Love by the Letters: A Regency Novella Trilogy

by Kelly Bowen

  “Miss Nettles, I’m sorry. So sorry. I didn’t mean to be calculating your purse.”

  At the threshold of her shop, she spun, half-angered at him for still not understanding, but more mad at herself for caring. “It’s late, Mr. Sedgewick. Give me the jacket, then leave. I’m asking you.”

  He grasped the frame and leaned over her. “I have this bad habit of putting the wrong words together with you. What can I do to make this up to you?”

  “You’ll never understand, so go home. Thank you for today.”

  “Then you’ll need to keep teaching me. I do learn fast. I thought I made an exceptional mute assistant.”

  “Well, mute does keep you from saying too much.”

  “Teach me, Miss Nettles. I want to understand how a woman as gifted as you doesn’t work on Bond Street. How can you not have the Ton at your beck and call?”

  “That’s very sweet, sir.”

  He slipped inside her warehouse. “Brrr. Cold as I suspected. And probably filled with gowns, all impeccable.”

  “Mr. Sedgewick.”

  He rubbed his hands together. “And the way you cater to your clients. You—”

  “Mr. Sedgewick. Look at me. Stop and just look.”

  “I see a beautiful woman.”

  “Who none of her clients can brag about. One who won’t let her scarred hands be seen.”

  His open mouth closed. Nothing but silence surrounded them.

  Mary-Anne waited another minute for the questions that always followed:

  What happened?

  May I see?

  Do they hurt?

  Then the pity and the suggestions of what she should’ve done.

  But Mr. Sedgewick stood there, rubbing his palms, her bundles beneath each armpit. Not questioning or suggesting, or offering anything, but a stare that scorched her soul.

  “I should put these down.” His tone was lower than before.

  Very carefully, she lit candles, making sure the wicks were trimmed so the flames would be controlled. Then she skirted around her worktable that sat in the center of the room. On both sides of it were shelves of fabric, half done dresses on strawman forms made like ones in her father’s sugar fields.

  Mary-Anne stacked discarded sketches onto her table. “Here, put the bundles here.”

  He did so with a thud. “Miss Nettles, I see a woman who needs help bringing her bundles inside, help going to appointments, and perhaps needs a cup a tea. It’s chilly in here. Where is your tea?”

  Not giving her a chance to answer, he hummed and walked back toward the hearth, the lone chimney as he put it. “Where would I find tools for tea? Don’t tell me in that reticule is a pot and leaves for brewing.”

  “No, in the side room. In the cabinet.”

  “Tea is a civilized drink for discussions and negotiations.”

  He started toward the side room at the pace of a slow crawl stopping to mill about, poking at fabric on the shelves, tugging half-done skirts and blouses.

  Then he stopped at her bucket where she soaked her kid gloves to keep the leather soft. He stirred, sloshing the water with the paddle, making her gloves float about like fish.

  “You like lamb soft gloves? I suppose they’re easier on scars.”

  “It’s late, Mr. Sedgewick. I think you should leave.”

  He straightened and came near.

  The clerk’s smock she’d made of his coat hung on his limbs, draping his wide shoulders and chest, making him look stronger and taller like he could support the world and all its ills. “Where did you say the tea is hidden? My solicitor believes all negotiations should be centered around tea.”

  He said the word again, negotiations.

  “There’s nothing to negotiate, sir. You should be going while we’ve had a good day. Let us keep it at that.”

  He moved to the hearth and started a fire. Tossing on coals, more than she’d use in a week, he made the blaze high, scary high.

  Fear of the gold and ruby flames, the hot orange streaks, settled upon her. Was she shaking?

  “Ready for the tea, Miss Nettles?”

  He had the pot in his hands and cups. He must’ve found them while she stared at the fire.

  Move, girl. She took off her bonnet and stretched to put it on a hook behind the door. “I am thirsty.”

  “Good. Tea is a good drink. And since this is your tea and water, I’m increasing this debt between us.”

