by Madeline Hunter, Caroline Linden, Megan Frampton, Myretta Robens
His mission. He had not shared his plan to unmask a miscreant with Louisa, judging, probably correctly, that his kindhearted sister would not approve of his ploy. Moreover, she would probably be surprised that her brother was being so devious. It wasn’t something he would normally do and he had not taken more than a moment to really examine his motives. Unfortunately, after standing in the dressmaker’s front room, talking to Miss Owen, he had had a hard time remembering why he was so determined to do this. However, if he was to follow through, he supposed he would have to be frank with Louisa.
“I want to see what impels her,” he said, gazing out of the carriage window so that he wouldn’t have to meet Louisa’s eyes.
“What drives her?” Louisa sounded surprised. “That seems quite obvious. She wants to make beautiful gowns.”
“Indeed?” Simon asked, glancing at his sister. “Then why do you suppose she made that atrocity Lady M wore to Almack’s?”
“Are we trying to trap her? To catch her in some sort of subterfuge?” Louisa sounded indignant. “I thought we agreed that she needed tutelage and that this would be our opportunity to help her. I’m not at all sure I want to participate in a deception. Miss Owen seemed like such a nice person.”
“Do you think so?” Simon returned his gaze to the scene passing outside the carriage window, fighting the inclination to agree with his sister. Meeting Miss Owen had made Simon lean toward softening his opinion. Delyth Owen was younger than he expected and seemed artless and candid. He had a hard time assigning the splenetic plot he had imagined to a person with such a pleasing look and manner. But he wasn’t quite ready to give it up. “It’s hard to tell on such short acquaintance, don’t you agree?”
Louisa hummed. “We’ll see,” she said. “But I will not lie to Miss Owen regardless of what you may wish.”
Simon gave her a faint smile. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” he said.
Delyth went back to her sewing, but was too excited to accomplish very much. Every time she heard a sound on the street, she jumped up to look out the window. Selina joined her soon after the Merrithews left and it didn’t take long for her to become impatient with Delyth’s fidgeting. Determined to avoid annoying her fellow dressmaker as much as she could, Delyth moved her work space as close to the window as she could get and contented herself with glancing out every ten seconds. She was not accomplishing any work, but she wasn’t disturbing Selina, who had ceased making exasperated tsking sounds.
Finally, a carriage pulled up in front of the shop, and Delyth rushed to the front door to greet Felicity.
Felicity smiled at Delyth and headed right for her office, pulling off her gloves and shrugging out of her pelisse as she walked through the shop. She opened the office door, hung up her things, and turned to Delyth, who had trotted after her.
“Good afternoon, Delyth,” she said. “Is there a problem?”
“Oh no.” Delyth bounced on the balls of her feet. “At least, I hope not,” she added.
Felicity waited while Delyth gathered herself and then waved to a chair. “Please sit. You are wearing me out and I’m already tired.”
Delyth sat and sprang back to her feet almost immediately. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t sit still.”
“Very well.” Felicity raised an eyebrow. “What must you tell me that is so important?”
Delyth took a deep breath. She hadn’t considered what she would say to Felicity and she was too excited to frame a coherent sentence.
“Good idea,” Felicity said. “Take another breath.”
Delyth followed her advice and eventually managed to tell the story of the Merrithews’ visit and the possibility of a coronation commission in a manner that the shop owner seemed to understand.
“That’s excellent, Delyth,” Felicity said when Delyth had finally managed to communicate the gist of her meeting. “You have a possible coronation commission, if I understand your, uh, monologue.”
“Yes.” Delyth nodded vigorously. “But Mr. Merrithew insists that I do the consultation and fittings and, for all I know, sewing at their home.”
“Indeed?” Felicity seemed to consider that for a moment. “Well, that is not entirely unheard of. Although it’s usually done for the more lofty aristocrats.” She hesitated another moment. “Merrithew, did you say?”
“Yes.” Delyth held her breath.
“I believe that Miss and Mr. Merrithew are the children of the late Viscountess Fulbeck,” Felicity said. “She was quite the leading light in London fashion until her unfortunate carriage accident.”
Delyth waited, tense from the back of her neck to the tips of her toes.
Felicity sat heavily behind her desk, pulled some papers toward her and then looked up. “Yes,” she said. “You may go. In fact, you should go. And good luck to you.”
As Delyth left the room, she thought she heard her employer murmur, “Good luck to us all.”
Chapter Three
Delyth had never been in Portman Square and was mightily impressed by the grandeur of the homes and the lovely park at its center, but she was not particularly charmed by the park’s locked gate. She climbed out of the hackney that Felicity had insisted she take and turned to retrieve her swatches, illustrations, and sketching supplies. She supposed she would be doing the sewing back at the shop, but she wasn’t sure. Time would tell.
Delyth glanced over her shoulder in time to see the hackney driver’s despairing shrug as she climbed the steps to the front entrance. She sensed some disapproval about delivering her to the front door when they pulled into Portman Square. She had prevailed, but she could see that the driver still thought she was setting herself above her station. Perhaps she was, but she had been invited here and she intended to act like a guest until someone told her otherwise.
