“I didn’t know,” she said, “the reasons for the riot.”
He let out a weary sigh. “It’s a miserable tale, honestly.No one cares enough to learn what really happened, they want only someone to blame.”
“Ishould like to know,” she said softly.
He glanced over at her with a look that said,You’re the first. He gave a sad smile, and the hatchling from her heart hopped and tried to fly.
“The lace makers will never be able to compete with the new textile mills, but there is high demand for Honiton lace around the world. We need only a level field of play.”
He was shaking his head. With due emphasis he breathed, “Which is why the export duty for small craftsmenmust be removed.”
“Your audience with the prince regent,” she remembered. “The girls’ presentation at court.”
“Yes. The prince doesn’t make the laws but his influence in parliament is significant. Meanwhile, mine is... a joke at the moment. With one fell swoop he can do what I never could. In the meantime...”
“Youpay the export duty for the lace makers?”
He let out a bitter bark of laughter. “If only it was that easy. The lot of them despise me too much to accept my help.”
He looked up to her, gave a sad little wink, and turned back to the lace. “The less you know, Miss Trelayne, the better. Believe me.”
Drew stared at him, her heart hopping into her throat. She wanted to tell him that she didn’t care for what was best. She was riveted. She loved Honiton lace—she loved all artisan-made, handcrafted textiles—and she loved the notion of progress and tradition coexisting side by side. And she loved—
She stopped herself.
There were things that one loved, and then there were things—well, men—you’d only just met.
Silly, stupid girl.
She stared down at the lace, trying to think of somethingmore to say. Fifty questions tumbled in her head. She was just about to ask him to identify the mill-produced lace, when they heard thetap,tap,tapof demanding footsteps behind them.
“What are you doing?” said a familiarly suspicious voice.
Drew and Lachlan turned.
Imogene Starry stood behind them, hands on her hips, glaring at Drew and her uncle.
Chapter Eleven
“We are looking at this lace,” Ian replied, turning his back to the counter and leaning against it. “What areyoudoing?”
“I’ve chosen fabric. Choosing fabric was our stated purpose for this outing. AndIvy—” she scowled in the direction of the window “—is taking tea. And reading the papers. She has chosen nothing. So...”
“Oh lovely,” clipped Miss Trelayne, hurrying away. Her cheeks glowed red. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”
Imogene followed Miss Trelayne to the counter and flung a hand in the general direction of her heap of fabric choices. Her message was clear:I’ve graduated from this process.
Miss Trelayne smiled an I-don’t-think-so smile and beckoned her back.
Unfurling the top bolt with a dramatic whoosh, Miss Trelayne compelled Imogene to explain her choices and her vision for potential dresses.
Imogene complied with a mix of boredom and irritation—a girl forced to show off her watercolors to Auntie’s friends—but Miss Trelayne asked so many questions and appeared so very interested, Imogene eventually warmed to the task.
For the next half hour, they mulled over the fabrics, summoning Mrs. Tavertine to join them with her sketchbook.
With nothing to contribute, Ian poured himself a cup oftea and sat in the windowsill, drinking in companionable silence next to Ivy. She was reading the broadsheets with a small dog who’d wandered in from a back room.
The tea had gone cold, but he drank it anyway, staring at Bond Street in the distance.
