“You know of our . . . our project then,” she said gratuitously, breaking and buttering a muffin. “What is your opinion? Do you approve?”
“It’s not my place to form an opinion,” Nell said primly. “But if I was forced to venture one"—the black eyes twinkled in the mirror—“I’d have to say I favor any scheme that looks in the way of giving Miss Judith a proper setdown. She was a wicked child, and she’s grown into a wicked woman. Not to mention the scoundrel she wed. I wouldn’t pay you tuppence for the both of them.”
"And Lord . . . Uncle David?” Bonnie seized the opening Nell had provided. “He told me yesterday that his mother believed him the wickedest child in Britain.”
‘‘He did create more than his share of mischief as a boy,” Nell conceded. ‘‘But it was harmless for the most part, and even when it wasn’t, he never planned to do harm. That was the difference between him and Miss Judith; there’s not a malicious bone in Mr. David’s body. Which is why I lend no credence to them as says he’s a rake.”
Bonnie choked on her muffin, and Nell clapped her resoundingly on the back.
“No,” the abigail continued, “it’s my feeling that a rake takes his pleasures without regard to the other party, and that isn’t Mr. David’s way. He’s broken more than a few hearts in his day, of course, but I fancy he can’t be blamed for that. The ladies of his acquaintance know very well he has no thought of wedding, and them that aren't ladies—”
“I ... I perceive your point,” Bonnie interposed hastily. She had not intended to invite a full recounting of the earl's personal life, and it was rendering her cheeks prodigious warm. “And I’m delighted to learn we shall have your cooperation during the course of our . . . ah . . . endeavor.”
“That you will, miss.” Nell eagerly bobbed her head. “In fact, I was the one to suggest we call you ‘Miss Bonnie.’ The staff, I mean. I told Mr. David we’d address you so if you were Miss Cornelia’s real daughter, and he agreed. And I assure you that I, for one, will treat you like a member of the family in every other regard as well.”
Bonnie wryly suspected that this treatment would be a decidedly mixed blessing.
“You finish your breakfast,” Nell commanded as if in confirmation, “and I’ll fetch you up a bath. You’ll feel much better indeed after a nice hot bath. And while you’re bathing, I’ll unpack your bag and put your things away.”
She scurried across the room and through the door without awaiting a response, and Bonnie gulped down what food she could, cut the remainder into tiny pieces, and artfully distributed the pieces round her plate.
The curricle came to a smooth halt, and Bonnie heaved a ragged sigh of relief. She had been excessively alarmed to discover that she was to ride in the very vehicle which had run her down, particularly when she saw how monstrous far the seat was from the ground: and she had kept her eyes firmly closed for the better part of their drive from Grosvenor Street to Leicester Square. Having survived the journey, she could now own that David was an excellent driver and his team of matched black geldings extremely well-behaved. Indeed, she realized, if such were not the case, she probably would not be alive to render judgment.
David clambered nimbly down from the seat, strode around the carriage, and assisted Bonnie to the footpath. It was the first time they had stood side by side, and she noted that he was taller than she’d fancied. Considerably taller; were she not wearing a hat, she doubted the top of her head would extend much above his chin. He smiled down at her, and though his expression was appropriately avuncular, Bonnie experienced an odd little tremor in her midsection. Which wouldn’t do at all, she sternly counseled herself. Whether the earl was a rake or not—and that remained to be seen—she must take care to regard him as nothing more than her “Uncle David," and she determinedly dropped her eyes.
“I trust you were not jostled about too dreadfully?” he said.
Bonnie tentatively moved her arms and legs and marveled anew at how little they protested. Nell had been right on this head as well: the hot water of the bath had proved remarkably soothing. She was still a trifle stiff, of course, but the agonizing stabs of pain had faded to dull twinges, and she was able to walk without a limp.
“Not dreadfully at all,” she murmured.
“Then let us place you in Mrs. Pruitt’s capable hands."