  She gathered more sketches from the floor. “There’s no debt. I gave the dress to your sister. If anything, I owe you for ferrying me to my appointments today.”

  “Don’t pick up on my account.” He set the kettle in the hearth and the cups on the edge of the brick surround. I kind of like the mad genius approach, but you need help, Miss Nettles.”

  After putting the sketches onto the table, she drew her arms about her. “And I suppose you think you are the help I need? Will you suggest cheapening my fabric to improve profits?”

  “I am frugal, but I would never cut back on art. As a lover of watercolors, I’d think it a crime.”

  He shifted the pot deeper into the hearth. The orange flames licked the bottom.

  “First, you need help in selecting a horse, to be taught how not to be cheated, and then more clients.” He pulled a chair close to the fire. “Sit, my dear.”

  She sat in the farthest seat. “I’ll admit I know very little about horses, and I cannot help the client selection.”

  “And what of being cheated, Miss Nettles?”

  “You, sir, are the only one I thought would deprive a bride.”

  “Miss Nettles, you walked away from thirteen hundred pounds. I was being bullheaded and wrong. You should’ve pressed… or sent a bill anyway.”

  “A young woman about to marry, shamed because she’s carrying a beautiful secret. She needs to go into marriage with her head high and all the hopes and prayers her heart can muster. She can’t do that in rags.”

  “I wouldn’t let my sister, any of them, wear rags. Sarah had a number of suitable gowns. My younger sisters have suitable ones, too.”

  “Suitable for an old life. Do you know what it is like to walk with every eye on you and not because they wish you well, but to confirm the gossip, watching for a wrinkle or tug at your middle?”

  “Do you Miss…Mrs. Nettles?”

  “Sir, you need to leave.”

  “I wish you trusted me, Miss Nettles. Your courtesan client said one glove at a time when you’re ready. I’ll take that tact too. Business partners should know each other.”

  “We are not business—”

  “Of course not. Not until all is settled, starting with my debt. You will select a horse from one of mine. It will be able to cart you and thousands of bundles all over town. This will settle the dress debt and a little more. I’ll even have your gig bolstered. That would be…” His fingers moved in the air as if he were adding up jots. “The sum will be the equivalent of two thousand five hundred pounds.”

  “That is more than the cost of the gown. You want me indebted to you?”

  “I want to leave situations better than I found them. Yes, better. I also want you to have a better class of clients.”

  “Mr. Sedgewick, I’m happy with my clients.”

  “Do you know happy, Miss Nettles?”

  “What?”

  “I think the first time I saw you smile was our antics of me being your eunuch. Take my hand, woman. Let me show you fun.”

  “I don’t…”

  Humming, he bowed and wafted his hand in front of her.

  She took hold of his fingers, and he tugged her to him, her cheek landing at his shoulder. “You design dresses that are made for movement, but do you know how to dance?”

  He didn’t let her answer.

  Her response became stuck when his hands cinched about her waist, and he danced up and down the aisles around her worktable. “Just as I thought, your grip is too slack, great dance skills you lack.” He said, in a singing manner, and mov
ed her again about the room. “I can mend this.”

  She stumbled and tried to guess what direction he’d go—toward the door, past the worktable, back to the hearth.

  “You have potential, Miss Nettles, but you don’t trust me to lead.”

  He spun her faster until her breath came in gasps.

  Then he stopped and held her.

  His heart beat hard, and hers thudded in response.

  And they stood there, cheek to chest, silent except the crackling wood in her hearth, her tick-tock clock, and two joined hearts.

  “Maybe you do know fun, Miss Nettles, but we can do better.”

  “Mr. Sedgewick, are you well?”

  “Catching my breath. It’s stuffy in here. Does fabric dust cause illness? I get a cough sometimes.”

  “Mr. Sedgewick?”

  His fingers slipped to her temples, and he set her glasses on the mantel.

  A blurry palm settled against her glove, and the other arm was again at her waist. “If we keep moving, the dust won’t catch us.”

  He started again, whirling her around the blob of a worktable, dodging an outline of a chair and a bolt or two.

