Giving a Heart of Lace: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 3)

by Arietta Richmond

  She had gone back two days later to see if any of them had sold, and been startled to discover that they all had – and that he would like more, as soon as she could make them. So she had. And now she had used up almost all of the materials she had bought. The money from those favours would, with care, keep them in coal until the weather got a little warmer. But she would need to make more – Mrs Johnson and her friends only had so many dresses in need of work, and there was nothing else to provide an income.

  So she stared into the flames and worried. She worried about what sort of favours she should make next – what holidays or events might there be, that would encourage people to buy favours for their mistresses or for the girls that they courted?

  And even more, she worried about where she would get some more suitable materials, without having to use money that they would need for food. Whatever else happened, she would not see her mother starve, after all that they had been through. She dreamed of the sort of shop that she used to buy her ribbons and gloves and bonnets from, before, when she was a Lady, when she had money and no idea of what it was to be poor, or reviled. Oh to have even a tiny bit of the sort of ribbons and lace that could be bought in such a shop!

  As her eyes drifted shut in the quiet room, a tiny thought floated through her mind, just before sleep took her:- ‘where did those shops get their stock from?’

  ~~~~~

  For Raphael, Christmas was also strange – there was the joy of actually being there to celebrate it with his mother, sister, and brother, yet the sadness of his father’s empty chair. He missed his father with an intensity that had caught him off guard – and he deeply regretted that war had taken him away, when the business had grown so astoundingly in his father’s talented care. There was so much that he might have learnt, had he been at his father’s side.

  There was also the truly odd feeling of not even knowing exactly where the other Hounds were. After more than four years together at war, their tight knit band of specialists, called ‘His Majesty’s Hounds’ by most of the rest of their troops, for their uncanny ability to find and deal with French spies, and to predict French troop movements, they had become almost more family than his family.

  Christmas without them seemed somehow wrong, somehow a betrayal of the bond between them.

  He felt cast adrift, trying to be a serious merchant, running what had become a vast empire of trade, yet totally unsure of his own place in the world, now that he had to deal with the rules of society. Over the last few weeks, since the day when he had realised just how bored he was, he had repeatedly thought about his wish to travel – and the complete impossibility of doing so. And the puzzle that he had set himself that day, of finding something new to sell, some new way to leverage what he had, still nagged at him. He had no answer. He would find one yet.

  “Raphael’s not listening, Mother. I don’t think he heard any of what I just said!” Isabella’s voice was somewhere between teasing and petulant, for, after so long of not having Raphael there, she could not truly be angry with him.

  Raphael realised, with a start, that he had, indeed been wool-gathering – had been drifting off into his puzzle, oblivious to the conversation around him.

  “I wasn’t completely ignoring you, Bella. I do know that you were talking about dresses and Balls, and eligible young men, and bemoaning the fact that we are not of the aristocracy, so that you will not be invited to any of the truly fashionable events.” The fact that he could not remember anything of exactly what she had said did not prevent his summary from being accurate. She turned her huge dark eyes upon him and proceeded to look like a hurt puppy.

  “Well, it isn’t fair! We can afford dresses and jewellery just as beautiful as theirs – why should not being titled matter?”

  His sister had an alarmingly revolutionary attitude to some things, he thought with chagrin. Whilst he could rather sympathise with her sentiment, that attitude could make her life somewhat difficult, given the oh so rigid rules of society.

  Gabriel was uninterested in his sister’s complaints – at 16, he was just growing into himself, with the shape of the handsome man just beginning to emerge from the boy. He was, however, most interested in doing justice to the remarkable Christmas Feast that their chef had produced. Raphael watched him with affection, and prayed that Gabriel need never go to war, need never see any of the things that he had seen, need never know the terrible things that men could do to each other. He hoped that Gabriel would join him in running the business – but that was at least two years off, for he would have the best education possible before then.

  Isabella was speaking again, and he had missed part of the conversation… again.

  “…quite beautiful – so intricately worked – a little heart, with ribbon and lace and little bells and holly berries on it. It must mean that he truly cares for me, mustn’t it, mother?”

  What on earth was she talking about? Raphael wondered, as the conversation continued.

  “Now my dear, perhaps he does have a tendre for you… or perhaps he simply wishes to outdo your other admirers…” Their mother’s voice was filled with affection and amusement and she watched her daughter consider that comment.

  “No, no, he must really care. You don’t understand – I will have to show you!”

  Completely ignoring any sort of ladylike behaviour, Isabella rose and ran from the room, to return a few minutes later, with something cradled in her hands.

  “You see?” She deposited it on the table for them to examine.

  Raphael, curious, scooped it up. It was a piece of heavy, parchment like paper, folded in two so that a message could be written inside, and decorated on the outside with lace, ribbon and gems (which were almost certainly paste), with tiny paste holly berries in a cluster, and two even smaller dangling bells. The whole thing was cut to a heart shape. It was, he had to agree, charming. He had seen things like this before, on the occasion of Saint Valentine’s Day, and at other times attached to bouquets and gifts. This was both more elaborate and, strangely, more elegant than any he had seen before.

