“I knew I could depend on your help,” Lady Howick said, and walked slowly with the help of her maid toward a heavily cushioned chair near the fireplace. “Young James will see you out.”
Sophie tucked her boot-clad feet next to Lydia’s on the long, narrow brazier cover in the center of the coach floor. She squirmed at the luxuriant warmth radiating from the glowing coals and burrowed her hands deeper within Lydia’s fur muff from the previous Season.
Her friend gave her a sharp poke in the ribs and gestured toward Captain Bellingham. He sat across from them, his Hessians polished to a high gloss. Chin in hand, he stared out the coach window at the heavy, late snowfall. A dark lock of hair had fallen over his face, obscuring his expression.
Sophie tamped down the feelings he inspired by admitting he was probably bored to the utmost. Her cheeks flamed in embarrassment at the memory of why he’d been forced to join their shopping expedition. She was certainly to blame, although she had no idea why. Someone wished her harm for no discernible reason.
She was tired of worrying about whether she’d ever get a proper gentleman to come up to scratch. She was tired of other people worrying about her as well.
The first good thing she’d experienced in a while was a new poem she’d finished the night before, a fantasy of Venice. Perhaps she’d send some of her work to her father’s old publisher and tell him the truth about her identity. Paolo Brancelli’s poetry had sold fairly well in England and on the continent. Perhaps the man would take a chance on her.
“Miss Brancelli…”
She started at the sound of her name.
“Your cheeks are red. Are you too close to the brazier?” Captain Bellingham had turned toward her. He leaned forward with his hands on his knees, a look of concern on his face.
“No,” she blurted out, and then blushed even more when she discovered she was the center of attention.
“How long will you and your ship’s surgeon remain in London, Captain Bellingham?” Lydia’s voice washed over Sophie.
She could have hugged her friend for changing the subject but instead covered Lydia’s hand with a quick squeeze.
“We delivered a prize ship for re-fitting to the Portsmouth Royal Navy shipyard. We’ll sail her back as soon as all the repairs are completed. However, she needs a new mainmast, which is curing there in a water-filled trench.”
Captain Bellingham’s voice was more animated, and his usually stiff demeanor dropped. Sophie realized with a start his ship and crew were nearly as important to him as his family.
“Dr. MacCloud as my surgeon is part of the crew, and we’re all on leave for a month before we take the ship back to the West Africa Station.”
“How many are in your crew?” Sophie surprised herself. She really wanted to know.
“She’s a twenty-one-gun frigate with a maximum crew of one-hundred thirty-eight. We took her as prize from a slaver and re-named her Black Condor. Our crew will consist of more than one-hundred sailors and thirty marines led by Captain George Neville. We already have the marines, but we’ll be spending the rest of this month recruiting additional men to complement the crew.
“Arnaud, please.” Mrs. Bellingham interrupted her son’s enthusiastic description. “We are on a shopping excursion. I’m sure the young ladies do not wish to be bored senseless by your love of ships.” She gave him a teasing smile. “He does tend to go on and on.”
The lock of hair he’d pushed back fell across his eyes again, and Sophie’s heart slipped into a different beat, like a watch newly wound.
More than anything, she yearned to reach across the divide and push away the dark fall hiding his eyes.
Arnaud was afraid to look down, but he was fairly certain the ascot his valet had tied perfectly that morning, was about to strangle him. Sophie Brancelli’s stare across the great distance of the frosty carriage seats unnerved him. Her moist lips were parted like she wanted to say something but couldn’t. Her eyes widened as if she were seeing him for the first time.
The feelings she incited were not what he hoped to take back to sea a month hence. Gad. What had his mother gotten him into this time? Just as he was praying the long coach ride to Bedford Square east of Mayfair would end quickly, they lurched to a stop and his mother’s footman pulled open the door and set the steps in place.
When Sophie leaned toward the footman’s hand, Captain Bellingham was quicker and intervened, jumping down into the snow ahead of her. The white stuff blanketing the streets was deeper and heavier than she’d anticipated, and her well-worn boots slipped in the icy slush beneath. She was grateful for his help. The warmth of his hand radiated through his heavy leather glove when he braced her against a fall.
