Gigi wrote out a cheque and placed it in an envelope. “You may take this to Mrs. Ramsey in the next room down the hall. She will handle the rest.”
Mrs. Ramsey would take Miss Shoemaker through Croesus Lending Co.'s standard contract, tell her what to do with the cheque, and, at the end, show her out through the back door. Gigi did not want the applicants to share their successes with one another or for it to become common knowledge that she granted the vast majority of their requests.
“Oh, mum, thank you, mum!” Miss Shoemaker curtsied so deep she nearly fell over.
“More sweet,” her son, who'd been completely silent, suddenly chirped loudly.
“Shhh!” Miss Shoemaker dug out a pretty tin, opened it, and quickly shoved a piece of bonbon into the boy's mouth.
The tin. Good God. From Demel's of Vienna. An identical one had been there right next to Gigi's hand, on Camden's writing desk, the last time he'd taken her.
“Where'd you get that?” she asked sharply.
“From a gentleman outside, mum,” answered Miss Shoemaker, looking at Gigi uncertainly. “He gave it when Timmy wouldn't stop crying. I'm sorry, mum. I shouldn't have taken it. It was very wrong of me.”
“It's all right. You did nothing wrong.”
“But, mum—”
“Mrs. Ramsey is waiting for you, Miss Shoemaker.”
Gigi searched all around, but there were no signs of Camden anywhere outside Croesus Lending Co. She rode the landau back to Adams's and allowed the Scotsman to hail her a cab, which took her to Madame Elise's, where she had fifteen minutes to choose fabric for a new shawl before her own brougham arrived outside, having unloaded her two hours earlier.
She arrived home and found Camden in his bedchamber, dropping a stack of starched white shirts into a traveling satchel.
“What were you doing following me?”
“Curiosity, my dear Mrs. Croesus. I happened to be at the carriage place when you came around,” he said without looking at her, a small smile about his lips. “If you saw me dressed like the king on coronation day, calling myself Lord Bountiful and going about on mysterious business, what would you have done?”
“Gone about my own affairs, of course,” she said, not very convincingly.
“Of course,” he murmured. “But rest assured, your secret is safe with me.”
“It's not a secret. It's but anonymity. The women who come to Croesus Lending for help aren't exactly what the holier-than-thou set would call ‘the deserving poor.' I don't want to have to explain anything to anyone, that's all.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don't understand.” What could he possibly understand, Mr. Mighty-and-Perfect? “These are hardworking, enterprising women who happen to have a less-than-spotless past. All they need are a few quid to get them on their feet again.”
“How much money did you lend out today?”
She hesitated. Was he expecting a numerical answer? “Sixty-five pounds.”
His brow lifted. “A goodly sum. Did any of it go to Miss Shoemaker?”
“Ten pounds.” Ten pounds was a significant amount of money. It was not uncommon for working girls to earn two quid a month.
“What about Miss Dutton?”
“Eight pounds. Miss Dutton is an unusually talented calligrapher. She will have a secure future if she keeps her more destructive tendencies in check.”
He placed three cravats in the satchel and looked up. “On the strength of her own words? I assume Miss Dutton didn't have a character either.”
“I have a private investigator on retainer. In six years I've had only three women default on me, and one of them was run over by a carriage.”
“Admirable.”
“Do not condescend to me.” She grew angry at his facile comment. “Croesus Lending may operate outside conventional boundaries, but it is legitimate and honorable. I sleep better at night for it.”
He buckled the satchel and came to her. “Calm down,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders. And when she jerked away from his touch, he took one more step toward her and placed his palms on her cheeks.
“Calm down. I think what you do is admirable. I'm glad someone remembers the forgotten. And I'm glad it's you.”
She could not be more astonished had he announced he was nominating her for sainthood. He dropped his hands and ambled to the demilune table to wind his watch, but her cheeks remained hotly imprinted with his touch. “I just want to give someone a second chance,” she mumbled.
She'd never received one from him.
His fingers paused in their motion. He glanced once at her before resuming the winding of his watch. He said nothing.
She suddenly felt she'd stayed too long. Said too much. “Well, then, I'd better let you get on. A pleasant trip to you.”