by Anne Gracie
“You mean if I don’t marry, I will still have money.”
He nodded. “You will never go hungry again.”
The other two girls looked at George in surprise. “Hungry?”
She saw their shocked expressions and laughed. “Don’t look so horrified, aunts-of-mine. It’s not as bad as he makes out. I’m pretty good at shooting rabbits and catching fish, so we never did go really hungry.”
George didn’t realize it, but her casual admission had only underlined the desperation of her former situation.
“I thought you hated hunting,” Lily said.
“I hate hunting for sport—fifty men and a hundred hounds chasing one little fox. It’s beastly. Hunting for food is different. It’s natural.”
“Well, you’ll never need to do that again.” Cal’s face was grim. “And in the meantime, I’ll have a word with Aunt Agatha.”
“She only said it that once,” Emm reminded him. “I don’t think she’ll do it again.” She looked meaningfully at Rose and George. “Unless she’s provoked, of course.”
Cal nodded. He addressed himself to the girls, but Emm knew he was including her as well when he said, “I know Aunt Agatha can be outrageous and unbearably rude at times, but I’d be grateful if you at least tried not to antagonize her. She is one of the leaders of the ton, you know, and has enormous influence. Like it or not, with all of us knowing hardly anyone in London, we’re going to need her help.”
The girls exchanged glances but said nothing more.
After breakfast was over and the girls had gone upstairs to change, Cal said to Emm, “I’m sorry Aunt Agatha is being so difficult. I’d hoped she would help you launch the girls. For some reason I can’t quite understand, she’s a very popular member of the ton.”
“I’ll try to be good,” Emm said. “But if she rips into Lily again—she goes on about her being fat, and honestly, Cal, if you’d seen the poor girl’s face. And she’s not fat.”
“I know. Rose has Aunt Agatha’s naturally slender build, as does George, but Lily is built like Aunt Dottie and has her affectionate nature as well.” He gave her his arm, and they climbed the stairs together.
“It seems so wrong that your aunt Agatha married three times and yet sweet-natured Dottie never married at all,” she mused.
“I know. According to my father, Dottie had a tremendously successful season and had more than a dozen extremely eligible offers.”
“Really? Then why do you think she didn’t marry?”
“No idea. I gather she didn’t much like London, because my grandfather had to rail and storm to get her to do a second and a third season. Which she did, and had even more eligible offers. A duke, a marquis, all sorts of quite brilliant matches were offered her—she was quite a beauty, you know—but she turned them all down and couldn’t wait to get back to Ashendon.”
“And later she moved to Bath?”
He nodded. “And has lived there happily on her own ever since. I know, it seems odd, because she’s not the least bit shy or antisocial, but then Aunt Dottie has always been an original.”
They reached the landing and heard a gust of laughter coming from the girls’ rooms. Cal said ruefully, “I fear Rose might have inherited Aunt Agatha’s pithy way with words too.”
Emm laughed. “She’s quick witted, and very sharp, I agree, but she’s fundamentally a kind girl and, at the moment at least, lacks your aunt’s arrogance.”
* * *
Shortly afterward Cal left for Whitehall to check on developments. Emm and the girls went shopping, piling into the carriage with Hawkins driving. Lady Salter’s criticism of her clothing notwithstanding, Emm urgently needed evening dresses for the events to which she and Cal had been invited.
They visited Salon Hortense first. No sense being prejudiced against the woman because of her number one client.
The salon was austerely elegant, furnished in many shades of gray with gold highlights. There was a deep silver-gray carpet, a large gilt-edged looking glass, some spindly black-and-gilt chairs, a small black marble-topped table with gilt legs, and not much more. Gray silk and velvet curtains were draped across the back of the room.
Several elegant, aristocratic-looking middle-aged ladies loitered, chatting quietly, presumably waiting for someone. They slid Emm and the girls curious, sidelong glances but otherwise pretended not to notice.
A thin assistant dressed in black and white approached them. Emm gave her Lady Salter’s card and asked to speak to Hortense. The woman murmured that she would inquire.