“Have a care.” His voice vibrated against her ear when she fell back against him after losing her balance.
His voice was kind, something she hadn’t expected, considering how serious his frowns had been all morning. He’d obviously been forced into guard duty by Lord Howick. However, his peppermint and sandalwood scent combined with soothing words made her knees a bit weak and she forgot to apologize.
Her usually practical mind took a hard hit, like a wall crumbled by a cannon ball. She wondered if the proper gentleman specified in her grandmother’s will would make her feel this way.
The coachman helped her to the mantua maker’s door while Captain Bellingham waited to assist the other women from the carriage. The view through the mullioned windows of the small shop promised warmth and shelter from the heavy, wet snow pelting down. She pushed open the door which set off the tinkling of a bell.
A tiny woman bustled from the back room of the shop, took an assessing look, and then said, “You must be Sophie - white, of course, for your first coming out Season but something else lavender. Your complexion begs for something in deep lavender silk.” She tilted her head a bit while studying Sophie’s face. “And gold, we must put you in something gold as well.”
Before Sophie could address the dressmaker’s rapid comments, Honore followed close behind with Lydia and her maid, Jane.
Captain Bellingham was last to arrive. He stamped his feet on the small entryway carpet and gave the proprietress a long look. “I will need to see the rear entrance to your shop, Madame.”
He was back to looking dark and forbidding. Sophie must have imagined the short burst of light and warmth he’d exhibited outside the carriage just moments before.
“Madame Bonheur, I’m so sorry for my son’s rude abruptness.” Honore slipped past him and enclosed her modiste in an embrace, touching each of her cheeks with a light buss. “It has been too long, Marie.”
Honore straightened and with a stern look at her son, began introductions. When she’d finished, she said, “Now, Captain Bellingham, you can begin your inspection of the premises.”
Honore, Lydia, and Jane took seats in Madame Bonheur’s cozy sitting room before the fireplace while her assistant served tea.
“Ooh,” Lydia said, and leaned toward a neat stack of newspapers on a nearby shelf. Sophie gave an inward sigh of relief. Perusing the gossip columns would occupy her friend for hours.
Sophie followed the tiny modiste into a rear fitting room where bolts of fine fabric leaned against one corner, and a dressmaker’s form dominated the center of the room. She’d given all the women warm, wool-lined slippers to wear while their boots dried near the fireplace.
Madame Bonheur poured tea for Sophie and herself out of a silver pot on a tray on a small table. She took a few sips before smiling across the top of the steaming cup. “Tell me what you will need for the Season.”
“I would like a wardrobe with as little expense as possible for my benefactor,” Sophie said. “I had hoped you might help me find a way perhaps to mix and match trims, wraps, and bonnets so that I can make do with fewer dresses.” Sophie took in a deep breath and anticipated a look of censure.
Instead, Madame Bonheur gave her a mischievous smile. “I thought you might want some help to make the most of your funds, so
I’ve gathered some fabrics and gowns customers have ordered but neglected to purchase recently. We will find something you like and work from there.” She looked around as though she feared someone might be eavesdropping and then added, “No one need ever know.”
“I so appreciate the help. If there is ever anything I can do for you…”
“As a matter of fact, there is a small way you could assist me.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. She couldn’t imagine what service she could render Madame Bonheur.
The modiste continued. “The happenings within the ton, both happy, and sometimes not so happy, are what affect my business. If you ever overhear a bit of gossip which might mean someone will need a new wardrobe, I would appreciate a small note so that we can be ready, um, to take advantage, if you know what I mean.”
“I think I do.” Sophie took a sip of her tea before continuing. “If I can relate an on dit without causing any harm, I don’t see why I should not let you know.”
The modiste patted Sophie’s knee. “I knew I could depend on you. Together, we will create the new, the splendid Sophie. With your beauty and my skill, the ton will be overwhelmed. The gentlemen will fall over themselves for the privilege of a dance with you.”
