“And she said she finds him quite handsome—”
“But, but… he’s a servant.” Mrs. Starling’s face was screwed up like she’d sucked a lemon wedge.
“
And
Olivia said she thought it a terrible shame that the sister of a duke shouldn’t be able to marry someone like him.”
The matron’s mouth opened and closed like a trout’s before she actually spoke. “That is
beyond
scandalous.”
Scandalous, indeed. And just what Anabelle needed. She sent up a silent prayer of gratitude, even though the irony of thanking God for providing fodder for her extortion scheme was not entirely lost on her.
The duke was an excellent candidate. He had plenty in his coffers and probably spent more in one night at the gaming tables than Anabelle had spent on rent all of last year. She wouldn’t demand more than she needed to pay Mama’s medical bills and their basic living expenses for a couple of months, of course. Considering how damaging the information about Lady Olivia could be, the duke really was getting an excellent bargain. Better that he learn about the indiscretion now,
before
Miss Starling managed to disseminate it to every county.
Keeping her face impassive, Anabelle stood and loosened the discreet laces at the side of the ball gown. After Miss Starling stepped out of it, Anabelle gathered it in her arms, taking extra care with the delicate sleeves. As
she helped her client slip back into her walking dress, she asked, “Will there be anything else today, ma’am?”
“Hmm? No, that’s all. I’ll just linger for a moment and freshen up. I’ll need the gown by tomorrow.”
Anabelle inclined her head. “It will be delivered this afternoon.” She was whisking the gown into the workroom, thinking how fortunate it was that the shop was not very busy that morning, when a bell on the front door jangled, signaling the arrival of a customer.
Three, actually.
Mrs. Smallwood’s shrill voice carried throughout the shop. “Good morning, Your Grace! What a pleasure to see you and your lovely sisters.”
Anabelle’s fingers went numb, just like the time Papa had caught her in his study taking an experimental puff on his pipe. There was no way the duke could know what she planned. Swallowing hard, she tried to remember what she’d been doing before he arrived. It suddenly seemed important that she appear very busy, even though she was out of sight.
The duke’s voice, smooth and rich, seeped under her skin. She couldn’t make out what he was saying, but the deep tone warmed her, so much so, she felt the need to fan herself with her apron. Perhaps Mrs. Smallwood would realize she was working on a pressing project and spare her from having to—
“Miss Honeycote!”
Or, perhaps not.
With the same eagerness that one might walk the plank, Anabelle hung the ball gown on a vacant hook and pushed her spectacles up her nose before returning to the front room. It seemed to have shrunk now that the Duke of Huntford occupied it.
Before, the two elegant wingback chairs and piecrust table had seemed to be the correct scale; now, they looked like children’s furniture. The duke’s broad shoulders blocked much of the morning light that streamed through the shop’s window, casting a shadow that reached all the way from his Hessians to Anabelle’s half boots. His thick head of black hair and green eyes made him appear more gypsy than aristocrat, and he had the wiry strength of a boxer. He wore buckskin breeches and an expertly tailored moss-green jacket, which she could fully appreciate, as a seamstress
and
a woman.
Belatedly, she remembered to curtsey.
Mrs. Smallwood shot Anabelle a curious look. “Lady Olivia and Lady Rose each require a new dress. I assured His Grace that you would work with them to design gowns that are tasteful and befitting their station.”
“Of course.” The sister whom Anabelle deduced must be Olivia had wandered to the far side of the shop and was fingering samples of fabric and lace. She appeared to be a couple of years younger than Anabelle, perhaps nineteen. Rose was obviously the younger sister; she played with the button on the wrist of her glove, eyes downcast.
The duke’s intense gaze, however, was fixed on Anabelle. For three long seconds, he seemed to scrutinize her wretched brown dress, ill-fitting spectacles, and oversized cap. If the dubious expression on his ruggedly handsome face was any indication, he found the whole ensemble rather lacking. She raised her chin a notch.
Even Mrs. Smallwood must have sensed the duke’s displeasure. “Er, Miss Honeycote is extremely skilled with a needle, Your Grace. She has a particular talent for creating gowns that complement our clients’ best features. Why,
Miss Starling was delighted with her latest creation. Your sisters will be pleased with the results, I assure you.”