  He moved so fast, she tightened her hold upon him, her palms curling about his back. This time, she felt their movements seamlessly.

  “We are brushstrokes on this canvas, sweet, sweeping movements.”

  The only thing crystal clear in her vision was Mr. Sedgewick’s chin and a half-smile that had become full.

  “Now that you are dizzy and vulnerable, my dear, it should be easier for you to agree with me.”

  Wobbly, she waddled to the mantel and retrieved her spectacles. She knelt to the steaming kettle, but he’d shoved the pot farther than she ever did. She couldn’t reach it. She wouldn’t try.

  Mr. Sedgewick pulled the pot back to edge. “Now, the water is hot.”

  He sat and stretched out his legs. “Once you fix our cups, partner, I’ll tell you how you will design the wedding gown of the season.”

  She steeped the leaves. “Whose wedding?”

  “My brother, the Earl of Haverthon, and his bride to be. We shall tempt them with your designs. Your talents will become known. Then you’ll have your pick of clients, all clients.”

  She handed him tea in a delicate cup and saucer of milk-white porcelain. “How are we to do that?”

  He sipped and lounged in the chair as if he proposed the easiest task in the world. “We will show up to places where he is. You wearing a fabulous new design at each outing. He’ll think I’m courting someone of means, an heiress.”

  “An heiress?” Those knots started up again.

  “If I can be a mute eunuch, you can be an heiress. He’ll not want to be outdone. He’s competitive. He’ll want his bride to know your designer. He’ll try to secure you, the reclusive designer. You’ll gain an introduction to his duke’s daughter.”

  “You think by seeing me out in town—”

  “In fabulous gowns, enjoying yourself, a mysterious woman on my arm. Yes, it will drive him to want to know who you are, and that will make his fiancée want to know your designs. I think a week of outings will do it.”

  “A week? I can’t be away from my business that long.”

  “I’m a returning client. I will pay an additional twenty-five hundred pounds for your three best gowns.”

  “That’s less than nine hundred a design, a four-hundred-pound discount per gown.”

  “I’m consistent in wanting a good deal. I’m rather cheap, but you get the benefit of the gowns. It’s somewhat fair.”

  He was being sweet in a frugal way, but it made her chuckle. “So what do you get out of this, sir, since you don’t actually want these gowns?”

  “A clear conscience. I’ve thought of you every night since my sister’s wedding. I need my debts cleared, and if you make a sale to Haverthon, charge him double. Offer me a nice fee. Twenty-five percent. That would be six hundred and fifty pounds.”

  “The gown for your sister was less than this and you said you were procuring a horse. That’s five thousand pounds you would have paid me.”

  “Yes, five thousand is a nice even number. You deserve this type of investment of sorts. You made my sister smile the day of her wedding. I don’t know how many women you’ve made smile. Someone needs to make you smile. Your talents should be known.”

  “Like the modistes on Bond Street.”

  “Exactly like those modistes. And if you sell at double your rate to Haverthon’s bride, I will get a nice commission. It’s a win-win deal, a great investment for both of us.”

  The clock on the mantel, a tiny replica of a grandfather clock, chimed. It was seven o’clock.

  In a gulp, he finished his tea and bounced out of the chair. “I must be going. My younger sisters must be attended to. Two remain at home.”

  Before she could say no, he bent and kissed her hand.

  The heat of his breath seared her wrist above the glove. It was an intentional kiss. He wanted her to feel it along her skin.

  “Good night, Miss Nettles. We start tomorrow. A drive in the park. I’ll be here at two.”

  “But when will you need your jacket? I can’t repair it and create a new carriage gown.”

  “Take your time with it. We might need the costume again, sans the eunuch, mute piece. Concentrate on your gowns, partner. There are a number of half-done starts about here. I’ll be here at two sharp. Haverthon loves showy carriage rides in Hyde Park.”

  “What are our other outings?”

  “We’ll figure it out.”

  He bowed again and left whistling the merry tune of their dance, Hail Smiling Morn.

