After a Fashion (23 page)

Everett vanished out the door a second later and silence settled around the dining room, until Abigail let out a huff. “It really is amazing how quickly you ladies are able to clear a room. First Archibald and now poor Mr. Mulberry.”

“My grandfather was here?” Oliver asked.

“He still is here, dear, although he’s made himself scarce due to Miss Plum’s unfortunate choice of garments today.” Abigail moved closer to Oliver. “Which reminds me, your grandfather has been kind enough to provide us with the use of your chef. I’ll need you—along with Mr. Mulberry, if you can get him to return—to come back here around seven.”

“My grandfather brought my chef over here?”

Abigail smiled. “Archibald’s been such a dear, helping me get Harriet ready. Why, it was ingenious, his idea to serve an actual formal meal. I’m hopeful our lesson tonight will go far in preparing everyone for the dinner Archibald and I have decided to hold for the duke.”

“What dinner?” Harriet asked—apprehension stealing through her when Abigail didn’t bother to answer but simply sent her a smile before she turned back to Oliver.

“There is no need to dress formally, dear. Reverend Gilmore has also agreed to attend our little meal, and I wouldn’t want that lovely gentleman to feel out of place. Since he’s so dedicated to helping the poor, he spends his money on those in need, which
means he doesn’t have funds, or any desire, I might add, for formal clothes. And that is why I intend to keep our attire simple tonight.” She eyed him for a moment. “Why . . . surprisingly enough, that jacket you have on is very nice and will be quite suitable for you to wear this evening.”

Harriet took a second to look Oliver over. Since she’d come to the recent conclusion she needed to keep matters strictly businesslike between them, she’d been avoiding looking at him, but now that she did, she found her mouth turning a little dry.

His broad shoulders were currently encased in a jacket made of fine wool, that wool cut to perfection and tapered expertly to showcase his trim waist. His trousers were creased with a smart line and cut in a manner that allowed him ease of movement, yet highlighted the strength of his legs.

“I made a visit to my tailor before I came here,” Oliver said, pulling her abruptly from her perusal.

Her face began to warm when she caught his eye and realized he’d caught her in the act of gawking at him. Clearing her throat, she struggled to come up with something to say. “May I assume you and your tailor came to some type of agreement regarding the fit of your clothing?”

“I don’t know if we came to any type of agreement,” Oliver said before he sent a nod to Abigail. “But, you were right, Mrs. Hart, in regard to my tailor being upset with me. When I confronted Mr. Clay, my tailor, today about my ill-fitting clothes, he barely blinked an eye before he owned up to tailoring them poorly on purpose.”

“And the reasoning behind that bit of skullduggery would be?” Abigail asked.

Oliver’s lips thinned. “It turns out Mr. Clay has a son, Mr. Franklin Clay, who works at a factory I secured about a year ago. His father, my tailor, Mr. Henry Clay, holds it against me that his son was not promoted into management once I became
involved. Quite honestly, I never agreed to push the promotion through. I might have nodded my head once when Mr. Clay brought up the topic while he was taking some measurements to fit me for a new jacket, but I certainly didn’t promise the man anything.”

All thoughts of perfectly tailored jackets showing off Oliver’s fit form disappeared in a split second, replaced with the strange ringing noise she’d experienced at Arnold Constable & Company. “You didn’t make certain Mr. Franklin Clay received a promotion?”

“I rarely concern myself with the day-to-day operations of the many businesses I invest in,” Oliver said. “If memory serves me correctly, Mr. Ruff was responsible for sorting things out with that particular factory. I believe he brought in some of his men to assume management positions there.”

“That was hardly fair,” Harriet said, moving closer to him as her finger, seemingly on its own accord, poked Oliver in the chest. She drew back her hand after she’d poked him and plunked it on her hip so that she wouldn’t be tempted to poke him again. “There were probably men who’d worked at that factory for years, and yet you allowed men who most likely didn’t have the same amount of experience take over the coveted positions.”

“It’s business, Harriet, which I’m quite certain you wouldn’t understand.”

“It’s
bad
business, and I assure you, I understand more than you think. Did it never occur to you that if you promoted men who’d been loyal to the factory, morale would increase, as would your profits?”

“My profits are just fine.”

“Are you so consumed with making money that you truly believe it was fine for you to slight the son of a man you’ve known for years?”

“Mr. Clay is just my tailor, or I should say,
was
my tailor.
After learning he purposefully dressed me in clothing that was less than perfect, I’ve severed all ties with him. I’m now using Everett’s tailor, who whipped this jacket out from storage and fit and altered it as I waited.”

“You’ve discontinued using your old tailor?”

“Do you honestly believe I should have continued giving him my business?”

“You disrespected his son.”

“He should have simply told me he was angry with me instead of charging me for clothing that was ill-fitting and convincing me that I was roaming around town dressed in the latest styles.”

“It’s hardly Mr. Clay’s fault you’re an idiot. Any normal person would have realized from the lack of the ability to breathe, or even move comfortably, that something was the matter ages ago.”

“He was perpetuating a fraud.”

Harriet saw red. “So are we, in case you’ve forgotten. Is it your belief that only those of high society are permitted to engage in fraud, while those poor souls who are simply trying to right an obvious wrong are punished for them?”

“I did not come here to argue with you,” Oliver practically shouted.

“Oh, why did you come?”

“To inform you that I’m taking you to Delmonico’s tomorrow night. We’re dining with Everett and his Miss Dixon.”

“Why in the world would we do that?” Harriet railed. “I’ve barely learned half of this table setting, and you told me you wouldn’t need me to be at your beck and call until later next week, when the duke is expected, and . . . I have nothing suitable to wear to dinner. I’ve yet to get a delivery from Arnold Constable & Company and was only able to take home a few day dresses they had available for me.”

