And while she couldn’t see the handle clasped in Mrs. Fitzherbert’s hand, this time she had no doubt it was ivory with a spiral carving and not the wooden one of Mrs. Bertram.
“It is mine! I know it,” Glynnis said, beginning to quicken her steps.
Hargrove put a hand to her upper arm and stopped her. “What do you think you are doing?”
She glanced from where his fingers branded her arm with his heat then back to his face, which currently wore a severe expression.
“I am going to demand it back,” she told him.
“You are not.”
“I am.”
“Mrs. Fitzherbert might not have been recognized as a legitimate consort by Prinny’s royal parents or by Parliament or even by the Church of England, but he adores her nonetheless. And she can be a little, shall we say, unpredictable. I don’t want you angering her and then having her tell the prince about it. It could go very badly for you.”
“But she has my parasol.” Glynnis managed to keep the whine out of her voice with great difficulty. She was not wrong this time.
“Doubtful,” Hargrove said. “Was she even at that first picnic?”
“I don’t recall,” Glynnis said truthfully, “but somehow she got her hands on it.”
“Regardless, you cannot confront her. It’s a damned umbrella, and you are behaving beyond all reason. Why haven’t you bought another one?”
“More to the point, why does she even need it?” Glynnis asked, feeling spiteful. “She is a bit long in the tooth to worry about the sun damaging her face now.”
“Hush,” Hargrove bit out. “If you’re overheard, you’ll lose favor with her and then with him for certain. If it is yours, which I highly doubt, then probably someone picked it up and set it inside the Pavilion where she found it. She merely didn’t want it to go to waste.”
“Then she won’t be offended if I tell her it is mine.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert had moved on from the jewelry store and was getting farther from them, still twirling the parasol as she strolled. It was almost as if she were taunting Glynnis, who could see her little tassels waving to her.
“I will simply tell her I would like it back.”
“No,” he insisted. “It will embarrass her.”
“Then what do you suggest? Do you see the strong sun beating down upon me?” she fumed.
“As I said before, let’s go to a notions’ shop at once, and you can buy another.”
“I cannot,” she said softly.
“Why?” he pressed.
Thinking of her situation of near destitution, she felt tears prick her eyes as the last glimpse of her parasol turned the corner and was lost to her.
He waited.
“I cannot,” she repeated loudly and clearly, then spun on the toes of her shoes and began walking in the opposite direction.What point was there to being on a street with shops when one hadn’t a spare farthing?
Hargrove caught up to her in a flash.
“Are you well?”
She considered her situation, even as they passed by Hanningtons, a large shop selling not only parasols but every other capricious or practical desire, from gloves, fans, hats, stockings, to painted feathers and fancy buttons. She sighed and peered at the clipping from the Brighton Herald stuck prominently upon one window:
“New and elegant Assortment of Goods ... at unusual Low Prices.”
“Better yet,” Glynnis said, knowing she sounded confrontational, “let’s go in here and you can buy a parasol for me.”