The duke was silent for the space of several heartbeats, during which Anabelle was sure he was cataloguing the deficiencies in her physical appearance. Or perhaps he was merely debating whether a mousy seamstress without a French accent was qualified to design his sisters’ gowns.
“Miss Honeycote, was it?”
He was more astute than the average duke. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“The gowns must be modest.”
As if she would design something indecent. “I understand,” she said. “Are there any other requirements?”
More silence. More glaring. “Pretty.”
“Pretty?”
He frowned and adjusted his cravat as though he couldn’t quite believe he’d uttered the word. “Pretty,” he repeated, “to suit my sisters.”
Rose lifted her head to look at him, her skepticism obvious. In response, the duke wrapped his arm around her frail shoulders and smiled at her with a combination of pride, protectiveness, and love. It was powerful enough to coax a smile out of Rose, and in that instant, Anabelle could see Rose
was
pretty. Stunning, even.
The whole exchange left Anabelle slightly breathless. Devotion to one’s family was something she understood—and respected. The duke’s interest in his sisters went beyond duty, and that bit of knowledge made him seem more… human.
Oh, she still planned to extort money from him; there was no help for that. But now, she found herself anxious to design dresses that would delight the young ladies
and
simultaneously prove her skill to their brother. Perhaps, in some small way, it would make up for her bad behavior.
Miss Starling swept out of the dressing room, her mother in tow. Every head in the room swiveled toward the debutante, her beauty as irresistible as gravity. Olivia dropped a length of ribbon and rushed across the shop to join her sister. Rose moved closer to the duke.
“Good morning, once again, Your Grace,” Miss Starling said, all tooth-aching sweetness. “How delighted I am to see my dear friends Lady Olivia and Lady Rose twice in the same day.
And
how fortunate that I am here to offer my assistance with their gown selections. Gentlemen don’t realize the numerous pitfalls one must avoid when choosing a ball gown, do they, ladies?”
Olivia replied with an equal measure of drama. “Alas, they do not.”
“Never fear. I have plenty of experience in this sort of thing and am happy to lend my expertise… that is, if you have no objection, Your Grace.” Miss Starling unleashed a dazzling smile on the duke.
His intelligent eyes flicked to Anabelle, ever so briefly, and the subtle acknowledgement made her shiver deliciously. Then he returned his attention to Miss Starling. “That is generous of you.”
Preening like a peacock in the Queen’s garden, Miss Starling said, “You may rely on me, Huntford. A fashionable gown can do wonders for a woman’s appearance. You won’t even recognize your sisters in their new finery. Why don’t you leave us to our own devices for an hour or so?”
The duke searched his sisters’ faces. “Olivia? Rose?” Olivia nodded happily, but Rose cowered into his shoulder. He gave her a stiff pat on the back and looked imploringly
at Miss Starling, who had managed to find a small mirror on the counter and was scowling at the reflection of a loose tendril above her ear. No help from that quarter was forthcoming, and Rose’s cheek was still glued to his jacket. The more he tried to gently pry her off him, the tighter she clung. He turned to Anabelle and held out his palms in a silent plea.
Startled, she quickly considered how best to put the young woman at ease and cleared her throat. “If you’d like, Lady Rose, I could start by showing you a few sketches and gowns. You may show me what you like or don’t like about each. Once I have a feel for your tastes, I shall design something that suits you perfectly.” Noting Rose’s shy yet graceful manner, Anabelle hazarded a guess. “Something elegant and simple?”
Rose slowly peeled herself off of her brother, who looked relieved beyond words.
“Why don’t you and your sister make yourselves comfortable?” Anabelle waved them into the chairs beside her and winked. “I promise to make this as painless as possible.”
The duke leaned forward and gave Rose an affectionate squeeze. “Very well.” Anabelle endeavored not to stare at his shoulders and arms as they flexed beneath his jacket.
Miss Starling snapped her out of her reverie. “We’ll need to see bolts of French pink muslin, green silk, blue satin, and peach sarsenet, as well as swansdown and scalloped lace.” Anabelle had started for the back room, rather hoping all the items were not intended for the same dress, when Miss Starling added, “And bring us a fresh pot of tea, Miss Honeycut.”
“Honey
cote
.” In a shop teeming with women, there was no mistaking the duke’s commanding voice.
