After a Fashion (3 page)

Lily looked Harriet up and down. “
You’re
a hat girl?” She let out a grunt as her attention settled on Harriet’s hat. “You’re obviously not a very good one.”

Reminding herself she desperately needed to keep her job, Harriet continued smiling. “I am indeed a . . . ah . . . hat girl, although I didn’t create the hat I’m . . . Well, never mind about that. All you probably want to know is that I’m here to help you sort through your purchases, if you are, in fact, Miss Birmingham.”

“Of course I’m Miss Birmingham.”

“Wonderful. May I say that it’s lovely to meet you, and—”

“I don’t exchange pleasantries with the help,” Miss Birmingham interrupted as she moved closer and jabbed a finger at one of the hatboxes. “Show me what’s in there.”

Glancing up at a sky that was turning more threatening by the second, Harriet was about to suggest they seek out a drier place to inspect the hats, but before she could speak, a gentleman’s voice distracted her.

“Miss Birmingham, you need to repair back into the house immediately. You’re certainly not dressed in a manner acceptable for strolling around in the open.”

Looking past Miss Birmingham, Harriet discovered a gentleman striding in their direction with a large hound of undetermined parentage loping at his side. Her eyes widened as she took in the man’s height, the breadth of his shoulders, and . . . the careless cut of his jacket, which strained against his chest and certainly hadn’t been cut to suit his powerful frame.

Strange as it seemed at that particular moment, she found herself contemplating who his tailor was and how much he’d given said tailor to create a jacket that fit him so poorly.

Shifting her attention to the gentleman’s face, she took in
hazel eyes and a sharp slash of a nose that gave the gentleman the appearance of a hawk, that appearance heightened by the fact his hair was nearly as black as her own. His lips appeared to be firm—what little she could see of them, considering they were currently drawn in a straight line—and his jaw was strong but rigidly set, giving testimony to the fact he was livid.

She looked back at Miss Birmingham, expecting her to be trembling on the spot, but instead, the woman was fairly bristling with rage as she swept the feathered scarf over her shoulder and sent the gentleman a look of deepest disdain.

“You dare presume to order me about?” Miss Birmingham screeched. “You forget yourself, Mr. Addleshaw. I am Miss Lily Birmingham, daughter of the esteemed Mr. John Birmingham. And as such, I’ll stroll around outside dressed however I please.”

“You’re in a wrapper,” Mr. Addleshaw shot back. “Your father would hardly approve, and it’s rich you bring up presumption, considering you took it upon yourself to move into my home without my knowledge. I told you and your parents I’d secure you more than adequate rooms at a reputable hotel.”

Miss Birmingham lifted her pointy chin in the air. “This is exactly why I will no longer be marrying you. You’re a complete boor.”

“Forgive me, Miss Birmingham, but we’re not engaged, nor did I ever suggest we were soon to be. I invited you to the city for the express purpose of attending a few society events in the coming weeks, and I was completely upfront with you when I told you why I needed you in New York. If you will recall, the Duke of Westmoore will soon be in town, and I requested your company so that you could help me entertain the gentleman while I go about the delicate matter of negotiating a business deal with him. The very idea that you took it upon yourself to arrive in the city earlier than we discussed
and
took up residence in my home boggles my mind.”

Panic began pounding through Harriet’s veins.

They were not engaged, had never been from what Mr. Addleshaw was saying. That meant the day was destined for disaster, since Harriet had the feeling neither of the two people arguing right in front of her was going to be receptive to her presenting them with a bill at this awkward moment in time.

“. . . and you can forget about me helping you with the duke,” Miss Birmingham howled. “You’re mean and rude, and you’ve been yelling at me ever since you stepped foot in the house.”

“Of course I’ve been yelling,” Mr. Addleshaw said between lips that barely moved. “You converted my home office into your personal dressing room.”

“The lighting suits my complexion better in that room than the dismal excuse for a room I was given by that dreadful housekeeper of yours.”

