Anthony cried. Then he took a deep breath at his father's surprised expression. "I want no special favors from Mr. Richards." Well, none except for his daughter's hand in marriage. "I will get my promotion or not as custom dictates."
His father pursed his lips, but in the end he nodded. "Quite honorable of you. Excellent perspective." Then he punctuated the thought by lifting his quill and pointing it directly at his son. "I'm proud of you," he said. Then he returned to work, inscribing something in the endless columns of numbers that were their livelihood.
End of discussion, thought Anthony with a sigh. Then he tried to focus on his work, but it was hard. He was dead tired from too many nights and a few very early mornings. It was hard enough working for Mr. Richards, not to mention doing his own after-hours work. Plus, working without a desk made his shoulders hunch and his back hurt.
And when would he be able to see Francine again? How—
"Oh, bloody hell," his father said with a most unusual curse. "Go. You are getting nothing done here today. Take care of the dress shop and the butchery. And the girl, because I know that is the real reason you cannot focus today."
"Father—"
"But mark my words. You will come back here tomorrow and work doubly hard. Do you understand?"
Anthony nodded, unable to believe his luck. Was his father truly releasing him before midday? "Are you sure, Father?"
"Hush! Go! And I shall tell your mother to start thinking about a wedding."
"No, Father, you can't!"
His father lifted his hands, palms outward. "All right. All right. I won't say a word. Provided you work—"
"Triply hard tomorrow. I swear!" Then while his father was still chuckling, Anthony grabbed his hat and satchel, running out the door without even bothering to don his coat.
He made it to the dress shop as fast as he could, but once there, he encountered a surprise. A gentleman—an aristocrat by the looks of him—frowning at the building. Anthony slowed, but didn't speak. He had no idea why a lord would be so interested in a dress shop, and he had no intention of asking. Besides, he was already late. Francine was inside for her fitting, and he was desperate to see her. But as he passed, he saw a piece of paper in the man's hand. It was one he recognized since it had been written in his own hand: a bill from this shop.
His responsibility to the shop warred with his desire to see Francine. He paused, and in that moment, he was caught. The aristocrat saw him looking at the bill.
"Are you associated with this shop?" the man asked. There was authority and an innate arrogance in the man's voice which meant the man had to be titled. Bloody hell! Would he never get inside to see Francine?
"Yes, sir, I am." It took everything he had in him to make sure his expression was open and pleasant. "Is there a problem?"
"Yes, yes," the man said as he waved the bill in the air. "I've got some questions regarding this bill."
"Of course. Well, you need only enter here—" Anthony began, heading for the front door, but the man stopped him.
"I know. Problem is, I'm a little bit on the outs with Mrs. Mortimer. I said something rude about her dress designs, I'm afraid. Didn't mean it, but you know how awkward that can be."
Anthony sighed. If the problem was with the bill, it would end up in his lap anyway. He might as well deal with it now. But he would do it where he could get some idea of what was happening with Francine. "Come along then. I'm the bookkeeper. We can have a look at the records together."
"Bookkeeper, you say!" the man cried as he clapped a hand on Anthony's shoulder. "Just the man to see, especially since I'd like to understand a little more about this shop. Havey-cavey thing this is, asking for payment in advance. Unheard of. They should just make the dress, then get paid in the usual way."
And that was the moment when Anthony finally placed who the man was. He was Lord Redhill, brother to Lady Gwen, the shop's most
His father pursed his lips, but in the end he nodded. "Quite honorable of you. Excellent perspective." Then he punctuated the thought by lifting his quill and pointing it directly at his son. "I'm proud of you," he said. Then he returned to work, inscribing something in the endless columns of numbers that were their livelihood.
End of discussion, thought Anthony with a sigh. Then he tried to focus on his work, but it was hard. He was dead tired from too many nights and a few very early mornings. It was hard enough working for Mr. Richards, not to mention doing his own after-hours work. Plus, working without a desk made his shoulders hunch and his back hurt.
And when would he be able to see Francine again? How—
"Oh, bloody hell," his father said with a most unusual curse. "Go. You are getting nothing done here today. Take care of the dress shop and the butchery. And the girl, because I know that is the real reason you cannot focus today."
"Father—"
"But mark my words. You will come back here tomorrow and work doubly hard. Do you understand?"
Anthony nodded, unable to believe his luck. Was his father truly releasing him before midday? "Are you sure, Father?"
"Hush! Go! And I shall tell your mother to start thinking about a wedding."
"No, Father, you can't!"
His father lifted his hands, palms outward. "All right. All right. I won't say a word. Provided you work—"
"Triply hard tomorrow. I swear!" Then while his father was still chuckling, Anthony grabbed his hat and satchel, running out the door without even bothering to don his coat.
He made it to the dress shop as fast as he could, but once there, he encountered a surprise. A gentleman—an aristocrat by the looks of him—frowning at the building. Anthony slowed, but didn't speak. He had no idea why a lord would be so interested in a dress shop, and he had no intention of asking. Besides, he was already late. Francine was inside for her fitting, and he was desperate to see her. But as he passed, he saw a piece of paper in the man's hand. It was one he recognized since it had been written in his own hand: a bill from this shop.
His responsibility to the shop warred with his desire to see Francine. He paused, and in that moment, he was caught. The aristocrat saw him looking at the bill.
"Are you associated with this shop?" the man asked. There was authority and an innate arrogance in the man's voice which meant the man had to be titled. Bloody hell! Would he never get inside to see Francine?
"Yes, sir, I am." It took everything he had in him to make sure his expression was open and pleasant. "Is there a problem?"
"Yes, yes," the man said as he waved the bill in the air. "I've got some questions regarding this bill."
"Of course. Well, you need only enter here—" Anthony began, heading for the front door, but the man stopped him.
"I know. Problem is, I'm a little bit on the outs with Mrs. Mortimer. I said something rude about her dress designs, I'm afraid. Didn't mean it, but you know how awkward that can be."
Anthony sighed. If the problem was with the bill, it would end up in his lap anyway. He might as well deal with it now. But he would do it where he could get some idea of what was happening with Francine. "Come along then. I'm the bookkeeper. We can have a look at the records together."
"Bookkeeper, you say!" the man cried as he clapped a hand on Anthony's shoulder. "Just the man to see, especially since I'd like to understand a little more about this shop. Havey-cavey thing this is, asking for payment in advance. Unheard of. They should just make the dress, then get paid in the usual way."
And that was the moment when Anthony finally placed who the man was. He was Lord Redhill, brother to Lady Gwen, the shop's most
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