Ten minutes later a brisk, bony Frenchwoman dressed all in black appeared from between the draped curtains. She was holding Lady Salter’s card.
“You wish to speak to me, my lady?”
Emm introduced herself and indicated the girls, who were gathered at the window looking out into the street. She explained that their aunt, Lady Salter, had recommended they visit Hortense with a view to ordering some gowns for the forthcoming season.
Hortense’s deeply plucked brows practically disappeared. “This season? I don’t know such a thing can be done. Hortense, she is the foremost mantua maker in London, you understand. All the ladies come to her, because they know she is the best. The order book is full.” She glanced at the girls, just as Rose turned around.
The dressmaker’s eyes widened. Her gaze fixed greedily on Rose. “Almost full, I meant. On the other hand, Hortense might be able to fit you in. If the young ladies would approach?”
Emm gestured them forward. Hortense gushed over Rose’s beauty, lavishly praising her bearing, her coloring, her complexion. The narrow black eyes gleamed at the sight of George. “Hortense can see the resemblance to Lady Salter in this one—a dark beauty, the perfect foil for your golden beauty.”
Then she turned to Lily, pursed her lips, then gave a very Gallic shrug. “And I am sure we can do something with this little one. Hortense is up to any challenge.”
Lily, whose eyes had been shining with excitement, seemed to droop a little.
“Thank you, madame,” Emm said briskly. “We’ll let you know. Girls?” And she swept them out of the shop, leaving Hortense with her mouth most unfashionably agape.
“But I thought—” Lily began.
“We should visit a number of dressmakers, don’t you agree?” Emm said. “And then choose the ones we like best.”
Rose slipped her arm through Emm’s and squeezed. “I didn’t like skinny old All-Tense at all. Besides, I cannot bear people who refer to themselves in the third person.”
Lily’s brow furrowed worriedly. “But do we know any other dressmakers in London?”
Emm stared at her blankly a moment. Not a single one. Then she recalled the box her beautiful wedding nightgown had come in. “The House of Chance.”
Rose looked as though she didn’t quite believe her. “The House of Chance?”
“Yes,” Emm said triumphantly. “Do you and Lily remember Sally Destry from school?”
Rose laughed. “How could we forget? She became one of Miss Mallard’s famous ‘five countesses.’ Not counting you, of course, Emm.”
“I remember Sally,” Lily said. “She was nice.”
“She certainly was,” Emm said. “And Sally, who is now the Countess of Maldon, patronizes the House of Chance. And that’s good enough for me. She always had excellent taste and I have no doubt she’s become quite dashing and fashionable.”
They climbed into the carriage. “The House of Chance, Hawkins, please,” Emm said. “It’s off Piccadilly, I think.” She hoped.
“What famous five countesses?” George asked, and Lily and Rose explained. Emm was amused to hear that they also finished with “and a partridge in a pear tree.”
Emm leaned back against the leather upholstery and prayed that the House of Chance wasn’t one of those places that specialized in naughty nightwear.
<
br /> In a few short minutes the carriage pulled up in front of an elegant shop with a large picture window. It looked very discreet, with green velvet curtains draped behind the window, a simple white-and-gold painted daisy on the glass and Chance lettered in elegant gold script.
Taking a deep breath, Emm pushed open the door. Inside it was light and airy, with creamy walls and a soft green carpet. There were several large gold-edged looking glasses, and though it wasn’t dissimilar to Salon Hortense, it felt much less oppressive.
A young woman came out to greet them. Emm explained that she’d come on the recommendation of the Countess of Maldon, and wondered whether the House of Chance made evening gowns.
The woman assured her they made day dresses, ball gowns, nightgowns and everything in between, except for gowns for a young lady’s Royal Presentation. “You’ll want to talk to Miss Chance. She does all the designing. I’ll fetch her. Would you like some tea?”
Relieved, Emm agreed that tea would be most welcome, and she and the girls sat down to wait.