David nodded her ahead of him. and as they approached the door of the shop, Bonnie caught a glimpse of their reflection in the display window. She was hard put to quell a laugh, for she could scarcely conceive a more ill-matched pair. The earl was immaculately clad in buff pantaloons, a coat of dark blue superfine, and a pale blue waistcoat—his ensemble crowned by a high, glossy beaver hat. In shocking contrast. Bonnie wore the ancient black bombazine dress she had inherited from Mama and—clashing hideously with the gown—her canary-colored French bonnet. Well, the bonnet had been yellow before the accident, she amended; now it was liberally adorned with streaks and splotches of dirt. Added to which, the front of the brim had been dented so deeply that it nearly touched her forehead; and the ostrich feathers, mortally wounded, dangled limply from the crown. She swallowed another giggle and wondered what Mrs. Pruitt would make of his elegant lordship’s pathetic niece.
David opened the shop door and ushered her inside, and as the tinkle of the bell died away, Bonnie gazed around the interior of the mantua-maker’s establishment. She had just begun to register the chandeliers sparkling overhead, the delicate gilt chairs and pier tables against the walls, the tail cheval mirrors, when a woman emerged from the rear of the shop and hurried across the Brussels carpet. She was well under five feet in height, Bonnie judged, and as she was wearing a brown dress the precise shade of her hair she resembled nothing so much as a sparrow.
“Ah, it is you. Lord Sedgewick!” Though she had nearly reached them, her brown eyes were squinted to the merest slits—a circumstance from which Bonnie inferred that she was prodigious shortsighted. “What a fortunate coincidence! I was in the very process of composing a note to advise you that Miss Godwin’s order is ready for the final fitting.” Her eyes shifted to Bonnie. “And I’m confident you will be quite pleased. Miss . . .”
Her voice trailed off, her mouth snapped closed, and she fumbled for the spectacles which hung from a ribbon round her neck. “Oh, dear." she moaned, peering at Bonnie through her glasses. “Oh. dear.”
“Pray do not tease yourself about it, Mrs. Pruitt." His soothing words to the contrary, the earl’s lean face had turned noticeably pink. “Iam sure my niece well understands that a man in my position will gift his female . . . er . . . friends with the occasional new gown.”
Occasional? Bonnie felt her own eyes narrow. She had naively assumed that David knew Mrs. Pruitt only by reputation; now she would have wagered her last groat that he was one of the mantua-maker’s premier clients.
“Your niece, you say.” Mrs. Pruitt’s tone was one of manifest relief at having so narrowly avoided a shocking faux pas. “Yes, she does bear a keen likeness to your sister. Although”—her brown brows knit in a frown—“I was not aware that Lady Hellier had a daughter.”
“Nor does she.” David shook his head. “Permit me to present Miss Carlisle, Mrs. Pruitt. Bonnie is the daughter of my other sister, who lives in Barbados.”
“I see.” The seamstress granted Bonnie a distracted nod of acknowledgment before returning her attention to David. “Then perhaps it would not be too ... ah .. . indiscreet of me to mention a rather troublesome matter, Lord Sedge wick. I naturally declined to bring it up when you were here with Miss Godwin, but since Miss Carlisle is a close relative . . She coughed. “The fact is Lady Hellier's account is considerably in arrears, and I was in hopes you might be so good as to remind her.”
“Poor Judith.” The earl emitted a most persuasive sigh, but Bonnie detected an unmistakable hardening of his jaws. “I fear she’s grown excessively forgetful now she’s reached her middle years. Be that as it may, she is presently in France, so I shall pay the bill in her s
tead, Mrs. Pruitt.”
“How very good of you.” The mantua-maker clasped her hands in gratitude and—the “troublesome matter” so happily resolved—looked back at Bonnie. “Then let us discuss what it is we’re to do for Miss Carlisle." Her birdlike eyes darted from the dented brim of Bonnie’s hat to the toes of her worn satin slippers and widened with shock. “Oh, dear," she clucked.
"Yes, as I fancy you can see for yourself, my dear niece will require a complete new wardrobe." David patted his "dear niece" fondly on the shoulder. "My sister recognized that styles in the Indies tend to be rather outdated and judged it best for Bonnie to be rigged out here in England. As she provided a considerable sum for that purpose, we need stint on nothing, Mrs. Pruitt.”
