will be rumors. Especialy when this one leaves town.” Sir Charles shot another scathing glance at Annelise. “But they will only be rumors. Bring in a magistrate and you might as well put the whole sordid mess in the paper.”
For several moments Annelise thought that George might not back down. But then he finaly yanked his glare away, snapping his head so fast that his wound began to bleed again. He touched his cheek, then looked down at the blood on his fingers. “You will pay for this,” he said, walking slowly toward Annelise. “Maybe not today, but you will pay.”
He touched his fingers to her cheek, slowly drawing a slash of blood in a diagonal, from cheekbone to chin. “I will find you,” he said, and in that moment he almost sounded happy. “And it will be a fine day when I do.”
Chapter Seven
D aniel did not consider himself a dandy, or even a Corinthian, but it had to be said—there was nothing like a wel-made pair of boots.
The afternoon post had brought a missive from Hugh:
Winstead—
As promised, I visited my father this morning. It is my opinion that he was genuinely surprised, both to see me (we do not speak), and also when he was informed of your misfortune yesterday eve. In short, I do not believe that he bears responsibility for your attack.
I concluded the interview with a reiteration of my threat. It is always good to be reminded of the consequences of one’s actions, but perhaps more pertinent was my delight at watching the blood drain from his face.
Yours and etc.,
H. Prentice (alive as long as you are)
And so, feeling as assured of his safety as he supposed he ever would, Daniel headed out to Hoby’s of St. James’s, where his foot and leg were measured with a precision that would have impressed Galileo himself.
“Do not move,” Mr. Hoby demanded.
“I’m not moving.”
“Indeed you are.”
Daniel looked down at his stockinged foot, which was not moving.
Mr. Hoby’s face pinched with disdain. “His grace the Duke of Welington can stand for hours without moving so much as a muscle.”
“He breathes, though?” Daniel murmured.
Mr. Hoby did not bother to look up. “We are not amused.”
Daniel could not help but wonder if “we” referred to Mr. Hoby and the duke or if the famed bootmaker’s self-regard had finaly expanded to the extent that he was forced to speak of himself in the plural.
“We need you to hold still,” Mr. Hoby growled.
The latter, then. An annoying habit, no matter how lofty the personage, but Daniel was inclined to put up with it, given the blissful perfection of Mr. Hoby’s boots.
“I shal endeavor to do your bidding,” Daniel said in his joliest voice.
Mr. Hoby displayed no signs of amusement, instead barking for one of his assistants to hand him a pencil with which to trace Lord Winstead’s foot.
Daniel held himself completely still (outdoing even the Duke of Welington, whom he was quite sure did breathe while being measured), but before Mr. Hoby could finish his tracings, the door to the shop burst open, hitting the wall behind it with enough force to rattle the glass. Daniel jumped, Mr. Hoby cursed, Mr. Hoby’s assistant cringed, and when Daniel looked down, the outline of his foot sported a baby toe that jutted forth like a reptilian claw.
Impressive.
The noise of the door slamming open would have attracted enough attention, but then it became clear that it was a woman who had come into the bootmaker’s establishment, a woman who appeared to be in distress, a woman who—
“ Miss Wynter ?”
It could be no one else, not with those raven locks peeking out from her bonnet, or the incredibly long sweep of eyelashes. But more than that . . . It was strange, but Daniel rather thought that he had recognized her by the way she moved.
She jumped a foot, probably more, so startled by his voice that she stumbled into the display shelves behind her, the ensuing cascade of footwear halted only by the quick thinking of Mr.
For several moments Annelise thought that George might not back down. But then he finaly yanked his glare away, snapping his head so fast that his wound began to bleed again. He touched his cheek, then looked down at the blood on his fingers. “You will pay for this,” he said, walking slowly toward Annelise. “Maybe not today, but you will pay.”
He touched his fingers to her cheek, slowly drawing a slash of blood in a diagonal, from cheekbone to chin. “I will find you,” he said, and in that moment he almost sounded happy. “And it will be a fine day when I do.”
Chapter Seven
D aniel did not consider himself a dandy, or even a Corinthian, but it had to be said—there was nothing like a wel-made pair of boots.
The afternoon post had brought a missive from Hugh:
Winstead—
As promised, I visited my father this morning. It is my opinion that he was genuinely surprised, both to see me (we do not speak), and also when he was informed of your misfortune yesterday eve. In short, I do not believe that he bears responsibility for your attack.
I concluded the interview with a reiteration of my threat. It is always good to be reminded of the consequences of one’s actions, but perhaps more pertinent was my delight at watching the blood drain from his face.
Yours and etc.,
H. Prentice (alive as long as you are)
And so, feeling as assured of his safety as he supposed he ever would, Daniel headed out to Hoby’s of St. James’s, where his foot and leg were measured with a precision that would have impressed Galileo himself.
“Do not move,” Mr. Hoby demanded.
“I’m not moving.”
“Indeed you are.”
Daniel looked down at his stockinged foot, which was not moving.
Mr. Hoby’s face pinched with disdain. “His grace the Duke of Welington can stand for hours without moving so much as a muscle.”
“He breathes, though?” Daniel murmured.
Mr. Hoby did not bother to look up. “We are not amused.”
Daniel could not help but wonder if “we” referred to Mr. Hoby and the duke or if the famed bootmaker’s self-regard had finaly expanded to the extent that he was forced to speak of himself in the plural.
“We need you to hold still,” Mr. Hoby growled.
The latter, then. An annoying habit, no matter how lofty the personage, but Daniel was inclined to put up with it, given the blissful perfection of Mr. Hoby’s boots.
“I shal endeavor to do your bidding,” Daniel said in his joliest voice.
Mr. Hoby displayed no signs of amusement, instead barking for one of his assistants to hand him a pencil with which to trace Lord Winstead’s foot.
Daniel held himself completely still (outdoing even the Duke of Welington, whom he was quite sure did breathe while being measured), but before Mr. Hoby could finish his tracings, the door to the shop burst open, hitting the wall behind it with enough force to rattle the glass. Daniel jumped, Mr. Hoby cursed, Mr. Hoby’s assistant cringed, and when Daniel looked down, the outline of his foot sported a baby toe that jutted forth like a reptilian claw.
Impressive.
The noise of the door slamming open would have attracted enough attention, but then it became clear that it was a woman who had come into the bootmaker’s establishment, a woman who appeared to be in distress, a woman who—
“ Miss Wynter ?”
It could be no one else, not with those raven locks peeking out from her bonnet, or the incredibly long sweep of eyelashes. But more than that . . . It was strange, but Daniel rather thought that he had recognized her by the way she moved.
She jumped a foot, probably more, so startled by his voice that she stumbled into the display shelves behind her, the ensuing cascade of footwear halted only by the quick thinking of Mr.
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