Dressed to Kiss

by Madeline Hunter, Caroline Linden, Megan Frampton, Myretta Robens

  —Aglaea’s Cabinet

  As Anthea read, Delyth hovered over her shoulder reading along with her. Without removing her eyes from the paper, Anthea waved her hand. “Stop that.” But Delyth was too excited. She backed off a bit and danced on her toes as she waited for her friend to finish.

  When Anthea was done reading, she folded the paper and handed it back to Delyth. “Bringing this home was a wise decision.”

  “Should I show this to Felicity or will she think it’s a bad thing?”

  Anthea shook her head. “Are you demented?”

  Delyth grinned. “Might be,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

  “You cannot show this to Miss Dawkins. If she hasn’t seen it on her own, you might get to keep your position at Madame Follette’s.”

  Delyth cocked an eyebrow at her friend. “Nonsense. Look at this.” She opened the paper and waved it in front of her friend’s face. “She says the gown was of ‘elegant and impeccable construction’ and the colors were ‘dazzling.’”

  Anthea looked as though she was trying not to roll her eyes. “Not,” she said, “in a good way.” She hesitated a moment and then gave her friend a puzzled look. “What, precisely did this dress look like?”

  Delyth grinned again. “It was elegant and of impeccable construction and the colors were dazzling.”

  “Let’s talk about the colors,” Anthea said, “as they seem to be the real issue here. What colors did you use?”

  “Oh, they were wonderful: a deep crimson with a violet over-skirt, yellow piping, and just a hint of the palest green lace.”

  Anthea closed her eyes. “Truly? You had a customer who wore that?”

  “Of course. Lady Marjoribanks loved it. In fact, she chose most of the fabric.” Delyth frowned. “You’re really upset about this, aren’t you?”

  “And so should you be,” Anthea said. “The colors…” Her voice trailed off.

  “The colors would look wonderful from the back of the house,” Delyth said.

  “Quite likely, but your customer was not on stage. She was in an assembly room.”

  “Whatever you may say,” Delyth said, still unable to suppress her smile, “my gown was mentioned in ‘Aglaea’s Cabinet.’”

  Anthea gave a long-suffering sigh. “But not in a good way.”

  Anthea went back to work and Delyth returned to dithering. Although she tried to convince herself that she didn’t care what Felicity thought of the article, she really did. Leaving Whitchurch against her father’s wishes had made it imperative that she earn her own living, which she had done quite handsomely, thanks to Anthea and the Thalia, thank you very much. But she knew that costume design was not quite as respectable as where she was now and she could not—would not—return to her father as less than a success in proper society. If she returned at all, that is. Displeasing Felicity might assure that she never had another opportunity to step out of the back room. But she did love color so and Lady Marjoribanks was quite happy with her gown.

  Not for the first time, Delyth wondered if Felicity Dawkins regretted her decision to bring an untried costume designer out of the theater and into her establishment. Granted, Felicity had praised her ability with a needle and seemed to enjoy her unorthodox use of color. Not that Felicity wasn’t a perfectly lovely person and really quite delightful to work for. It’s just that Felicity currently seemed so distracted. Felicity had approved Lady Marjoribanks’s gown before it left the shop, but what if she hadn’t really paid attention to it? What if she were surprised and upset by the bad notice? Delyth had loved that gown to distraction (and so had Lady M). She could barely conceive that it might be the agent of her downfall.

  “This seems unnecessarily rude.”

  Simon, who was busy at his desk in the library of the house he shared with his sister, looked up. “What’s that, dearest?”

  “This.” Louisa Merrithew waved her copy of Friday’s Town Gazette. “The paragraph about Lady M.”

  “That wasn’t rude,” Simon said. “You were there. She did look like an escapee from Astley’s.”

  Louisa winced. “She looked a bit … flamboyant. But if you looked closely—looked past the colors—the gown was an elegant and original design, as you may have said. Whoever made it is new in town and quite promising.”

  “Promising what?” Simon put down his pen. “The only thing that dress promised was a headache. I cannot credit that a reputable dressmaker would have let her go out in public dressed like that. What was she thinking?”

