“Now,” said Miss Birdwell, pushing the shop door open, “let’s buy some toys.”
Let’s buy some toys.
It wasn’t the buying of toys part that lit a spark of excitement inside him, but the let’s part.
No longer was she attempting to exclude him from her day.
He’d become part of it.
After Miss Birdwell had exchanged greetings with the shopkeeper, Rhys asked, “Who are these children you’re buying gifts for? I wasn’t aware that Lord and Lady Percival have any.”
“Well, the good Lord hasn’t seen fit to bless them with sprigs,” said Miss Birdwell, “but we have lots of little ones in our circle. There’s Miss Bretagne from Lord Percival’s first marriage, but she’s a lady full-grown now, isn’t she? But then, Miss Bretagne has the twin brothers from her mam’s second marriage, so they’re part of the circle. Then Miss Bretagne has cousins on her mam’s side, Miss Lavinia Asquith and Mr. Geoffrey Asquith—also twins, mind you—though they’re grown, too, which ain’t to say they wouldn’t want gifts, y’know?”
Rhys nodded, not exactly knowing. “I suppose.”
“Then there’s other cousins, too. The French ones from Isabel’s sister, Eva, who is a French aristocrat now, and has three sprigs of her own.”
Rhys had yet another question, and he needed to ask it delicately, for he didn’t wish to offend. “So, all these gifts are for the family of your employers?”
Miss Birdwell brightened. “Oh, and my friend Nell, who is a duchess now and has her own two sprigs.”
Rhys found himself nodding again. “And Nell’s sprigs.”
“Family comes in all forms, don’t it?”
Against his will and whatever sound judgment he possessed—which, admittedly, had always been in short supply—Rhys was impressed by this woman.
There was no artifice to her.
“That’s quite a lot of people to buy for,” he said, neutrally.
Her smile turned brilliant. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
That hadn’t precisely been his point, but he saw hers—and liked it better.
A lot of people to buy for was a wonderful thing in her world.
And so it was, one hour later, Rhys was stepping outside the Pantheon of Play weighed down by six boxes of varying sizes. Felt more like juggling.
Miss Birdwell gave him an up-and-down appraisal and laughed. “That doesn’t count as one of your three noble deeds, so don’t go getting any ideas.”
A low, rumbly chuckle of his own joined hers. He’d never met a woman like her. This woman’s angle on life was different from anyone’s he’d ever known.
“Now,” she said, pointing across the covered walkway of Burlington Arcade, “I need to pop into that silversmith’s shop for a dog collar for Miss Bretagne?—”
“A dog collar for Miss Bretagne?”
“Not for her,” said Miss Birdwell, still smiling. “For the spaniel puppy she’s getting for Christmas.”
“Ah, that makes more sense.”
Another laugh escaped Miss Birdwell. “Wouldn’t she just make a sight showing up to one of them fancy balls wearing a dog collar?”
While she “popped in” to the silversmith’s, then the goldsmith’s beside it—“for a pair of earbobs for Isabel”—Rhys continued holding the boxes of toys and waiting. As Burlington Arcade was frequented by the haut ton, he was recognized by a few passersby—a nod from the gents…a quick cut of the eye, followed by a private little smile from the ladies. But as Burlington Arcade was mostly frequented by the proper end of society, he wasn’t on conversational terms with any of them.
Those of the ton with whom he was on conversational terms tended to occupy the opposite end of the spectrum—the wastrels, rotters, and tossers.
When Miss Birdwell returned, she was holding two small boxes and her smile, which he’d come to understand was just how she always looked—which he more than liked.