Harriet watched as Mr. Addleshaw’s mouth opened, closed, opened, and then closed again, as if he couldn’t decide what he should say next.

She really couldn’t say she blamed him.

It was quickly becoming clear Miss Birmingham was not a lady with whom one could reason with in a sensible manner.

“You! Hat girl!” Miss Birmingham suddenly snapped. “Make yourself useful and show me what you’ve got in those boxes you’re holding.”

“You want to look at hats right now?” was all Harriet could think to respond.

“That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes, of course, but . . .”

“Stop being difficult, Miss Birmingham,” Mr. Addleshaw interrupted before he nodded to Harriet. “You, my dear, may take yourself and your hats straight back to the shop you came from. Miss Birmingham will send for them once she gets settled into a hotel.”

Before Harriet could respond, Miss Birmingham began screaming at Mr. Addleshaw—nasty, horrible accusations that really had no business spewing out of a lady’s mouth. Realizing it would not serve her well to remain in the woman’s presence another minute, Harriet decided to take Mr. Addleshaw’s suggestion and return to the shop. She knew she’d be facing Mrs. Fienman’s wrath once she arrived with no bill delivered and a carriage stuffed to the gills with expensive hats, but couldn’t see any benefit staying there, especially since Miss Birmingham’s screaming was escalating. She turned on her heel and had barely taken five steps when stars erupted behind her eyes. Her head began throbbing right before she felt what she thought was Miss Birmingham’s parasol poking her in the back.

“You’re not going anywhere with those hats,” Miss Birmingham hissed. “They’re mine, and I demand you give them to me.”

Harriet wasn’t afforded the simple courtesy of handing the boxes over to the obviously deranged Miss Birmingham. The woman took care of acquiring the hats on her own by ripping the boxes straight out of Harriet’s hands as she thrust the parasol directly into Harriet’s stomach. With her hands flapping wildly, Harriet tried to find her balance, but before she could get her feet firmly beneath her, a large furry form flew through the air, hit her squarely in the chest, and sent her tumbling backward. Hard bricks greeted her right before the sound of snarling settled in her ears.

2

O
liver Addleshaw preferred to manage his life exactly as he managed his many businesses. Calmly, organized, and with a sense of purpose. Unfortunately, due to the antics of an exasperating lady, he was smack in the midst of one of the most chaotic and dramatic situations he’d ever witnessed, let alone participated in.

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, sir,” the hat lady called, “I could use a bit of assistance over here.”

Directing his attention back to the poor woman—whose face his unruly dog, Buford, was licking a little too enthusiastically—Oliver resisted a sigh. “My apologies, miss, of course . . . you need assistance.” He trudged back into the chaos. “Buford, it’s not good manners to knock a lady over, let alone slobber all over her face. Get down.”

Buford, being Buford, barely paused in his licking, but before Oliver had a chance to grab him, the sound of heels tapping across the bricks captured his dog’s interest. Buford raised his head and a second later bounded away, his enthusiastic yelps echoing around the courtyard.

Turning, Oliver winced when he discovered the source of Bu
ford’s latest fixation. With her mother scampering behind, Miss Birmingham was tottering away on her ridiculously high-heeled slippers, swinging her hatboxes victoriously, apparently having forgotten her vow to never enter his house again since she was tottering straight toward it. The fluffy piece of nonsense she’d thrown around her neck was fluttering behind her, the fluttering the source of Buford’s fascination.

“Buford, no,” he yelled, but Buford was already sailing through the air. When the dog landed back on the ground, Miss Birmingham’s scarf was clamped between his large teeth.

“Give that back to me.” Miss Birmingham drew back her arm and, to Oliver’s dismay, swung a hatbox directly at Buford’s head. Buford let out a whine, dropped the scarf, and then, because he was constantly craving affection, he lifted his paw and gave Miss Birmingham a look that should have melted her heart.

Miss Birmingham ignored the look as well as the offered paw, snatched up her scarf, looped it twice around her neck, and picked up the hatbox she’d dropped to the ground. With a huff of disgust toward Buford, she swiveled on a high heel and flounced away.