  Just as he went to open it, and see just what message had been written for Bella, she snatched it from his grasp.

  “Oh no – that message is for me, it’s private. You can’t read it!”

  “As you wish.” Raphael made great show of turning away and becoming uninterested, which only made Isabella make a little huff of expelled breath in exasperation. Tilting her nose up, she turned away.

  “I think I shall remove myself to the parlour.” He watched her leave the room with a fond smile. But the image of that exquisitely wrought little piece of frivolity stuck in his mind. Why did it seem significant?

  Within a few days, the pristine white snow of Christmas morning had turned to half melted muddy piles of icy slush on London’s busy streets. People ventured on their way with care, in boots or with pattens on their feet if they could afford it. Serafine set out that morning in her best remaining winter dress, with the pelisse that was still mostly respectable over it. She had woken from her nap on Christmas Day with the memory of that passing thought. And now she felt compelled to investigate – where did the shops that sold pretty trifles to the nobility buy their goods?

  She went back towards the more fashionable parts of the city, back towards her past… She sought out the shops that were close to, but not on, the most fashionable streets. Shops that would have been beneath her… before… And therefore, shops where she would not be recognised. She could not bear to face the cut direct from those she had once called friends – she would not allow herself to risk that again.

  At least she must have managed to look like a Lady should, for a scruffy crossing sweeper leapt out to sweep the snow and detritus from her path as she crossed the street. She tossed him the smallest coin she had – she could ill afford to, yet she would not see anyone starve – not now that she knew the feel of true hunger herself. She received a few curious looks – a young gentlewoman out without a maid beside he
r - but she ignored them. Just ahead was exactly the sort of shop she was seeking.

  Inside, the shop was small, yet full of many beautiful things. An older woman, well dressed, yet in garments some years out of fashion, was seated behind a small counter. She rose as Serafine entered.

  “Good day to you, my Lady, what may I help you with today?”

  Serafine almost laughed – it was so long since anyone had called her ‘my Lady’ that it almost sounded wrong. She looked around, and wandered through the shop, drawn from display to display, with so many beautiful items to explore.

  “I am not sure – I would like to simply look for a little – to see what appeals to me most.”

  “Certainly, my Lady, do ask me if you wish to know about anything, or see anything else.” The woman sat again, quietly waiting, and watched her every move.

  In the back corner of the shop, jumbled in a little basket on a shelf, she found a collection of scraps of lace, short pieces of ribbon, broken pieces of paste jewellery, little feathers, and other interesting things. She took it to the counter.

  The old woman looked at her in surprise, but waited for her to speak.

  “This basket of things – how much? I know it may seem strange, but I like to make small things, for my friend’s children’s dolls, and other little things – all of these pieces are interesting, and I can use tiny amounts like this.”

  The woman smiled at her, seeming to find the explanation reasonable – for many ladies of the nobility amused themselves with charitable works and most embroidered or sewed small trifles. Waiting for the answer, Serafine ran her fingers through the tangle of items – some pieces were unusual – in colour or texture, or in the shape of small silver or carved stone beads.

  “Where do these come from?” She hoped that her question sounded casual enough.

  The woman looked at her again, and named a price for the little basket – a remarkably reasonable price, considering the location of the shop. As Serafine produced the money to pay, the woman went on, finally getting to the answer that Serafine really wanted.

  “Where do they come from? Things come from all over the world, from India and beyond – China and the East Indies, from Africa, from many places – sometimes materials are brought here, and made into things here, sometimes they are imported complete. The merchant companies get very wealthy finding exotic trinkets to keep the ton happy. I buy things from only the better importers – I like to sell quality to the quality!” She gave a small laugh at her own words, and Serafine joined her.

  “I’ve never thought about it before, but when I saw all of these things, and touched them, I couldn’t help but wonder.” She smiled at the woman, hoping that she might say more.

  “You’d be a rare one to think about it. Most of the young Ladies I sell pretty things to don’t care where they come from. There’re some good merchants now. Now that the war’s over, more goods can get here, shipping’s safer, they tell me. The good ones even charge a bit less, now there’s less risk in their business. For those who’ve got a taste for the exotic or the unusual, and good quality, I buy from Morton Empire Imports. That’s a sad tale though. Old Mr Morton, God rest his soul, the poor man died before his son got home from war – such a sorry thing!”

  It seemed that Serafine had unleashed a flood of words. Perhaps the woman rarely had anyone to talk to – anyone who had the slightest interest in her business or her life, that is.

  “There’s other companies, but Morton is the best of the bunch – never had a faulty shipment from them, not once!”

  After letting the woman ramble on for another twenty minutes, Serafine finally extracted herself from the shop, her purchases in hand, and took herself home. Now she not only had some more materials to work with, but a name. What if she could buy materials direct from the importer? Surely that would be cheaper, or at least better quality for the same amount of money. She would have to find out where this Morton Empire Imports had its office.