Sophie laughed. “Let us not overdo this wardrobe. After all, I need only one gentleman.”
“Ah, but you must trust me on this. We will make sure he is the right gentleman.”
At that moment, a door slammed and voices rose in argument in the space behind the fitting room.
One of Madame Bonheur’s assistants appeared through the curtain at the rear with a tall, familiar figure swathed in a swirling cape of dark green velvet.
“Mrs. Withers…” Sophie nearly dropped her cup before launching into the arms of the newcomer. “Mrs. Withers is my father’s old friend,” she explained, once she turned back to the modiste, wiping a tear from her cheek.
“My darling girl,” the woman said. “I’ve missed you so much since Paolo died.” She stopped, as if unable to go on.
“But you,” Sophie said. “You are very well known in the theater now.”
“Yes. Too well known. That is why Marie’s handsome young guard stopped me. I had to come in the back way to avoid some of my…shall we say, ‘admirers.’”
“Did he bother you overly much?” Sophie’s voice took on an indignant tone.
“Oh,” Mrs. Withers drawled. “He’s your handsome young guard.”
“But did he keep you from entering?”
The actress gave a deep, husky laugh. “I was so enchanted with those deep, blue eyes of his, I hardly noticed. And the way those shoulders strain against his jacket. Sauve moi de moi-meme.” She gave her face a mock fanning, all the while grinning.
Sophie could not stop the deep flush spreading from her neck to her face.
“You two should continue your reunion while I finish the hem on Mrs. Withers’s new costume.” Madame Bonheur nodded to both of them before slipping through the rear curtain.
“Sophie, you must tell me everything that has happened since your father died. And don’t leave anything out, including why you seem to need a guard, albeit such a handsome one.” The actress poured herself some tea and refilled Sophie’s cup before joining her on the plump-cushioned settee.
Arnaud returned from a walk around the perimeter of the mantua maker’s shop with reinforcements. He’d noticed Cullen lurking outside a nearby tea shop and dragged him along.
“Were you going to stand over there and make me spend the day alone?” Arnaud stamped the snow from the bottoms of his boots before opening Madame Bonheur’s rear door.
“I’d think you would have had a fairly easy time up until now. I canna ken what could possibly go wrong at a women’s sewing establishment.”
“That shows how little you know about women. I did have a near thing a few minutes ago.” At the alarmed look in his friend’s eyes, Arnaud relented. “I thought someone was sneaking in from the alley, but the ‘intruder’ turned out to be an actress trying to avoid an ‘admirer.’”
“You were afraid of a wee slip of a thing?”
“More like one of the Amazons of legends.”
“An Amazon?”
“As tall as you. She could look me in the eye.”
“This I have to see.” Cullen made to enter the shop before Arnaud stopped him short with a hand on his shoulder.
“Trust me. You do not want to venture in there. Nothing but chattering women, rolls of fabric, and thin teacups. You’d be like a bear wandering through a shop full of pottery.”
“Then where do we keep watch?” Cullen asked, resignation in his voice.
“Right here,” Arnaud said, and dragged two stiff wooden chairs just inside the doorway. “Every hour we’ll walk the perimeter of the shop to make sure no one is loitering in the street outside.”
At that moment, Madame Bonheur’s assistant appeared with a tray of sandwiches to go with a steaming pot of tea. A wide grin replaced the scowl on Cullen’s face. Arnaud shook his head. His surgeon was so easily appeased by a pretty face and the prospect of a full stomach.
“That is exactly what you need.” Mrs. Withers lounged with her long legs draped across one of the fitting room settees. Sophie stood on a stool, and the seamstress’s assistant pinned up a deep, rose-colored silk evening dress while Madame Bonheur bustled around, deftly fitting the bodice to Sophie’s contours.
“I cannot possibly…” Sophie craned her neck to peer down the back of the gown where embroidered greenery delineated the high waistline.
