“More the color of raspberries,” Amelia added.
“Yes, more on the pink side.” Helene concurred.
Amelia hated that she was more of a pastel woman, implying a girlish color versus a bolder red, the color of a passionate woman. Except, with Lord Brinsley. The color in her face began to rise as she remembered her electric response to his demanding hunger.
Helene smiled. “Thinking of someone you’d like to impress, yes? You are a beautiful woman and a stunning artist. Whomever you choose, will be very fortunate to have you as a wife.” Helene patted her arm.
Her shared love of all things related to design and fabric had forged a unique friendship with Helene. Ladies were never friends with women who worked in trade, but Amelia had great respect for Helene, both as a designer and a woman who survived terrible things that had occurred in France. Not that Helene ever spoke of her past except to contend that it was “best forgotten.” She had made a new life in England.
“Thank you, Helene. I wish I were as confident as you.” Her feelings remained confused—she had always dreamed of Michael as her husband, but her thoughts kept returning to Lord Brinsley’s hands on her body, and his gruff moans as he pressed against her. She couldn’t believe she had allowed the rake to kiss and fondle her as if she were one of his accommodating women. If her brothers ever found out, she’d promptly become bride to a man spurned by society or he’d be found wounded on some dueling field somewhere. The man was not husband material, so why couldn’t she forget him?
As Helene turned to speak with one of the shop girls, Amelia explored through the rolls of fabric on a side table. “Helene, you’ve received fashion dolls in this shipment.” Amelia held up two small packages wrapped in silk.
Helen whirled around. “You found them?”
“Yes, they were tucked under this roll of muslin.” Amelia rested a hand on the bolt of flower-print cotton.
Helene’s manner was clipped and business like. “I received only two dolls. I hope the war will end soon; it is so difficult to stay abreast of French fashion. My ladies care more about fashion than Napoleon conquering the world.”
Amelia didn’t want to think about the implications of a French invasion for her friend’s business. “I’m afraid, with Napoleon’s aspirations, the shipments from France will get worse. The Channel is being guarded; French ships are finding reaching England increasingly difficult.”
Helene’s eyes narrowed. “Amelia, you are a most unusual English lady to have an interest in the war.” Then Helene laughed as if she hadn’t looked suspiciously at Amelia. “I’m glad for the smugglers who aren’t fazed by either French or English warships firing on them.”
Amelia didn’t mention her source of information being her friend Henrietta.
Helene shook her head. “I think you hope you are right. But, don’t worry about me. I didn’t believe last year’s peace treaty would last, so I bought a full supply of fabrics to stock my shop.”
Amelia should’ve known that her friend would show the French ingenuity in business. “Oh, I’m glad, Helene.”
Amelia touched the first of the dolls still wrapped in silk. “Helene, may I see them?”
The French sent dolls, meticulously dressed in the latest fashion, around the world for the ladies to peruse and desire the latest French designs, maintaining the French as the arbitrators and leaders in the world of fashion.
Helene hesitated and then nodded. “Of course. As London’s famous fashion authority, you must see them.”
Amelia cherished the dolls; they inspired her creativity. The silk lemon-yellow gown on the first doll was of simple lines, but the embroidery of golden vines made the dress resplendent. The porcelain doll’s head had a crown of hammered gold vines to match. Wrapped around her arms, was a paisley shawl with amber tones.
Amelia reverently touched the perfect workmanship in miniature. She treasured touching works of beauty. She was adept with the needle, but her greater talent was in drawing. She liked designing—the lines and drapes, the texture and the colors were her passion.
“It is beautiful. And perfect for Lady Henrietta, don’t you think?” Henrietta, who cared little about fashion, limited her choice to yellow and green colors and simple lines. She would be happy with this dress.
“Yes, Lady Henrietta does like simple designs, and this lemon-chiffon is perfect for her coloring, but the glimmering vines make it proper attire for a countess. Perfect for her sister-in-law’s wedding.”