  “She has a wonderful hand with draping and construction,” Louisa said. “You have to find her and help her.”

  Simon pushed away from the desk and moved to sit opposite his sister. “I should find her and denounce her. That travesty was not an accident. I should find her and run her out of London. Surely you are jesting.”

  “Surely I am not,” Louisa said. “I think we should call on Lady Marjoribanks.”

  Simon stood and stirred the fire. “We don’t know her very well,” he said, turning to face his sister.

  “She was a friend of Mama’s. She would appreciate our calling and we could perhaps give her a little push while we are there.” Louisa hesitated and then added, “By ‘we’ I, of course, mean you.” She fluttered her lashes and grinned at her brother.

  “Louisa…” Simon’s voice held a warning.

  “Good,” Louisa said, getting up and going to the desk. “I’ll send her a note right away.”

  As it turned out, Lady Marjoribanks was, indeed, happy to see the late Viscountess Fulbeck’s children and even happier to discuss clothing, one of her most passionate interests. Simon thought that obsession would be a bit more acceptable if the woman could tell one color from another. She obviously couldn’t. The one subdued element in the room turned out to be Lady M’s gray cat masquerading as a cushion.

  After Simon apologized for sitting on the ill-tempered beast, he devoted himself to an inventory of the rest of the room. He squinted slightly as he took it all in, barely lending an ear as Lady M and Louisa chatted merrily about who was wearing what and which mantua-maker was coming into fashion. Normally, he would have been more than interested in such a discussion. Everything was fodder for “Aglaea’s Cabinet.” But examining the vibrant pink figured draperies against the shocking green damask on the wall made him think that anything Lady Marjoribanks had to say about fashion must be taken with a rather large grain of salt.

  It was obvious to Simon that Lady M’s most recent dressmaker had taken advantage of the fact that the peeress could not distinguish colors and had made the lady a laughingstock. He could only assume that this had been done with malice and he was currently finding it hard to forgive whoever that person was.

  “Don’t you agree, Simon?”

  Simon looked up from his reverie, blinking against the sunlight glinting off the competing colors in the room.

  Louisa, as usual, recognized his predicament. “Don’t you agree that we should try her new dressmaker? She said she’d be happy to give us her direction.”

  Well then, that’s taken care of, Simon thought. Thank goodness for Louisa. He turned to their hostess. “I would love to meet this person. And I’m sure Louisa would not mind if I added to her wardrobe.”

  Delyth returned to Vine Street the next morning with the Gazette tucked under her arm. Regardless of Anthea’s pessimistic view of Felicity’s potential response to “Aglaea’s Cabinet,” Delyth didn’t feel that it was quite right to hide it from her. Especially since this copy was actually Felicity’s. She stuck her head in the workroom and said good morning to Selina, but saw no sign of Felicity. Leaving her shawl at her worktable and taking the Gazette with her, Delyth went back through the front of the shop and knocked on the door to the small office where Felicity and her brother conducted the business.

  “Come in.” Well, that wasn’t Felicity’s voice, but Delyth cracked open the door and peered in.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Dawkins. I’m looking for your sister.”
>
  Henry Dawkins looked up from the ledger he was working on and removed his glasses. “Not here,” he said, placing the glasses on the desk. “She should be back after noon. May I help you, Miss Owen?”

  Delyth stepped just inside the office door and hesitated. Should she speak to Mr. Dawkins? He was a huge and frightening-looking presence in the shop, but he always seemed kind when he spoke to any of his sister’s workers. Yes, she decided, why not?

  “Well…” she began, taking the Gazette from behind her back and holding it in both hands. “It’s just that, well, the Town Gazette—that is, Miss Felicity’s Town Gazette arrived in the shop yesterday.”

  Henry Dawkins put his glasses back on and peered at Delyth as if trying to read her mind. “And?” he prompted.

  “And … well … I borrowed it and took it home before she saw it.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “That’s not a problem. I see you’ve brought it back.”

  Delyth fidgeted with the paper, folding it into squares of diminishing size. “That’s not the problem,” she said and began unfolding the paper. When it was once again its normal size, she handed it to Mr. Dawkins and pointed to “Aglaea’s Cabinet.” “Here,” she said. “See what it says.”

