Never Mix Sin with Pleasure

by Renee Ann Miller

  Chapter Ten

  The following day, Olivia sat in a chintz upholstered chair only a few feet from where the elder Lady Huntington sat. The matriarch accepted callers at two in the afternoon. Olivia was anxious to hear every bit of gossip that might help her with her plan to rob the last two men on her list.

  The butler rolled a serving cart with a silver tea service, along with several delicate floral-patterned cups and saucers, into the room and maneuvered it into the spot between Olivia’s chair and the one the dowager sat in, then he exited the room.

  Trying not to tap her foot impatiently, Olivia glanced at the tall longcase clock, while she smoothed a hand over the skirt of her navy dress. Over the last hour, she’d peered at the timepiece more than a dozen times. The chimes of the clock rang twice.

  “Why are you fidgeting, girl?” her ladyship asked.

  Olivia straightened her shoulders and held the woman’s direct gaze. “I wasn’t fidgeting.”

  “Yes, you were.” The dowager’s glower caused the wrinkles in her face to deepen.

  Olivia tipped her chin up an inch. If she was to get this old woman to respect her, she had a feeling she would need to show a more forceful resolve.

  A knock on the door ended the battle of wills. Menders stepped into the room. “Lady Fairchild and Lady Chambers wish to know if you are receiving callers, madam.”

  “Show them in.”

  What seemed like an eternity later, the butler stood at the threshold and announced the two noblewomen who wore black silk and mourning veils. Lady Fairchild was gray-haired, short, plump, and moved at a turtle’s pace. Lady Chambers, also elderly, but thin as a rake, only walked slightly faster with the use of her cane.

  Impatiently the dowager sighed. She turned to Olivia. “I might be dead by the time they sit.”

  “What did you say, Camille?” Lady Chambers asked, placing a hearing trumpet to her ear.

  “I asked if the weather outside has warmed up?” the dowager replied in an elevated voice as both women finally sat on the settee.

  “Still a bit on the cool side,” Lady Fairchild replied.

  Lady Chambers adjusted her black skirts and stared at Olivia. “And who is this?”

  “My new companion, Olivia.”

  Lady Fairchild brought her pince-nez to her eyes and stared at Olivia as if she’d seen her before but could not place where.

  Seeming to realize what Lady Fairchild pondered, the dowager slyly drew her attention away by clearing her throat. “Do either of you wish for tea?”

  “No,” both women replied.

  Olivia listened intently as they talked about how Lord Hamby had been robbed last week.

  “He has offered a reward for the Phantom and sworn he will see that the thief rots in jail,” Lady Chambers said.

  “I heard the thief stole over three hundred pounds.” Lady Fairchild’s rheumy eyes widened.

  “A travesty! This burglar must be stopped.” Lady Chambers released a heavy breath that made her bosom rise. “In other news, did you hear that Signora Campari will be the entertainment at Lord and Lady Garwood’s ball?”

  The dowager visibly stiffened.

  Olivia tensed as well, but it was not from the mention of the opera singer’s name, but the mention of Lord Garwood. The gentleman wasn’t on her list, but she listened intently hoping someone on it would be mentioned. The three elderly women talked about how crowded Grosvenor Square would be that night with the influx of carriages.

  “Will you be attending, Camille?” Lady Fairchild asked, a sly expression on her face.

  “No,” the dowager said stiffly. Obviously, she realized the reason for the other woman’s expression.

  “I have a bit of juicy gossip.” Lady Chambers smiled like a cat eyeing a canary who fluttered from its cage and was now free game. “Did you hear what happened with that rapscallion Lord Anthony on Bond Street in front of Madame Lefleur’s shop? The modiste herself told me about it.”

  Lady Fairfield’s eyes bulged as her gaze jerked to her companion sitting next to her. And though she had stepped into the room at the speed of a turtle, she appeared ready to flee at a much faster pace as her regard volleyed to the dowager’s scowling expression.

  As if counting to ten, the dowager drew in an exceedingly long breath.

  Lady Fairchild elbowed Lady Chambers.