Unwrapping the second doll, Amelia gasped at the sheer beauty and its perfect idea for Gwyneth’s wedding ball gown—a cornflower blue dress with an orange tone-red ribbon tied underneath its high-waist. The bodice was fine, like a spider web lace, with the same lace on the hem of the dress with a glorious train trailing behind.
“It is perfect for Lady Gwyneth, yes? The doll’s coloring, the dark hair is the same as Lady Gwyneth.”
The doll had a red coral necklace, dangling earrings, and bracelets on each arm. The matching crown held the long veil.
Amelia fingered the finely-crafted crown. “It is outstanding.”
“The blue is the wrong color for a bride, but the pink-toned fabrics you’ve chosen will be perfect, and offset the orange tones in the jewelry. With the change in color palette, it will be perfect for Lady Gwyneth.”
Amelia was struck breathless at the absolutely exquisiteness of the detail in the doll’s clothes and the similarity between her designs. She had wanted Gwyneth to look like a medieval Madonna with her curvaceous body and amiable personality. This veil and gown would create the most dazzling wedding finery.
“Helene, can I borrow these dolls to show Lady Henrietta and Lady Gwyneth?”
The modiste made a handsome sum by charging her customers to see the newest French dolls. “Today? You need to show them so soon?” Helene asked.
Amelia was excited to share the dolls perfection of her vision with her dear friends. “Yes, please, Helene. I can return them tomorrow at the latest if you’ve promised them to someone else.”
Amelia was surprised by Helene’s hesitancy. Henrietta and Gwyneth were ladies of significance in the ton, and it seemed strange that Helene wouldn’t want to share the dolls with ladies of high standing.
“Yes, of course. I can have Elodie pick them up.”
“Whatever you think best, Helene. Or I can bring them back since I want to pick the fabric for Lady Henrietta’s gown tomorrow.” Amelia felt unsettled by Helene’s strange behavior. All the talk of the English blockade must have been more upsetting to Helene than she let on. Amelia wanted to say something encouraging to her friend, but with war imminent between their two countries, she couldn’t pretend to give false assurances.
Chapter Four
Brinsley sat in a dark corner in the Ship’s Aground tavern, a damp and murky dockside pub in the East End filled with dockworkers, thugs and every imaginable kind of criminal. The gloomy name matched his mood. One red-haired vixen had run him aground. She played cricket in breeches. That image of her rounded derriere in breeches had haunted him since…not that he had actually seen her, but the erotic image that young Edward planted remained emblazoned on his mind.
He shifted on the hard wooden bench, trying to dampen down his rising need. He was back in the spy game, away from innocent women who romped in breeches. His guts were coiled in knots after his day with Amelia. It always boiled down to a woman.
It wasn’t only his need for Amelia. He was tired of not belonging anywhere or with anyone. Watching Rathbourne and Ashworth and their ladies, he desperately wanted to belong, to be part of a group of friends who cared about each other, who teased and laughed together. He wished most of all to belong to a certain blushing, gentle-bred woman.
Overflowing with frustration, he felt the urge to knock some heads together and work off a bit of steam. Nothing would give him more satisfaction than to end the day with a brawl.
He avoided looking at Ash, sitting in the opposite corner. He didn’t nee
d to look to know that Ash was aware of everything and everyone in the run-down watering hole. They were on a scouting mission, looking for the traitor who was passing Navy secrets or someone willing to pay for those secrets.
They both waited and watched.
A tavern wench approached in a low-cut dress that barely covered her enormous breasts, the material was angled just so to tease a man’s thoughts and entice his fingers.
“Why’s a big fellow like you sitting all alone?” She leaned over to collect his empty glass, purposefully giving him a good view of her rouged nipples. “Need some company?”
It wouldn’t hurt his cover to have a voluptuous lass seated with him. And it helped his male ego to note her sensual appreciation of him reflected in her dark eyes and the “o” of her full mouth. “May I buy you a drink, my lady?”
“You’re a funny one.” She playfully punched his arm. “My lady—that’s a good one.”