  Henry Dawkins removed his glasses again, polished them, and put them back on before taking up the paper.

  “Hmmm. I see where you might be uneasy, Miss Owen.” He put the paper to one side and looked up at Delyth.

  She repressed an urge to take several steps back. “What should I do? I love my job here. I don’t want Miss Felicity to send me away. I love designing clothes. I can’t help it if I love color. Lady Marjoribanks adored her dress. How can that be a bad thing? I don’t want to go back to the theater.”

  “Miss Owen!” Mr. Dawkins said. “Take a breath.”

  “Oh.” Realizing that she had been on verge of having a fit of hysterics in front of this man she didn’t know very well, Delyth deflated. “Oh, forgive me,” she said. “It’s only that…”

  “Yes, I know,” he said. “It’s only that you don’t want to lose your job.”

  “Yes,” Delyth said. “That.”

  “Miss Owen, you must calm yourself. This is one opinion of one gown by one person. My sister is not so unreasonable as to fire a talented employee over something so singular.”

  “But Aglaea, whoever she is, is very influential.”

  “Possibly so,” Dawkins said, pulling his ledger closer to him. “But you must trust Felicity to do the right thing.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Delyth bobbed a curtsy and backed out of the office, wondering what right thing Felicity would do. It was too late now. Mr. Dawkins had the paper and all Delyth could do was go back to work and hope for the best.

  Chapter Two

  Delyth threw herself into her work. Bent over her stitching, she still managed to expend a great deal of energy trying to convince herself that Felicity would not sack her for Lady M’s gown and the awful mention in the Town Gazette. In fact, she was still trying to understand why Aglaea, whoever she might be, didn’t like the gown. It was colorful and gorgeous. The color, she realized, was the problem. But Lady Marjoribanks had not demurred and Felicity let it leave the shop. She had seen it, hadn’t she? Of course, she must have. She saw everything.

  Felicity was absent from the shop today, as she had been since the Gazette came out. The shop owner had seemed distracted the last time she was in Vine Street and Delyth could only hope that she wasn’t the cause. She shook her head and pushed a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. She hadn’t been this nervous since she boarded the coach for London without her father’s permission or, for that matter, knowledge. She hoped whatever happened didn’t lead to a return trip.

  One of Felicity’s apprentices stuck her head into the workroom. “Miss,” she said so softly that she had to clear her throat and say it again before Delyth looked up.

  Delyth looked around. She was the only person in the room at the moment, so she must be the person Sally was talking to. “Yes?”

  “Um, there’s some people to see Miss Felicity, and no one’s here right now.”

  “Not even Mr. Dawkins?” she asked.

  “No, Miss. No one.”

  Deciding not to take umbrage over being designated no one for the second time, Delyth nodded. “Would you like me to talk to them?”

  “Oh yes, please, Miss. If you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Not at all.” Delyth put her sewing aside and, smoothing her hair off her face, made for the front of the shop.

  Standing by the window, examining a display gown were two of the most extraordinarily beautiful people she had ever seen. The young woman had unfashionably auburn hair, but that did not detract from her handsomeness. To Delyth, she was elegance and grace personified, her face was a classic oval and her brilliant green eyes were set in skin of purest cream. She could not have been more lovely. And she could not have been dressed more fashionably. What was she doing in Vine Street when she so obviously patronized Bond Street with the rest of the ton?

  But, for all that, Delyth’s gaze kept returning to the gentleman beside her. He was, perhaps, not as classically handsome as the lady, but—oh my—he took her breath away. Tall, lean, dark blond hair, eyes like tempered steel. He wore a solemn expression on a face that looked like it habitually smiled. The fact that he was looking particularly displeased at the moment did nothing to dim his attraction in Delyth’s eyes. She had a sudden urge to do whatever it took to make him happy. Several ideas about how to do that very thing sprang, unbidden, to her mind and she blushed.

  This was the first time she had greeted customers (if that’s what they were) without someone else from the shop at her side and she was a bit hesitant.

  She straightened her shoulders, stepped forward, and curtsied. “May I be of assistance?”

