Again, Hattie had the unnerving feeling that Mr. Blackstone was waiting for her acquiescence. When she nodded, he emptied his drink and said, “Two-way mirrors.”
“What’s that?” Aunty demanded. “Two-ways?”
“It’s a mirror you can see through as though it were a window.”
“What good is a mirror one sees straight through?”
“Because one can see through it, but only from one side, and in bright light,” Mr. Blackstone said. “The other side shows a reflection.”
Mrs. Hewitt-Cook gasped. “Ingenious—where can I find such a thing?”
“Difficult. The developments are in the early stages.”
“But what on earth is it good for?” Aunty wondered.
Mr. Blackstone leaned slightly toward her. “I’m expecting them to be used in police offices and department stores for surveillance purposes, ma’am.”
“Department stores,” her mother said sharply. “You mean it will be employed to spy on innocent women customers?”
“They’d call it studying their customers,” Mr. Blackstone said. “Department stores are becoming a rather competitive industry, and studying customers’ natural shopping habits when they feel unobserved will help a store optimize sales potential.”
Mrs. Hewitt-Cook shook her head. “How clever,” she murmured. “How does one come by such clever ways of thinking?”
Mr. Blackstone gave her a thin smile. “It’s simple. Just assume people are chiefly motivated by convenience, vanity, or greed. Any product serving those will be a commercial success.”
An uncomfortable pause ensued.
“I daresay that is a rather godless view of the world,” Adele said, her eyes cold.
Mr. Blackstone gave a nod. “They do say capitalism worships only itself.”
Aunty cackled. “Mr. Blackstone should meet our Florence,” she said to Adele. “They would have much to discuss.”
“First I should like to introduce Mr. Blackstone to Mr. Greenfield,” Adele said tersely, her gaze moving toward the door to the side chamber, where her husband had made an entrance. “Do excuse us.”
Hattie’s anxiety buzzed like startled bees as Mr. Blackstone approached her father.
Mrs. Hewitt-Cook snapped her ivory-plated fan open with a snick. “Good grief but he is beastly,” she murmured as she peered at Mr. Blackstone’s broad back. “Every inch as bad as they say he is.” The predatory delight in her voice grated on Hattie’s tightly wound nerves.
“Poor Lord and Lady Rutland,” Mrs. Astorp said. “I doubt they have a moment of peace.”
Rutland. The man’s face appeared before Hattie’s mind’s eye, vaguely, as seen once at a ball: the regular, impassive, long face of an older English aristocrat with cold eyes and iron-gray hair. “What is he doing to Rutland?” she asked.
“Killing him slowly,” Mrs. Hewitt-Cook said, her gaze still glued to the introduction scene across the room. “Rutland is in a pecuniary pickle. Rumor has it that over the years, Mr. Blackstone here has bought up most of his debts, and Rutland currently has no solid financial leg to stand on. Mr. Blackstone is holding his debts like the sword of Damocles over his head.”
Mrs. Altorp shuddered. “Ghastly. I understand Lady Rutland is not in good health.”
Hattie wished she hadn’t asked. Such villainy on Mr. Blackstone’s part made her question her father’s ethics; worse, it felt surprisingly disappointing, quite as though she had harbored personal hopes for Mr. Blackstone’s moral character.
“Men can be so bloodthirsty,” purred Mrs. Hewitt-Cook. “Now, what is your opinion on his nose—how do you think he broke it?” At their startled silence, she raised her fan higher as if to share its protection. “Mrs. Altorp—I’m sure you have thoughts.”
A nervous giggle burst from Mrs. Altorp. “Very well.” She leaned in. “He broke his nose when … when he was brawling over a lady.”
“Hmm, intriguing. No doubt he won and vigorously claimed his spoils. Personally, I like to imagine it happened during a boxing match, in Elephant and Castle or some such place … but, Miss Greenfield, are we shocking you?” Her gaze slid over Hattie with faux concern.
Some married women had a habit of reminding the unmarried ones of their undesirable status by pretending consideration for their innocent sensibilities. It drew a line in the sand, separating the knowing from the ignorant, a subtle demonstration of power that always puzzled Hattie, for she thought of herself as perfectly unthreatening. But looking into Mrs. Hewitt-Cook’s amused face, she was for a moment tempted to say that she knew things about Mr. Blackstone. She knew his clean scent and the taste of his lips. She knew his kiss was commanding and that his chest felt solid as a wall against her breasts. A sordid corner of her mind was aglow with triumph to know these things, knowledge that lay beyond the men who wanted his money, beyond even the worldly Mrs. Hewitt-Cook. Of course, it meant Mr. Blackstone knew all these things about her, too. Color rose all the way to her hairline. Mrs. Hewitt-Cook would undoubtedly, happily, attribute this to maidenly discomfiture.