He gestured toward the space on the bench next to him for her to sit then nodded to the waiter to bring another drink.
“You’re new to the pub?” She ran a gritty finger along his arm.
It took a lot not to pull away from her touch and her odor of sweat ill-concealed by her cheap perfume.
“I’m not a regular, but I’ve been here before.”
“I don’t think so. I would’ve remembered someone like you.” Her hand had now wandered down his thigh, getting close to the family jewels. “I couldn’t possibly forget someone so…big.”
He wasn’t in the mood to be mauled. Not totally true. He’d love to be mauled, but by a woman with slender, pale fingers and flame red hair.
He grabbed the woman’s hand and put it on the table. “You’re going to make me embarrass myself.”
A waiter, with greasy hair pulled back in a queue, a dirty towel tucked into his breeches, carried over another tankard of ale.
“Hullo, Harry.” The dark-haired woman batted her eyelashes at the older man.
“You caught yourself a live one.” The waiter winked at him as he put the tankard down.
Brinsley lifted his cup. “To a night at Ship’s Aground with…?” He glanced at the young woman, eyebrows raised.
“Bev, at your service…anything you’d be needing.” She leaned into him, her soft ample curves pressing close.
Brinsley ignored her blatant invitation. “Seems like a quiet night. I heard this place can get rough.”
Bev raised her tankard and took a big swig. She wiped the foam from her lips with the back of her sleeve. “When the dock workers get paid…that’s when it gets interesting.”
“You must be popular. Seems like you know everyone who comes here.” He sipped his ale. “You knew I wasn’t a regular.”
“I knows most of the men.” She looked up at him, her eyes narrowed. “You’re looking for someone, ain’t ya?”
“Why’d you say that?”
“Cuz your likes don’t come to places like this.”
Shit, had he already blown his cover? Lord Rathbourne would have his arse. And she was only half right. After he had been rejected by his family and friends, he hung out in dives just like this to wash away the taint of good society. “You’re right. I’m looking for my hellion brother.” In spy lies, always stick as close as you can to the truth. “He has a drinking problem and we haven’t seen him in weeks. When he’s in a foul mood and in his cups, he goes looking for trouble.”
“I could keep an eye open for your brother.” Bev lowered her voice, but ran her hand over his arms in a playful manner for anyone watching.
“Could you, now?” He wound a curl close to her face around a finger. He leaned closer. “That would be very helpful.”
Her laugh was throaty in an effort to sound sultry. “I got my uses.” She then whispered in his ear. “Twenty quid.”
By Bev’s exorbitant price, she understood the significance of the job. He traced the border of the frayed material along her breasts, giving the impression of a man absorbed. “Done deal.”
“Why don’t we go upstairs and work out the details.” Her hand was back in his crotch. “The tiny, insignificant details.”
God, he might not want her, but his partner didn’t seem to mind. He laughed out loud as he pried her fingers away. “The waiter was right, you’re a live one.”
He kept her hand between his. “Tiny, huh?”
She purred. “Not tiny at all.”
He pressed his lips to her neck and said low, “My brother is not big like I am. He’s short, and likes to pretend he’s French.”
Bev threw her head back as if enjoying an erotic interlude. “I understand. How will I contact you?”
He continued to keep his head at her neck, but his fingers played in the front of her gown. “I’ll contact you.”
As he had done many a time paying for a night between the sheets, he reached into his coat and pulled out the coins. He placed the money on the table for all observers to see the transaction.
“I’ll be back.” He started to stand, searching for Ash who had remained at his table. Now, Ash was in a shoving match with a brawny dockworker who outweighed him by four stone.
Ash threw a punch at the burly man and all hell broke loose. Just what Brinsley had needed—a bloody brawl.
Someone grabbed Brinsley by the arm. Swinging around, he was confronted by a giant with a scar across his cheek, broken bottle in his hand, already primed to do damage. He ducked the swinging bottle and landed a punch to the bully’s gut. The well-placed punch didn’t faze his assailant, only enraging him more.