Anabelle halted. She imagined that Miss Starling’s glorious peacock tail had lost a feather or two.
“I beg your pardon?” the debutante asked.
“Her name,” said the duke. “It’s Miss Honeycote.”
With that, he jammed his hat on his head, turned on his heel, and quit the shop.
A few hours later, Anabelle tiptoed into the foyer of the townhouse where she lived and gently shut the front door behind her. Their landlady’s quarters were beyond the door to the right, which, fortunately, was closed. The tantalizing aroma of baking bread wafted from the shared kitchen to her left, but Anabelle didn’t linger. She quickly started up the long narrow staircase leading to the small suite of rooms that she, Daphne, and Mama rented, treading lightly on the second step, which had an unfortunate tendency to creak. She’d made it halfway up the staircase when Mrs. Bowman’s door sprang open.
“Miss Honeycote!” Their landlady was a kindly, stoop-shouldered widow with gray hair so thin her scalp peeked through. She craned her neck around the doorway and smiled. “Ah, I’m glad to see you have an afternoon off. How is your mother?”
Anabelle slowly turned and descended the stairs, full of dread. “About the same, I’m afraid.” But then, persons with consumption did not usually improve. She swallowed past the knot in her throat. “Breathless all the time, and a fever in the evenings, but Daphne and I are hopeful that the medicine Dr. Conwell prescribed will help.”
Mrs. Bowman nodded soberly, waved for Anabelle to
follow her, and shuffled to the kitchen. “Take some bread and stew for her—and for you and your sister, too.” Her gaze flicked to Anabelle’s waist, and she frowned. “You won’t be able to properly care for your mother if you don’t eat.”
“You’re very kind, Mrs. Bowman. Thank you.”
The elderly woman sighed heavily. “I’m fond of you and your sister and mother… but luv, your rent was due three days ago.”
Anabelle had known this was coming, but heat crept up her neck anyway. Her landlady needed the money as desperately as they did. “I’m sorry I don’t have it just yet.” She’d stopped during the walk home and spent her last shilling on paper for the demand note she planned to write to the Duke of Huntford. “I can pay you…” She quickly worked through the plan in her head. “… on Saturday evening after I return from the shop.”
Mrs. Bowman patted Anabelle’s shoulder in the same reassuring way Mama once had, before illness had plunged her into her frightening torpor. “You’ll pay me when you can.” She pressed her thin lips together and handed Anabelle a pot and a loaf of bread wrapped in a cloth.
The smells of garlic, gravy, and yeast made her suddenly light-headed, as though her body had just now remembered that it had missed a few meals. “Someday I shall repay you for all you’ve done for us.”
The old woman smiled, but disbelief clouded her eyes. “Give your mother and sister my best,” she said and retreated into her rooms.
Anabelle shook off her melancholy and ascended the stairs, buoyed at the thought of presenting Mama and Daphne with a tasty dinner. Even Mama, who’d mostly
picked at her food of late, wouldn’t be able to resist the hearty stew.
She pushed open the door but didn’t call out, in case Mama was sleeping. After unloading the items she carried onto the table beneath the room’s only window, she looked around the small parlor. As usual, Daphne had tidied and arranged things to make the room look as cheerful as possible. She’d folded the blanket on the settee where she and Anabelle took turns sleeping. One of them always stayed with Mama in her bedroom at night. Her sister had fluffed the cushions on the ancient armchair and placed a colorful scrap of cloth on a side table, upon which sat a miniature portrait of their parents. Daphne must have pulled it out of Mama’s old trunk; Anabelle hadn’t seen it in years. The food forgotten, she drifted to the picture and picked it up.
Mama’s eyes were bright, and pink tinged her cheeks; Papa stood behind her, his love for his new bride palpable. Papa, the youngest son of a viscount, had sacrificed everything to be with her: wealth, family, and social status. As far as Anabelle knew, he’d never regretted it. Until he’d been dying. He’d reached out to his parents then and begged them to provide for his wife and daughters.
They’d never responded to his plea.
And Anabelle would never forgive them.
“You’re home! How was the shop?” Daphne glided into the parlor, her bright smile at odds with the smudges beneath her eyes. She wore a yellow dress that reminded Anabelle of the buttercups that grew behind their old cottage.
She hastily returned the portrait to the table. “Wonderful. How’s Mama?”