  “Ouch, Georgiana, what was that for?”

  “I believe she is trying to remind you who Lord Anthony is related to,” the dowager said in a calm voice, but the look in her piercing gray eyes and the way her hand flexed on her cane revealed she was anything but calm.

  “Related to?” Lady Chambers echoed. “Why, isn’t he related to the Lady Compton?”

  Next to the woman, Lady Fairfield was shaking her head like a mangy dog trying to dislodge an invasion of fleas. She stood and grabbed her companion’s arm, prompting her friend to stand.

  “Georgiana, what is wrong with you?” Lady Chambers asked.

  “Nothing, I just remembered I locked my cat in my bedchamber, and he might shred my curtains if I do not return soon.” She turned to the dowager. “Camille, forgive us for rushing off.”

  The dowager said nothing.

  As the two women strode from the room, Lady Fairfield bowed her head to her companion and whispered something.

  The other woman lifted her hearing trumpet again. “Dash it all, speak louder. I cannot hear a word you are saying.”

  “I said Lord Anthony is Camille’s grandson,” the other woman shouted.

  Lady Chambers cocked her head to the side. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. I thought Camille was going to strike you with her cane.”

  Olivia had feared that as well.

  “It shouldn’t be me she strikes. It should be that rapscallion grandson of hers.”

  “Hush, you are talking too loud.”

  “What?” Lady Chambers asked.

  “Never mind. Can’t you walk any faster?”

  Lady Chambers lowered her hearing trumpet and glanced over her shoulder to where the dowager was shooting her a lethal stare.

  The two women scurried out of the room much faster than they had entered.

  “Senile old windbags,” the dowager mumbled, and thumped her cane. “That’s it! I refuse to see any more callers today. In fact, I will not see any for the next week until this gossip dissipates.”

  What? That wouldn’t do. How was Olivia to get any information if the dowager didn’t host callers?

  The butler stepped into the room. Before he could even open his mouth and announce who was calling, the dowager said, “I don’t care if it is the queen herself, I will not be receiving another caller today.”

  The butler nodded. “Very well, madam.”

  “And have a carriage readied for me. I am going out.” She turned to Olivia. “Get your shawl, girl, you are coming with me.”

  Where were they going? Olivia hoped the dowager wasn’t intent on having her carriage run over the two old women who’d just left. Though, she looked angry enough to do it.

  “Yes, my lady, right away.”

  * * *

  As Olivia sat next to the dowager in a grand carriage with blue velvet upholstery, she brushed her fingers against the nap of the material and wondered if this was the same vehicle she’d mistakenly stumbled into outside of Madame Lefleur’s shop. She couldn’t help her thoughts from veering back to herself sprawled across Lord Anthony’s solid and muscular body.

  “Are you unwell?” the dowager asked.

  “No, madam. I feel fine.”

  “Your face is flushed.”

  “Is it?” Olivia asked.

  “If I say it is, then it is.” The old woman released an exaggerated huff.

  The carriage pulled up to the address the dowager had given the coachman.

  Olivia peered out the window. The sign over the shop read MADAME RENAULT MODISTE.

  As the coachman jumped down from his perch, the carriage shift
ed slightly. The man opened the door, and the dowager exited the vehicle without a word to Olivia.

  Was she to follow like an obedient lapdog or stay in the vehicle?

  As if reading her thoughts, the coachman lifted one shoulder, then rushed forward to open the door to the shop for her ladyship.

  Not quite sure what she was supposed to do, Olivia hesitantly stepped onto the pavement.

  With her cane thumping loudly, the Trent family matriarch marched through the door.

  Olivia followed her inside.

  A shopgirl who’d been peering at them from the large bow window rushed to the dowager’s side. “Might I help you, madam?”

  “I am going to help you!”

  A puzzled look settled on the girl’s face.

  “Tell Madame Renault that the Dowager Marchioness of Huntington is here.”

  The shopgirl’s eyes widened, then she did an about-face and bolted from the room.

