracketing his mouth and rippling his forehead, but he was smiling at them, his pale eyes lit with pleasure.
She’d wager few people saw him that way.
“My dear, may I introduce my agent, business partner and friend, Thomas Pickering,” John said. “Thomas, my wife, Lady Graywood.”
“My lady.” He inclined his head, not quite a bow.
She did the same, still wondering at the new name, uncomfortable with it, as if it belonged to someone else. “I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Pickering.”
Pickering exchanged a speaking glance with John. “You are come home for good, then, if you’re taking the title.”
John shrugged. “As to that, I have no choice. The title is mine, whether I like it or not. The rest remains to be seen. I won’t close any avenue and I do not intend to abandon my concerns in Canada.”
“And India?”
John nodded. “That too.”
She turned to him with a frown. “India?” He hadn’t mentioned visiting there.
A smile flirted with the corners of his mouth. “Investments, my dear. The East Indies too. I have worldwide interests.” He drew up a chair for her with his own hands and helped her to sit before he found a seat for himself. Pickering took his place behind the desk and the other man, Burrows, stood by the door, legs apart, hands behind his back, military style. She saw a lot of ex-soldiers around these days. This one had obviously discovered an excellent berth.