“Of course you can,” her father’s friend said. “Consider this a gift from Paolo. I owed him a large sum…”
“You did not,” Sophie interrupted sharply.
“Sorry. I forgot you were ever the little accountant.” Mrs. Withers gave her a wry grin. “Please? Let me give you a gift.”
Madame Bonheur pulled several pins from her mouth. “Since this gown was custom-made for one of the Loxley sisters and never picked up, I can give you a very good price. And, believe me, you look much better in the gown than she did, which is probably why she never picked up the frock.”
“Settled. Add it to my account,” Mrs. Withers said, with a wave of a hand toward Madame Bonheur.
“Thank you,” Sophie said. “If you ever need my help…”
“Yes, yes, yes. And if you ever need mine, promise me you’ll send word here.” She handed Sophie a torn slip of paper with an address scrawled in a strong hand. Mrs. Withers rose suddenly to her full height. “I must get to rehearsal now. I’m late. You know where to send the costume,” she directed to Madame Bonheur and gave a small salute to both women before sweeping from the room.
Once the sound of the actress’s steps faded from the hallway, Madame Bonheur put a finger to her lips in the sign of secrecy and confided, “If she decides to become your champion, you should let her. She has some very powerful protectors. Vraiment.”
Chapter Nine
During one of Arnaud’s turns outside the shop, he spotted two familiar boys. As they raced down the street toward him, he stepped out at the last minute, extended a boot, and toppled the leader. The second boy tumbled over the first.
“Oy!” Arnaud shouted. Where are you two lubbers off to in such a hurry?”
They peered up at him, defiant, from the pile of street filth where they’d landed.
“We’re looking for summat,” the bolder of the two said, his expression revealing nothing.
In one swoop, Arnaud clutched a boy in each hand by the filthy scruffs of their shirts. “You will tell me, or I’ll drag you off to a runner.”
“Cor,” the other boy swore. “It’s those ladies.” He produced a grubby, crumpled sheet with a surprising likeness in a sketch of Sophie and Lydia. “We followed that cove like you told us, and he turned on us. Threatened us if we didn’t follow these two around and report back to him.”
“Wot’ll you give us to forget we saw them?” the cheekier of he two asked.
“I won’t rip your heads off.” Arnaud shook them again and growled.
“Stop.” The first urchin gave a piteous moan. “We’ll do whatever you want.”
“If you give me a good description of the man who paid you to follow the young women, I might make it worth your while.” Arnaud held out his hand with two coins and waited for the little thieves to make up their minds.
Sophie stood in companionable silence while Madame Bonheur finished pinning the hem of the gown gifted by Mrs. Withers. The tiny French woman worked quickly, her lips firmly holding a number of pins. She would pause frequently when she ran out of pins to give directions to her assistant madly basting the hem in place as the two of them worked their way around Sophie’s feet.
Sophie’s feet were cold despite the borrowed fur-lined slippers and nearly numb after she’d stood as still as possible for the last few hours. Her stomach finally gave an embarrassing rumble.
“I am so sorry.” Sophie reached out and touched the seamstress’s arm in apology.
Madame Bonheur stopped and patted Sophie’s hand. “You have been here since early this morning. I think you’ve had enough for one day. And, besides, with the measurements we’ve taken, we can complete enough gowns to get you through the first weeks of the Season.”
The modiste clapped and called to her assistant to have some tea and small sandwiches brought to the fitting room.
“There is no need…” Sophie demurred at the modiste’s insistence on seeing to her comfort.
“A woman who faces the most important Season of her life needs to maintain her strength.” Madame Bonheur made small tutting sounds and re-clamped her lips over more pins, returning to pinning up the hem.
Once Sophie’s hem and bodice adjustments were basted into place, Madame Bonheur led her back to the sitting room where the small fireplace had been banked anew with coal. The flames rose high, raising Sophie’s spirits. Madame Bonheur settled her in a cozy chair with a heated brick on a stool close to the grate.
Pride Of Honor: Men of the Squadron Series, Book 1 Page 8