  Olivia glanced around. Though the gowns displayed were lovely, the interior of the shop did not have the elegance of Madame Lefleur’s shop. There were no crystal chandeliers or silk paper on the walls. Her gaze stopped at a gown near the window. The rich blue color along with the sheen of the fabric and the intricate beaded detailing almost made her breath catch. It was lovelier than any gown she had ever seen.

  A tall, slender woman, wearing a dark purple dress, stepped out of the back of the shop. The shopgirl, still flush in the face, trailed her. “Lady Huntington, you honor me with your presence in my shop.”

  The dowager pointed to Olivia. “I want to order Miss Michaels five gowns. An evening gown, a walking dress, and three day dresses.”

  The modiste’s eyes widened. “Très bien.”

  Olivia blinked and set the palm of her hand to her chest. Had she misheard? “For me?”

  “Yes, I cannot go around with you if you are to look like a schoolmarm.”

  “But I do not have the funds for such clothing.” Olivia’s heart pounded. Was the dowager like Lady Winton? If a servant broke anything in her last employer’s household it was deducted from their salary. Would she be indebted to the elder Lady Huntington for the rest of her life?

  The woman waved a hand in the air. “I am purchasing them.”

  A broad grin settled on the modiste’s lips.

  Olivia blinked. “But . . .”

  The dowager turned her steely gray eyes on her, halting her words.

  Something seemed off. The old woman didn’t strike Olivia as generous. She struck Olivia as a woman whose actions were clearly thought out. A woman who did nothing without an ulterior motive.

  The glimmer in the modiste’s eyes revealed her pleasure as she motioned to the colorful bolts of fabric. “Do you have a preference in colors, my lady?”

  The dowager turned an assessing eye on Olivia, then she pointed to the lovely blue gown on the mannequin near the window. “I wish the gown to be something similar to this one, but in yellow.”

  Olivia’s jaw went slack.

  “Bronze for the walking outfit,” the dowager continued. Her gaze drifted over the navy dress Olivia wore, and she flashed a look of disgust. “Miss Michaels may pick out the fabric for the day dresses, but no muddy browns, navy, or gray.”

  The modiste looked as if she’d just won some grand prize.

  Two hours later, having picked out the fabrics and been measured, Olivia and the elder Lady Huntington left the modiste and settled in the carriage.

  Besides the costly dresses, the dowager had also purchased her a pair of new stockings made of silk and several unmentionable garments. Olivia remained baffled. She realized that this shopping excursion was not solely for her benefit, but she could not figure out what the dowager was up to, but surely something was afoot.

  Olivia’s gaze jerked from the window to the dowager sitting across from her as they pulled in front of Madame Lefleur’s elegant shop.

  “Come,” she said to Olivia. The woman didn’t wait for the coachman to open the door. She set her feet to the pavement and, without a backward glance, marched into the shop.

  The bells over the door jangled as they entered.

  Two shopgirls dashed over to them. They curtsied and smiled at the old woman as if overjoyed she had decided to grace them with her presence.

  Smiling broadly, Madame Lefleur, who stood near the counter, rushed over as well and shooed the shopgirls away.

  “Lady Huntington, you know I would have come to your residence,” the French woman said in her lilting accent. “What is it I might help you with?”

  The dowager’s eyes glinted. She walked over to a bolt of shimmering green silk and rubbed the material between her fingers. “Hmmm, I just ordered five gowns from Madame Renault, I thought perhaps . . .” She gave a cursory glance around. “No, there is nothing here I want. I’ve already spent a king’s ransom.”

  The modiste’s mouth fell open. “At Madame Renault’s shop?”

  “Yes, I hear she is less apt to gossip. You may close out my account and that of the Marchioness of Huntington’s as well, along with my granddaughter’s, Lady Nina Ralston. We will not be purchasing any gowns from your establishment in the future. I cannot abide tattlers.”

  “But, my lady . . .”

  The old woman held up a hand. “No amount of groveling will change my mind. I will make it my life’s ambition to see Madame Renault is the new premiere modiste in London.”

  Tears shimmered in Madame Lefleur’s eyes. “But she isn’t even French. She is a fraud.”