  ~~~~~

  A few days later, when Serafine delivered the next batch of favours to Mr Tanner’s shop, he greeted her with great enthusiasm.

  “Good day to you Miss, I do hope that you’ve got some more of your excellent work for me?”

  That was more flattery than usual from him – she wondered why. She didn’t have to wonder long – he could hardly contain himself.

  “Those last few – the Christmas heart ones – I sold the smallest of them to young Jemmy – works as a groom at the Arbuthnot place – they’re the second wealthiest merchants around, don’t you know. You’ll never guess what happened next! Mr Arbuthnot – Porter his name is, he’s the son of the house – saw it, and he liked it so much he actually came here, to buy one for the girl he’s sweet on. Now that’s the sort of customer I like! He bought the biggest one – that nice one with the little bells - didn’t even blink at the price.”

  Mr Tanner was so excited at the idea of such a wealthy customer that he was almost rubbing his hands together with glee.

  “The wealthy merchants’ sons, they’re always trying to outdo one another – all except Mr Morton that is – he has no need to outdo anyone, he’s the wealthiest of the lot. If any of the others hear of this, they’ll likely come looking to buy something similar – so I hope you’ve got some quality work for me.”

  Silently, Serafine placed her basket on the counter, and lifted out her latest work.

  There were 5 favours, each unique, some heart shaped, some not, made using a mixture of ordinary ribbon and lace, and some of the unusual bits and pieces she’d bought from the fashionable shop.

  “I think that these would please the most exacting customer. I will have to ask you for a slightly higher price for these, Mr Tanner – for the materials are a bit more expensive – but if you want to tempt the wealthy, the items have to be of a suitable quality.”

  She waited, outwardly looking calm, serene, but inwardly terrified that he would refuse to pay extra. He looked closely at the favours, obviously wanting them, unconsciously narrowing his eyes in that characteristic expression of avarice. Eventually he looked up.

  “I do agree Miss, things need to be obvious quality to sell to the better class of customer. I like these – I’ll give you a better price.”

  Serafine nearly sagged from relief. And so the haggling commenced – for Mr Tanner couldn’t agree to anything without some haggling. When they were done, Serafine was happy, for she had secured his agreement to a standard price twenty percent higher than that which he had paid for her previous work. Mr Tanner looked happy too – so she suspected that she could have pushed him for more, and succeeded. But haggling was exhausting – at least they were both happy with this outcome.

  Now that she could stop worrying about the money, something of what he had said earlier came back to Serafine.

  Surely that richest merchant family he had mentioned – Morton wasn’t it? Surely she’d heard that name recently? Then it came to her, a clear little bubble of memory in her mind. The old woman in the other shop – she’d said she bought from Morton Empire Imports – it had to be owned by the family Mr Tanner spoke of, for the chances of two wealthy merchant families of the same name were low. Taking a deep breath, she spoke as casually as she could.

  “This Mr Morton you mentioned – the wealthiest merchant? What does his business do, that they are so wealthy?”

  Mr Tanner was always happy to show off his knowledge of everyone and everything, and especially when he could make himself look important by association. He puffed his chest up with that supposed importance, and launched into a long, gossipy explanation.

  By the time he was done, Serafine knew all about the last two generations of Mortons, about how sad it was that the old man had died before his son Raphael returned from the war, how the son was a war hero, even if he didn’t speak of it, how the mother was Italian, and her three children all strikingly good looking as a result, how young Mr Arbuthnot was sweet on Miss Isabella Morton, but Mr Tanner doubted he
stood a real chance there, and she had also been treated to what seemed an exhaustive list of the sort of products that the firm imported, from the far reaches of the empire and beyond.

  Her face and neck were aching from nodding and smiling as he talked and Serafine thought, with wry amusement, that she seemed to have developed rather a talent for gossiping with shopkeepers.

  Taking advantage of a break in his conversation, she thanked him, and, escaped into the cold afternoon.

  She was now absolutely certain that she needed to seek out the offices of Morton Empire Imports as soon as possible.

  Raphael rode through the streets, observing as the morning bustle gave way to quiet, the closer he came to Hyde Park. The ton did not rise early, unlike the merchants, even the wealthy merchants, who lived nearer his home. He felt the need to let his horse stretch out and shed its excess energy, to feel the wind on his face, to be moving.

  His head was full of cobwebs and an ache that came from imbibing a little too much, yet he was happy – happier than he had been for many weeks. The previous evening he had, for the first time since their return, spent time with the rest of the Hounds, who were, with the start of the Season approaching, all in town. It had been wonderful – not just to see them, to feel at home again, in a way that he had deeply missed, but also because it had gone a long way to assuaging his fear of losing them.

  He was still very cynical about their ability to continue to associate with him, as, should the ton become aware of it, they would most certainly show their disapproval pointedly.

  But for now, all was well. He reached the park, and gave Foxfire his head. The rush of fresh air blew the last of the effects of the drink away, and the day was beautiful as the soft winter sun lit the frosted grass and trees in a sparkling glitter.