The seamstress had never unclasped her hands, and she now rubbed them together with undisguised glee. Bonnie supposed she should be pleased that their charade had passed its initial test so well, but in the event, she judged it most alarming that the earl could lie with such glib facility.
"And I shall also buy Bonnie a gown or two." David patted her shoulder again. "I’ve been quite generous with Francis over the years, and I am of the firm opinion that I should do no less for my niece than I have for my nephew." He hesitated and bit his lip, as if he had said too much. "Though I do hope you won’t repeat my words to Judith, Mrs. Pruitt." he added conspiratorially. “I should hate her to obtain the impression that Bonnie could in any way supplant Francis in my affections."
This, of course, positively guaranteed that the mantua- maker would repeat his words the very instant Lady Hellier next stepped through her door, and Bonnie cast him a suspicious glance from the comer of her eye. But the earl’s demeanor was one of abject and perfect dismay that his ill- chosen remarks might inadvertently wound his beloved sister.
"I shouldn’t dream of betraying your confidence,” Mrs. Pruitt assured him. "And I quite agree that your generosity should extend equally to your niece.”
Particularly inasmuch, Bonnie thought dryly, as Lord Sedge- wick’s nephew was not a candidate for the seamstress’ services.
“Sit down”—Mrs. Pruitt gestured toward the nearest pair of gilt chairs—“and I shall fetch my stylebooks.”
As David seated Bonnie in one of the indicated chairs, the mantua-maker raced into the rear of the shop; and shortly after the earl had occupied the other chair, Mrs. Pruitt came scurrying back, panting with the burden of the several great volumes she bore. She set the books on the carpet at David’s feet, plucked a third chair from the adjacent grouping, placed it just beside David’s, and sat down.
“In view of Miss Carlisle’s coloring," she said breathlessly, snatching the top volume from the floor, “I believe we should do her predominantly in greens and yellows. Do you not concur. Lord Sedgewick?”
“Yes, I fancy those shades would be the most becoming.” “Excellent. Then, since she is a bit tall, permit me to recommend”—Mrs. Pruitt leafed through the book—“this type of walking dress. We can vary the trimmings, as is done here and here." She indicated the pages immediately before and after. “My point is that the shoulders and sleeves of the spencer should be rather narrow.”
As it happened, yellow and green were Bonnie’s favorite colors, and she was dismally aware that her knowledge of fashion was nearly as outdated as if she had lived in the Indies for four-and-twenty years. But David and Mrs. Pruitt were discussing her as though she were a piece of furniture to be re-covered—evidently counting it quite as gratuitous to solicit her opinion as to ask the sofa or chair what upholstery it preferred. Nor was there any way she could unobtrusively detect what they were at; a pier table lay between her chair and David’s, and the stylebook, lying across his and Mrs. Pruitt’s knees, was a good three feet distant. Close as she wriggled to the edge of her chair, much as she craned her neck, she couldn’t make out the drawings; she could only listen to their enthusiastic commentary.
It was by dint of this commentary that Bonnie learned she was to have six walking dresses and two morning dresses, in various hues of yellow and green, and half a dozen ball gowns. In the interest of variety, one of the latter would be gold and one a periwinkle blue. Blue was so very far from green that Bonnie started to venture a protest, but even as she parted her lips, Mrs. Pruitt explained that her brother had recently received a bolt of elegant periwinkle satin. During the course of the ensuing conversation. Bonnie further learned that Mrs. Pruitt’s brother was a linendraper, that his shop was conveniently located just next door, and that—“as usual”—he and Mrs. Pruitt would select the best fabrics for Bonnie’s clothes. “Best” meaning “most expensive,” Bonnie wryly translated.
But the earl offered no objection to this procedure, and Bonnie had long since perceived the futility of posing any objection of her own. David did, however, caution Mrs. Pruitt not to cut his niece’s ball dresses “too low.”
“I shouldn't wish them to be unfashionable, of course,” he elaborated, “but if there is any question in your mind, I should prefer you to err on the side of modesty. Frankly, Mrs. Pruitt, the situation is somewhat awkward. Though Bonnie is four-and-twenty years of age, she will be introduced into society for the first time—”
“I quite understand. Lord Sedgewick,” the mantua-maker interposed. “And I assure you I shall alter my designs to your complete satisfaction. There remains only to measure Miss Carlisle, and if she will accompany me to one of the fitting rooms . . .”