“You smarmy bastard.” The giant swung the jagged bottle as he charged forward.
Brinsley shouted over the din of crashing furniture, breaking bottles, and shouts of aggression. “Come and get me. I’m not afraid of you.” Brinsley was immensely entertained by the look on the mammoth’s face. At six feet, a full sixteen stone, his assailant was far from little, but the taunt had the desired effect.
Bracing himself, Brinsley kicked as hard as he could, aiming for his opponent’s kneecap. When the giant buckled forward, Brinsley positioned his knee and delivered the “piece de resistance” to the big man’s groin.
The giant sprawled to the floor, his leg bent wrong and blood streaming from his broken nose and split lip.
Brinsley looked around for Ash, but couldn’t locate him in the chaos. Distracted, he didn’t see the brute coming at him from the side until it was too late. Brinsley turned, but the ham-sized fist caught him on the right cheek.
Infuriated by the pain, Brinsley grabbed the man by the neck and twisted. The man fell in a broken heap. It was a wakeup call for Brinsley. This was a brawl—men letting off steam—he understood the difference. But he’d come here already looking for a fight, now the agonizing pain in his face and his worries about Ash was causing him to feel explosive.
He scanned the room for any sign of Ash, but in the dimly lit chaos, it was hard to discern who was on the ground. The door opened and he watched a short man leave and right behind him was Ash. He searched for Bev, but she had also disappeared.
Brinsley made his way through the fighting masses, stepping over several crumpled bodies. He had to deliver a few more punches before he got to the door. He didn’t know what to expect when he got outside, but he hoped to hell he hadn’t lost Ash.
Chapter Five
Amelia reverently unwrapped the doll from its silk coverings. She had packed both dolls in silk scraps from her workshop to protect them on her walk to Rathbourne house. A joyous anticipation raced through her body, as if she were discovering a special Christmas present. She hoped to build the dramatic moment for Gwyneth, anticipating and yearning for the perfect dress for her perfect day.
Amelia watched Gwyneth expectantly. With her ever-expressive face, Gwyneth made it simple to read her emotions and her reaction.
Amelia wanted to accomplish for Gwyneth the same dream she had achieved for Henrietta—to look and feel like a fairy queen on her wedding day. Unfortunately He
nrietta was detained in the library with work and would miss the unveiling of the doll dressed in the lemon yellow. She would make sure it was carefully displayed on the pier table.
Amelia’s heart thrummed a nervous beat, and her stomach had a flock of butterflies flitting around. In one look, Amelia would know if her vision meshed with Gwyneth’s imagined dress, or if she’d have to bury her own feelings and start again.
Gwyneth’s dark, slanted eyes filled with tears. “She is beautiful. I couldn’t have dreamed a more wonderful gown.”
She watched Gwyneth gulp and shiver with excitement. Relief washed through Amelia. She let out the breath she had been holding in anticipation of this moment.
“With your dramatic looks, I envisioned you as a medieval Madonna.”
Gwyneth gave a teary giggle. “Me, a Madonna?”
“A veil with the red crown is simple but more dramatic than a bonnet. And the red crown is vivid and will highlight your dark eyes and hair.”
Gwyneth stared at the doll in her lap touching the miniscule veil. “I want to look beautiful for Ash. But that you had the vision and knew what I’d like is incomprehensible.” Gwyneth squeezed her hand. “Amelia, you are so very talented and so very dear to me.”
She felt a bit embarrassed by Gwyneth’s fervent display. “I’ve selected the perfect fabrics and will need you to come with me…”
The door to the morning room flew open as Edward and Gus rushed in. “Are you almost done? I’m finished with my lessons and ready for today’s match.”
Gus ran toward the women in pursuit of the food on the tea tray sitting on the table in front of the settee. Spurred on by his Labrador’s love of food, Gus raced toward the table. He held his nose high in the air for a scent of meat or other delectable. Gus was not picky.
A Code of the Heart (The Code Breakers Series Book 3) Page 4