“I thought you might like Delmonico’s because they serve an excellent steak and you told me you enjoy steak. I’ve already
stopped at Arnold Constable & Company, and one of the dinner dresses you ordered is being completed as we speak and will be delivered to you tomorrow morning.”

Some of her anger seeped away.

Oliver was clearly a ruthless and unlikeable businessman, and yet, at times, he could be completely sweet, charming, and far too considerate.

He’d remembered she liked steak, and remembered she’d have nothing suitable to wear. It was more than likely he’d applied a bit of pressure to get her dress finished so quickly, but . . . he’d done so because he apparently wanted to give her a nice evening out.

It was enough to make her head spin.

“ . . . and besides wanting to tell you about dinner,” Oliver continued, causing Harriet to realize she’d missed a portion of his rant, “I’ve also secured premises for your shop and thought you might like to learn the address.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small card, tossed it on the table, and turned and stormed toward the door. Pausing for just a second, he looked over his shoulder at Abigail. “I’m afraid I won’t be available for your dinner tonight, Mrs. Hart, but do give my regards to my grandfather.” With that, he stalked out of the room, leaving an uncomfortable silence in his wake.

“Oh dear, this is unfortunate,” Abigail muttered right before she began moving out of the room. “If you’ll excuse me, I find I have a distinct need to confer with Archibald.”

Millie caught Harriet’s eye. “Why do I have a sneaking suspicion more plotting is about to commence?”

Even though anger was still pulsing through her, Harriet felt her lips twitch. “That was an excellent use of the word
commence
, Millie, but I must admit that I do believe you’re right about the plotting, which means my life is certain to become more complicated than it already is.”

13

I
t was now Oliver’s staunch belief that ladies—more specifically, Miss Harriet Peabody—had been put on the earth in order to create havoc with his well-organized life.

She’d had the audacity to reprimand him the day before at Mrs. Hart’s house—something he found somewhat confusing, especially since he was doing
her
a service.

Didn’t she realize that?

Shoving aside a stack of business papers he’d brought home from his city office that, oddly enough, couldn’t hold his attention, Oliver leaned back in his chair and looked out the window.

It was all Harriet’s fault, this inability to concentrate on work and his suffering from an almost constant feeling of disgruntlement. Quite honestly, he was coming to the rapid conclusion that the wool he would acquire from the duke, if all went according to plan, wasn’t looking nearly as appealing anymore. If it weren’t for the fact he couldn’t abide the thought of Harriet returning to that miserable little place she called home, he’d call the whole thing off immediately.

She’d actually lectured him about Mr. Clay, and if he wasn’t
much mistaken, she thought he should apologize to the man and offer his son a position in management.

She didn’t understand business at all—which was unfortunate considering she wanted to open up a shop of her own.

He would be forced to continue checking in on her if only to offer her his invaluable business savvy.

Strangely enough, that idea was somewhat appealing instead of daunting, but why . . .

A knock on the door disrupted his thoughts before Mr. Blodgett stepped into the room.

“Mr. Ruff is here, Mr. Addleshaw. Shall I tell him you’re at home or should I have him make an appointment to see you later?”

“There’s no need for me to make an appointment, Mr. Blodgett,” Silas said, brushing past the butler. “I can clearly see Oliver’s here.” He strode across the room, but paused and turned back to Mr. Blodgett. “I wouldn’t be opposed to accepting a meal if that temperamental chef of Oliver’s can be bothered to rustle something up.”

“Mr. Addleshaw’s chef is not here at the moment, Mr. Ruff,” Mr. Blodgett said coolly. “But, I’m sure Mrs. Rollins, our
temperamental
housekeeper, will be able to
rustle
you up something at least edible.”

“Where’s your chef?” Silas asked, lowering himself into a chair that faced Oliver’s desk as Mr. Blodgett disappeared with what sounded like a sniff trailing after him.

Not particularly caring to share the explanation that his chef was currently cooking away over at Abigail’s, Oliver shrugged. “He’s apparently not here, but, what are
you
doing here? I wasn’t expecting you back from West Virginia for at least a week.”

Silas leaned forward, flicked open Oliver’s humidor box, helped himself to a cigar, and a moment later disappeared behind a thick cloud of smoke. A full minute of silence settled
over Oliver’s office as Silas puffed away, until the man suddenly leaned through the smoke, the expression on his face hardly reassuring. “I’m afraid events took an unexpected turn in West Virginia. Disturbingly enough, I got run out of town.”

“What?”

“The miners didn’t like the compensation I offered.” Silas took a draw on the cigar, blew out the smoke, and shuddered. “There was a riot.”

“A . . . riot?”

“Indeed.”

“What, pray tell, prompted a riot?”

“Like I said, the miners weren’t agreeable to what I was offering and they turned a little nasty.” Silas shook his head. “The only reason I’m here to tell the tale is because I jumped on someone’s horse and hightailed it back to the train station.”

“You stole a horse?”

“’Course I did, but just so you know, I left the horse at the train station, so if anyone sends you a bill, don’t pay it.”

“What type of compensation did you offer the miners?” Oliver asked slowly.

“Five extra dollars in every miner’s pay and expenses covered for the men who were injured. I even went so far as to find the name of a reputable orphanage when I learned one of the injured men, a widower, wasn’t going to be capable of caring for his children for the foreseeable future.”

Oliver rubbed his temple where a dull throbbing seemed to be settling in for a long stay. “And you’re surprised that your all-too-generous offer was met with a riot?”

“There’s no need to be snide.”

“Did it never occur to you that this injured man, the one who is currently unable to take care of his children, might take issue with the idea of giving them up?”

“They’re just children, Oliver. The man should have been
happy to learn he was going to be given the chance to be rid of them for a while.”