In two minutes a small, smartly dressed young woman limped out. “Lady Maldon sent you, did she? That’s good of her. How do you do? I’m Daisy Chance, the proprietor—welcome to my shop. Polly will be back in a minute with some tea. So, ladies, how can I help you?”
To Emm’s surprise the woman had a more than a hint of a Cockney accent. Emm decided she liked it. It was a refreshing change from all those false French ones.
She explained what they wanted. Miss Chance looked at each of the girls in turn. She gave Rose a long thoughtful look. “You’re a few years older than the usual young miss—I reckon something a little different, for you. What’s your style, Lady Rose? Sweetly pretty or bold?”
“Bold,” all four of them answered at once, and Miss Chance laughed. The young woman had returned with a tea tray and Miss Chance said, “Polly, love, fetch out the night sky fabric and the ice blue. And the lavender. This young lady wants to stand out from the crowd a little.” Polly hurried off and Miss Chance pulled out a pad and made a few sketches.
Emm, a little surprised but rather charmed by the odd little woman’s warmth and brisk informality, poured the tea.
Polly came back with an armful of fabrics and a couple of half-finished dresses.
The girls gathered around and examined the fabrics and dresses excitedly. Rose was unable to hide her pleasure.
“That one she calls night sky is gorgeous, Emm,” she whispered. It was a soft, dark azure blue gauze, with tiny sprinkles of glitter dotted through it. Rose draped it against herself. “What do you think?”
It was perfect.
The same thing happened with George. Miss Chance seemed to know instinctively the kind of thing that George would like and seemed quite understanding of George’s awkwardness—it was the first time she’d ever shopped for dresses. But at least she wasn’t sullen and uncooperative about it. The presence and excitement of her youthful aunts had made a difference to her attitude.
Like Hortense, Miss Chance thought George and Rose would contrast and complement each other beautifully, but Emm was most impressed that she didn’t turn a hair when George announced she preferred breeches. She told George not to worry, she’d make her some nice long drawers that would feel just as comfortable as breeches but wouldn’t spoil the line of her dresses.
Now came the real test—Lily.
Emm could feel them all tense up as the woman turned to Lily and examined her the way she had done Rose and George. “Oh, I’m going to have fun with you, Lady Lily,” she said with a grin. “You’re just luscious, you are. Like a ripe peach. Oh, the men are going to be panting after you when I’ve finished with you. I hope that’s what you want.”
Lily blushed rosily and nodded. “Yes, please.”
“What sort of thing do you plan for her?” Emm asked, pleased with the woman’s kind words but not yet convinced it wasn’t empty flattery.
“As I said, Lady Lily has the sort of luscious figure that a lot of men go wild for,” Miss Chance said. “All those curves, I’m going to frame them, not show ’em off vulgarly, but hint at what’s there. Polly,” she called, “bring out the dress we’re making for Mrs. Huntley-Briggs.” She made a quick sketch on her pad. “Yours wouldn’t be exactly like this one, but it’ll give you an idea.” In a few lines, she sketched a lavishly curved woman.
Polly brought out the dress, and Emm could immediately see that it was the sort of thing that would suit Lily perfectly. She looked at Lily. Her eyes were shining.
“Well, girls?” Emm said. “What do you think? Shall we order some dresses from Miss Chance?”
They nodded eagerly, and Miss Chance sent them behind the green curtains with Polly to have their measurements taken. “Now you, Lady Ashendon, would you be wanting anything?”
They discussed Emm’s needs, and Miss Chance said it would be tight, but she could get an evening dress to Emm in the next two days, and another two days later. “But there won’t be time for fittings, mind, with such a rush job.”
“Aren’t you all booked up for the season?” Emm asked, suddenly worried that Miss Chance’s easy acceptance of new customers might indicate a lack of business.