Crouching down, Oliver let out a whistle, and for a second, it seemed Buford was going to come to him, but then . . .

“Stupid mutt,” Miss Birmingham tossed over her shoulder.

The hair on Buford’s back stood straight up right before he lunged for Miss Birmingham again.

“Oh . . . dear,” the hat lady muttered as the sound of ripping silk suddenly filled the air.

In the blink of an eye, Miss Birmingham was standing in the middle of the courtyard, dressed only in her unmentionables with her scarf still around her neck as Buford scampered away with the green wrapper.

“This is hardly the time to dither, Mr. Addleshaw,” the hat
lady admonished as she pushed up from the ground in a surprisingly agile move and dashed past him.

“I’m not dithering,” he argued under his breath. He began running after his dog right as the hat lady jumped at Buford with her arms spread wide.

Buford skittered to the right, her arms meeting nothing but air, and she tumbled to the ground as Buford galloped away, straight toward Miss Birmingham.

Oliver changed direction as Miss Birmingham began shrieking, but her shrieks came to a rapid end when Buford dropped the wrapper and grabbed onto the scarf, his tugging effectively cutting off Miss Birmingham’s voice as the scarf tightened around the lady’s throat.

Picking up his pace, Oliver made it to within a few feet of the mayhem but came to an abrupt stop when Miss Birmingham sent him a look filled with rage.

“Stay back,” she rasped.

“Really, Miss Birmingham, this is not the moment for such nonsense, considering you’re not properly clothed and obviously need some . . .”

“You’re not helping matters,” the hat lady interrupted before she darted past him and grabbed Buford by the collar. “Drop it.”

To Oliver’s surprise, the end of the scarf popped out of Buford’s mouth. His dog then plopped down on the bricks and rolled over to his back, where he immediately began to whimper.

“Pathetic,” the hat lady said, giving Buford a quick rub before she snatched up the wrapper.

Oliver was about to breathe a sigh of relief, believing Miss Birmingham was soon to be reunited with at least a bit of clothing—even though the wrapper was tattered and torn—when to his absolute horror, she suddenly did the unthinkable and hurled herself on top of the hat lady.

For the first time in his life, Oliver had no idea what to do.

How was he to intercede, especially since there was so much of Miss Birmingham’s skin exposed?

It was hardly permissible to grab hold of a lady’s . . . limbs.

“Miss Birmingham, let go of me,” the hat lady yelled. “I’m trying to help you.”

Miss Birmingham ignored the lady’s words as she went about the business of ripping the hat right off the woman’s head, before she grabbed hold of a hunk of inky black hair and pulled it.

Yells and grunts soon filled the air, but expelled by whom, Oliver couldn’t actually say. Looking to Mrs. Birmingham, who was standing frozen in horror a few feet away, he moved forward rather reluctantly but shuffled to a stop when the hat lady broke free of Miss Birmingham’s hold. She bent down and somehow managed to fling Miss Birmingham over her shoulder before he could so much as move another muscle. She immediately headed toward a carriage stuffed with boxes, lurching a little to the right when Miss Birmingham began thrashing around like a fish out of water. “Stop that,” the hat lady ordered as she regained her balance and plowed forward.

“Timothy, make me some room,” she called, and a man Oliver hadn’t noticed nodded and began throwing boxes from the carriage over his head.

“Be careful with those, you idiot,” Miss Birmingham shrieked right before the hat lady reached the carriage and unceremoniously tossed Miss Birmingham inside, slamming the door shut a second later, effectively cutting off the rest of Miss Birmingham’s tirade.

“There,” the hat lady said, dusting her hands together. “That should hold her for a moment.” She nodded to Oliver. “She’s all yours.”

Oliver glanced at the carriage and found Miss Birmingham, strangely enough, not trying to escape but rummaging through the boxes. “What do you suggest I do with her, Miss . . . er . . . ?”