  Then he was gone.

  Hail Smiling Morn had lyrics about hills of gold and rosy fingers.

  Rosy fingers.

  Not scarred reddened fingers.

  She put her head in her hands. Did she just agree to be in partnership with Mr. Sedgwick?

  Yet, to become a known modiste on Bond Street, wasn’t that worth trying?

  What if her designs could be out of the shadows?

  What harm could be had taking a week off from her clients? Could Mary-Anne sway a duke’s daughter with no difficulties or secrets to want her designs?

  The man who kissed her hand, hands she’d admitted to being scarred, was determined, very determined.

  That was bad… dangerous.

  She peeled off her gloves and let her sore hands, soaked in perspiration, dry in the heat from the hearth. They bore the scars of fire, an inferno that engulfed her family’s plantation home and claimed her sister’s life.

  Mary-Anne couldn’t save Emilae from the flames, any more than she could save her sister from falling for the wrong man, the son of the wrong family.

  A glance back at the door and the aisles in which Mr. Sedgewick danced her made Mary-Anne hopeful and scared.

  Could a son of the Ton and a woman in trade, an émigré from the West Indies, venture across lines and win?

  9

  Investing in Her

  August clutched the Turner painting, The Shaladon, cradling its gilded frame as he entered Carruthers’ office.

  The tall man with his sharp but sympathetic onyx eyes locked on the Turner. “Good to see you so soon and you brought art. You are working on the challenge.”

  Carruthers welcomed August into his private office.

  August put the painting upon the man’s desk, but still kept his palm on the frame just in case it slid to the floor. Carruthers’ desk was always littered with papers, except when he had his tea.

  “How much will this sell for, Carruthers?”

  “Not enough for the full five thousand. I’ll have to talk with some private collectors. When will you bring the rest?”

  “I’m not sure. This is my least favorite piece, and I have other things to offer that will make up the difference, one of my prize geldings.”

  Carruthers put a hand under his chin as if to support the weighty thoughts in his head. “Then
why sell anything, Mr. Sedgewick, if you are going to bend the rules? Keep your possessions. Enjoy them as I know you do. Quit this challenge.”

  The solicitor eased the painting to the floor, then riffled through his papers until he found a piece of parchment. “Here it is. Sign this and the challenge is no more.”

  August wouldn’t quit, not when he’d begun to win Miss Nettles’ confidence. “The rules state sell my art. You have my Shaladon. My horses are works of art, each treasures. And Miss Nettles needs a good horse more than she needs money. It’s an investment in her. One that’s badly needed.”

  “Such passion, Mr. Sedgewick. Are you well? The budding flowers have been known to make you sneeze.”

  “I’m quite well.”

  “Then let’s discuss this—”

  “Over tea?”

  “But of course, sir. Explain this to me. Prove you are committed to the spirit of the challenge, sacrificing for another.”

  “Of course.”

  Watching Carruthers make tea, very much how August heated water for Miss Nettles, he put his hand on the back of the chair, tapping the tight caning that held all the pieces of the seat in place.

  In this chair, he’d heard the terms of his father’s will, his mother’s will, and negotiated Sarah’s marriage contract. Everything in his life had become taut and scripted when he sat in this chair, always gaining responsibilities and rules.

  Responsible for his sisters’ well-beings.

  Rules meant he bribed a bounder to marry his sister.

  No more.

  August coughed and cleared his throat. “The spirit of this quest is to invest in Miss Nettles, to break me out of my frugal ways. She is her business. I’m investing in her and bringing her the joy she’s given to others.”

  The solicitor smiled, one of those knowing smiles that said he agreed. He poured two cups of tea.

  Miss Nettles’ residence didn’t smell of cardamom and chamomile, but charcoals and old lace. “Decent tea might be another investment I could give her.”

  “You’ve taken a bigger interest in her welfare, Mr. Sedgewick?”

  Of course he had. Disguising himself as her mute eunuch and exchanging stolen glances with her was the most fun he’d had in two years.