  Both turned toward her. The young lady smiled, but the gentleman maintained his severe expression. That couldn’t be good. Delyth concentrated on the woman.

  “How may I help you, my lady?”

  “It’s ‘Miss,’” the lady said. “Miss Merrithew.”

  “Miss Merrithew.” Delyth dropped another curtsy.

  “We’re here to see Madame Follette,” the gentleman said, moving a half step in front of Miss Merrithew.

  “Sir?” Delyth wondered why he wouldn’t let that perfectly nice lady speak for herself.

  “This is my brother,” Miss Merrithew said. “Simon Merrithew.”

  Delyth curtsied again, aware that she probably looked like a robin, bobbing up and down in front of these people. These gentle-people, she corrected herself.

  “You must mean Miss Dawkins. Miss Felicity Dawkins. She is not in today, but perhaps I may help?”

  “My sister needs a new gown.” Mr. Merrithew gave Delyth a piercing look. “Lady Marjoribanks spoke very highly of a Miss Owen who made a gown for her.”

  Delyth blinked in surprise and felt her face heat. “Did she?” she asked. “That was very kind of her. I’m Delyth Owen.”

  “Hmmm,” Mr. Merrithew looked less pleased than Lady M purported to be.

  “What sort of gown does Miss Merrithew require?” Delyth tried not to shiver. She didn’t think that someone who had had the audacity to take a coach from Pembrokeshire to London and then go to work in a theater should be quite this nervous meeting two people of fashion. She stilled hands that had been twisting the fabric of her skirt into a mass of wrinkles and waited for an answer, which seemed to take an excessive amount of time in coming.

  Miss Merrithew glanced at her brother, who had obviously taken over this negotiation. “Let’s start with something for assemblies,” he said. “And if that is satisfactory, we will want a gown for the coronation.”

  Delyth gasped. “The coronation?” She was afraid that her voice came out as a squeak.

  “Just so,” Mr. Merrithew said, looking quite pleased with himself.

  Delyth’s heart began to pound. If she could procure a commission for a coron
ation gown, Felicity would never even think of letting her go. “Very well, Mr. Merrithew,” she said, hoping that she sounded businesslike rather than breathless. “If Miss Merrithew would step into our sitting room, we can begin discussing fabric and design.”

  Delyth started toward the room in which the dressmakers always met with their customers, but was brought up short when Mr. Merrithew cleared his throat. She turned to find that he had not moved from his position by the window.

  “Sir?” It hadn’t taken long for Delyth to understand who her real client was.

  “We are accustomed to having our dressmakers attend us at our home,” Mr. Merrithew said, examining his cuffs rather than looking at Delyth.

  Delyth could not but notice that his sister sent him a puzzled look at this pronouncement, which he ignored. “Indeed? I’d be happy to do so, but I must have Miss Dawkins’s approval.”

  “Naturally.” Mr. Merrithew nodded. “We will expect you tomorrow at one o’clock. Here is our direction.” He handed a card to Delyth, took his sister’s arm and walked out of shop, leaving Delyth staring down at the card, feeling as though she’d been caught up in a very fashionable whirlwind.

  Simon marched his sputtering sister down the street and shoveled her into their town coach. Only once they were underway did he glance at Louisa.

  “We are accustomed to having dressmakers at our home?” she asked. “When did we become so high in the instep?”

  Simon shrugged.

  Louisa leaned forward and peered into her brother’s face. “What was that all about?”

  “I merely felt it would suit us better to have Miss Owen at Portman Square.”

  “Really?” Louisa said. “And why is that?”

  Why was that? Simon wasn’t exactly sure. When he’d started out today, he'd thought it would be easier to assess Miss Owen’s motives in dressing her clients more easily away from the influence of her fellow dressmakers. But now, his mind kept rehearsing his first view of the notorious Miss Owen. She was a surprise. He had pictured an older woman, bitter over her fate dressing those more fortunate than she was, determined to bring down a few doyennes before retiring into solitary misanthropy. He had not expected a woman with the face of an impish angel, a cultivated, appealingly musical voice, and a disarming manner. Simon straightened his shoulders. The fact that she was attractive did not mean that he was wrong about her character. He would not let himself be distracted from his mission.