“Lord, yes, the orders are pilin’ up, but we can cope. I got a waitin’ list of skilled seamstresses wantin’ to work for me. When fresh orders come in, and my regular girls can’t manage, I hire more.” She grinned wryly. “I’m the slow cog in this machine, keepin’ up with the designing. But I love it, and I’m goin’ to enjoy dressin’ your girls. Somethin’ special they are, all three of them. Now”—she became businesslike again—“let’s talk about these two dresses for you, Lady Ashendon. I’m thinking green gauze over silver tissue—does that sound like something you’d like?”
It was, and when they finally left the House of Chance their order had grown enormously. The girls were thrilled with everything they’d seen—even George. They all liked Daisy Chance, who, they’d discovered, was actually married with the sweetest little girl who was in the back room with her nursemaid.
And when Miss Chance was measuring Emm up, she’d told her how much she loved the wedding nightgown that Lady Maldon had sent her.
“Oh, that was you—in Bath, wasn’t it?” The little woman grinned. “She said she wanted something special for a favorite teacher who was gettin’ married. Glad you liked it.”
Now, with the carriage headed home, Emm sat back, a little dazed at all they’d ordered from Miss Chance. She hoped she hadn’t made a terrible mistake.
Chapter Twenty
They come together like the Coroner’s Inquest, to sit upon the murdered reputations of the week.
—WILLIAM CONGREVE, THE WAY OF THE WORLD
There was no news at Whitehall. Joe Gimble had made no attempt to communicate with anyone, made no attempt to come forward. A discreet round-the-clock watch was being conducted at the aunt’s house. He hadn’t been sighted there, either.
The women and children were still in custody.
Frustrated, Cal found himself an hour later staring across the road at the house in Whitechapel where Joe Gimble’s aunt by marriage lived.
He waited for an hour, saw nothing suspicious, saw the drunken former sharpshooter, whose bottle of gin was now gone. Again the man saw him and spat. He was a pathetic sight. Cal turned away.
He didn’t know why he’d gone to Whitechapel in the first place. There was obviously nothing he could do. He couldn’t exactly magic Joe Gimble out of thin air.
In any case, according to Gil Radcliffe, Joe Gimble and the Scorpion were no longer Cal’s business.
He was wasting his time to no purpose. Cal decided to visit Aunt Agatha and beard the dragon in her den. Until they’d arrived in London, Cal hadn’t realized Emmaline had never even visited the capital. She would need help launching the girls.
* * *
“You bring me a badly dres
sed nobody of no particular beauty—and no wealth!—a gel who has no aristocratic connections—no connections at all as far as I can see!—and you expect me to launch her and your two pert half sisters as well as Henry’s impossible tomboy—all in this coming season?”
“No, I expect you to help Emm launch the girls—you are their aunt, after all. I hope you will also help my wife find her way in the ton—you know you could if you tried. There’s no one better connected or more fashionable,” he finished, laying it on with a trowel.
She considered his words, pouting a little. “The girls are one thing—of course I will do all I can to assist Rutherfords born. That goes without saying. But this woman you have married—”
“Lady Ashendon,” he interrupted in a hard voice. He was pleased to hear her refer to George as a “Rutherford born,” but he’d had enough of her complaints against Emmaline.
His aunt gave him a baleful look. “I will admit she has a certain raw potential for elegance, if she would take advice from one who knows. But she won’t! She’s stubborn, willful and headstrong—”
“Tautology.”
She held up her lorgnette and withered him through it. “I beg your pardon?”
“Apology accepted, Aunt Agatha,” he said smoothly, ignoring her swelling indignation. “A tautology is when all the words mean the same thing—stubborn, willful, headstrong—two of those words are redundant. There’s no need to list all of them.”
“You, sirrah, are being frivolous!”
“Aunt Agatha, there is no use continuing to rail at me for my choice of wife. What’s done is done—and I am well content.”
She sniffed.
He decided to try a different approach. “Are you saying it is beyond you to assist her in launching the girls?”
There was a short, pithy silence.
“I’m sorry, it was thoughtless of me. I’d forgotten how much you’d aged since I left England. Things must be getting more difficult for you and—”