At Your Request (Apart From the Crowd): An Apart From the Crowd Novella by Turano Jen

Author:Turano, Jen [Turano, Jen]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: FIC042030, FIC042040, FIC027050
ISBN: 9781441229953
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2017-01-02T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter

Seven

Having no idea what she could possibly say to that, Wilhelmina found herself spared any response at all when Permilia suddenly appeared by her side. She was clutching one of the pink boxes to her chest but seemed to forget all about that box as she launched herself into the midst of Wilhelmina’s conversation.

“Honestly, Mr. Rutherford, don’t you realize that by speaking to Miss Radcliff in such a cryptic fashion, you’ve piqued her curiosity and probably left her believing the very worst about Mr. Sinclair.”

Permilia turned to Wilhelmina. “Mr. Sinclair, from what I’ve been told, is a shipping magnate who has increased the family fortune exponentially over the past decade. He rarely travels in the highest realms of society, though, given that his fortune is not the three-generations-old that Mrs. Astor claims makes one acceptable.”

Wilhelmina wrinkled her nose. “Is Mr. Sinclair known for shady business dealings?”

“Of course not,” Permilia returned. “He’s from a well-respected family—although I don’t believe they’re originally from New York—and his family members, besides being wealthy, are known to possess remarkably good looks. But that has nothing to do with the subject at hand.” She set her sights on Mr. Rutherford. “What business would Mr. Wanamaker possibly have with a shipping magnate?”

Mr. Rutherford crossed his arms over his chest. “As I said before, Edgar’s business with Mr. Sinclair is his business, and I’m not at liberty to divulge the particulars to you.”

“Fine,” Permilia began with a lift of her chin. “We’ll go track him down and get our answers straight from the source.” She thrust the pink box she was holding into Mr. Rutherford’s hands before she opened up her reticule and pulled out a fistful of coins. Counting them out very precisely, she stopped counting when she reached three dollars, sixty-two cents. Handing Mr. Rutherford the coins, she then took back the pink box, completely ignoring the scowl Mr. Rutherford was now sending her.

“This is not the amount of money I quoted you for the skates, Miss . . . ?”

“Miss Griswold,” Permilia supplied as she opened up the box and began rummaging through the thin paper that covered her skates.

Mr. Rutherford’s brows drew together. “Surely you’re not related to Mr. George Griswold, are you?”

“He’s my father,” Permilia returned before she frowned and lifted out what appeared to be some type of printed form, one that had a small pencil attached to it with a maroon ribbon. “What is this?”

Mr. Rutherford returned the frown, looking as if he wanted to discuss something besides the form Permilia was now waving his way, but he finally relented—although he did so with a somewhat heavy sigh. “It’s a survey, and I would be ever so grateful if you and Miss Radcliff would take a few moments to fill it out, returning it after you’re done to a member of my staff, many of whom can be found offering hot chocolate for a mere five cents at a stand we’ve erected by the side of the lake. I’m trying to

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