Mrs. Pruitt closed the ball-gown stylebook, returned it to the floor, rose, and—for the first time in above two hours, Bonnie calculated—looked directly at her.
"I’m sorry to put you to such trouble,” Bonnie snapped. “Had I thought to have Uncle David measure me at home, I shouldn’t have needed to come at all.”
“What a merry sense of humor she has!” Mrs. Pruitt tittered in appreciation. “She’s much like you in that regard, Lord Sedgewick. But come. Miss Carlisle; it will only take a minute.”
In fact, some fifteen minutes elapsed while Bonnie removed her dress, subjected every conceivable portion of her anatomy to the mantua-maker's measuring tape, and donned her gown again. Mrs. Pruitt left her to accomplish the latter task alone, and by the time Bonnie returned to the main room of the shop, the seamstress had filled two full pages in her order book and was eagerly calculating her profit
“There!” She looked up with a brilliant smile; evidently the total exceeded her most optimistic estimate. “As you requested. Lord Sedgewick. I shall have Miss Carlisle’s clothes finished next Tuesday. If you bring her for an initial fitting on Thursday,” she added sternly, “and a final fitting Saturday. On Thursday I shall give you swatches of the materials we are using so you can procure the requisite accessories.” Bonnie was not in the least surprised to hear that Mrs. Pruitt's brother—in addition to the fabrics he carried—also maintained a vast inventory of headdresses, gloves, shoes, et cetera; and would, “as usual,” welcome his lordship’s patronage.
“Then, of course. Miss Carlisle must have her hair styled.” the mantua-maker continued.
“Of course,” David agreed.
“I personally feel that Monsieur Michel is the most accomplished coiffeur in the city,” Mrs. Pruitt said. “As you no doubt recail. Lord Sedgewick, he is the one who styles Miss Godwin’s hair.” Bonnie clenched her hands. "At any rate, since I collect that your niece is to make her first appearance at Lady Lambeth's assembly, I shall arrange for Monsieur Michel to call at your house next Tuesday afternoon.”
“That is very kind of you, Mrs. Pruitt.”
The earl sounded curiously uncomfortable, and he abruptly snaked his fingers round Bonnie’s elbow and began to tug her toward the door of the shop.
“Speaking of Miss Godwin . . .” The seamstress' voice caught them up before they had traversed half the room. "I do trust you will soon bring her in for her final fitting. Lord Sedgewick. With the Season just ahead. I am monstrous busy, and I can ill afford to have partially finished orders cluttering up my workrooms."
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br /> “Yes,” David mumbled. “Yes, I shall bring Miss Godwin shortly. Good day then. Mrs. Pruitt.”
He ushered Bonnie on across the Brussels carpet and out the door, assisted her into the curricle, took the driver’s place, and clucked the black geldings to a start. Bonnie thought—nay, prayed—his cheeks had colored again, and she gazed stonily at the passing buildings and people and vehicles on her side of the carriage.
“Umm.” They were well along Piccadilly before the earl cleared his throat. “As Mrs. Pruitt pointed out, this is a busy time of year for those merchants who specialize in women’s fashion, and we must consequently be certain to return for your fitting Thursday. Nor should we want Mr. Mercer to sell his best hats and gloves before we visit his establishment."
Bonnie inferred from this discourse that Mr. Mercer was Mrs. Pruitt’s enterprising brother, in which case she could not but own that he was aptly named. “I daresay I shall have to go for my fittings," she snapped aloud. “However, I perceive no reason to burden you with my presence at Mr. Mercer’s. You can simply take my hat"—she furiously indicated her bonnet—"and one of my gloves and a shoe, and make the selections yourself. Having chosen all my dresses and ball gowns, you shouldn’t find it in the least difficult to pick out a few headdresses and the odd pair of slippers.” “You disapprove the garments I ordered?”
David’s tone seemed one of genuine astonishment, and when Bonnie forced herself to look at him, she found his brow furrowed in confusion. But he had proved himself a splendid actor, she reminded herself, and she once more ground her fingernails into her palms.
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