  “I don’t care if she grew up on Whitechapel High Road in a bordello. Discretion is a virtue I hold rather dear when it comes to my family and you do not possess it.” And with that said the dowager spun on her heel and headed toward the exit.

  As Olivia followed the old woman, she glanced over her shoulder at the modiste’s face, which had turned ashen.

  Madame Lefleur knew the power some of these elderly matriarchs possessed, and the Dowager Marchioness of Huntington appeared to be the queen bee.

  * * *

  At dinnertime, once again, Olivia was served her dinner in her room. She was tempted to take her tray of food and head down to the servants’ dining hall, but she had learned at Lady Winton’s that as a companion she lay somewhere in an abyss as far as her place in the household. The staff at Lady Winton’s had worried she would repeat what she heard to their mistress, while Lady Winton treated Olivia as if she was not good enough to dine with her. It seemed she was in the same position here.

  She forked a spear of asparagus in a cream sauce and slipped it into her mouth. One thing she could not deny was that the meals here far surpassed the meals at Lady Winton’s.

  Olivia glanced at the gilded mantel clock with ornate scrolls and a tiny brass bird perched on it. After the dowager retired, she was to meet Lord Anthony in his office.

  She finished her dinner and wiped her mouth. Standing, she set the linen napkin on the tray and strode to the cheval glass. Studying her reflection, she filled her cheeks with air and slowly released the breath. After being in Madame Renault’s shop with the shimmering bolts of costly fabrics, she realized how dowdy her clothes were. She ran her hand down the cotton skirt of her navy dress.

  Olivia gave herself a mental scolding. Her attire had never bothered her before. She wasn’t a vain person, yet suddenly she desperately wished she had one of the dresses the dowager was having sewn for her to wear before she met with Lord Anthony.

  Her low laugh was more bitter than full of mirth. Stupid to even think about his lordship. He had no interest in her, and she should not be fancying thoughts about him. She needed to remember that and not the way her body warmed when it had slid against his.

  Yet, she peered at the clock again, feeling agitated that the hands on the timepiece’s face moved so slow.

  Chapter Eleven

  Anthony glanced up as Miss Michaels stepped into the office. Last night as he lay in his bed, he’d thought about the woman. There was something about her.
Perhaps it was nothing more than he was lonely in his bed. But as he studied her now, he wondered if it was the scattering of freckles on her face that intrigued him or the way the lamplight made her hair look like flames. Or perhaps it was nothing more than the innocence in her expression. Surely, there had been nothing remotely innocent about Maria.

  “Good evening, my lord,” she said, her voice low and husky.

  Perhaps it was that. The tone of her voice. The throaty quality of it when she spoke low. It seemed incongruent with everything else about her. It reminded him of a woman in the throes of passion right before she reached her climax.

  He shoved his lurid thoughts from his mind and cleared his throat. “Miss Michaels.”

  She slipped into the chair across from him and glanced around. “Where is Atticus?”

  “Thankfully, the little feathered beast is sleeping in my bedchamber.”

  She smiled back at him. “I have a feeling you actually like him.”

  The bird did have his charms, but he responded with a disgruntled humph. “I hear my grandmother and you went on a shopping expedition this afternoon.”

  She dipped her head and he saw red flush her cheeks. “Yes, she bought me several dresses.”

  Really? He tried to comprehend what the old woman was up to. His grandmother wasn’t known for her generous nature in either actions or words. When she did things out of character it raised his suspicion, but he could not clearly see what ulterior motive would have prompted the old woman. Though there had to be one.

  As if she saw the puzzlement in his expression, Miss Michaels gave a weak smile. “Your grandmother said she could not go about with me dressed as I am. But I would surmise that the real reason was that she wanted to let Madame Lefleur know she was displeased with her.”

  “How would buying gowns from the modiste do that?”

  “That’s it. She didn’t buy them from Madame Lefleur. She purchased them from a Madame Renault.”

  “Ah, now I’m gaining a bit of clarity.” He grinned. “Leave it to the old bird to stick her talons into someone who has displeased her. I presume after she went to Renault’s she lorded it over Madame Lefleur.”