A rather imposing personage answered her knock and allowed her to enter without so much as a raised eyebrow. There, she thought, wishing the hackney driver had been there to see her entrance. I am a guest.
“Miss Owen to see Miss Merrithew,” she said. “I’m expected,” she added, thinking that might be a prudent addendum.
“Yes, Miss,” the personage said. “This way, please.”
And so she found herself in a sunny drawing room being greeted by an equally sunny Miss Merrithew and her more cloudy brother. A footman took her valise and stood in place. “I see you’ve come prepared.” Louisa Merrithew stepped forward and motioned to the footman. “Please take Miss Owen’s things. She won’t be needing them for a while.”
Delyth was puzzled until Louisa said, “Your coat…”
“Of course.” Delyth slid out of her pelisse, pulled off her gloves and bonnet and handed everything to the footman, who bowed and departed. She stood where she was, wondering what was next.
“Let us have some refreshment and discuss how we’ll proceed,” Louisa said.
Miss Merrithew gestured toward a chair. Before seating herself, Delyth glanced up at the glowering brother. If he didn’t like her, which it seemed he didn’t, what was he doing here? He obviously didn’t trust her, but didn’t he trust his sister? Suppressing a sigh, Delyth sat and folded her hands in her lap.
Louisa poured and Mr. Merrithew unbent enough to sit and accept a cup of tea. He still hadn’t spoken.
Delyth had been trained to allow the customer to broach the initial discussion. She supposed that the Merrithews’ visit to Madame Follette’s had constituted that first discussion and she was prepared to take the lead now. However, she had also been raised in a gentleman’s home and knew that one did not plunge into business over tea. “You have a lovely home,” she said by way of breaking the silence.
She saw Mr. Merrithew raise an eyebrow, the first movement his face had made since she entered the room. She was, however, at a loss to interpret it. She decided to let it go. Mr. Merrithew had obviously taken her into dislike for some reason she couldn’t fathom. Perhaps he didn’t like the Welsh. Well, it was too late to do anything abou
t that.
When she was with the theater, Delyth had asked Anthea to help her sound more like the ladies she hoped to have as customers one day. Anthea had laughed at her and told her that most ladies would kill to have her voice and she should leave it just as it was. She did, and now Mr. Simon Merrithew was frowning at her. When she had first met him, she had been sure he didn’t frown at many people. Maybe it was only the Welsh.
She put her thoughts away and smiled at Miss Merrithew, who seemed all that was amiable. Apparently, dislike of the Welsh was not a family trait. “Would you like to discuss your gown, Miss Merrithew?” she asked, throwing etiquette to the winds.
Before Miss Merrithew could answer, Mr. Merrithew placed his cup into the saucer with a decided click and leaned forward. “Perhaps you could tell us a little about yourself first, Miss Owen.”
Oh drat. Delyth hated this question. Not that she was ashamed of her background. She wasn’t. But she also didn’t think people would want to hear that she’d run away from home to join the theater. In fact, she thought that sounded rather juvenile and she was the one who had done it. Delyth was also so terrible at lying that most of the time she didn’t even attempt it. She was nervous just being here. Successful lying was not even an option.
Instead, she temporized. “I have always wanted to design gowns,” she said, looking as guileless as possible. “I love the feel of fabric and the interplay of colors. I love making women look their best. I want them to feel beautiful and happy.” All of this was true. None of it was to the point. She knew what Mr. Merrithew wanted, and even though she knew she would eventually give it to him, she was also determined to drag it out as much as possible. Perhaps he would consume so much tea he would have to excuse himself and leave her alone with his sister, who was so much more congenial.
Rather than interrupting, contradicting, or even commenting, as Delyth expected, Mr. Merrithew merely sat back and raised that intimidating eyebrow again. She wished his eyebrows would remain in alignment. Silence reigned for more seconds than occured in normal conversation and, eventually, Louisa Merrithew began to look uncomfortable.
“You are Welsh,” Miss Merrithew observed.
Ah, here it comes, Delyth thought. “Yes. I was born in Pembrokeshire.” No need to provide details if she was not asked and she hoped she wouldn’t be.
“You have such a delightful voice,” Miss Merrithew continued. “I would love to sound like that.”
Delyth smiled.
That smile knocked Simon sideways. How could someone who was obviously withholding information, who obviously had some unknown ulterior motive, have a smile like that? Genuine, joyful, real. That was not the smile of a manipulator. He almost unbent and returned the smile. Fortunately, Louisa continued talking and he was able to step back and resume his observation.
“More tea?” Louisa lifted the pot.
Miss Owen raised a hand and shook her head. “Thank you. No.” she said.
Simon could have sworn she had darted a quick glance in his direction. Was he making her nervous? Should he take advantage of that?
“Miss Owen,” he said, pausing as she started and then looked up at him.
“Mr. Merrithew?” Louisa was right. Her low, musical voice was extraordinarily appealing.
Simon inhaled deeply before continuing. “I understand that Lady Marjoribanks’s gown was your first design for Madame Follette.” Miss Owen hesitated. “Yes,” she said finally. “Although I had been working at Madame Follette’s for several months before I was given someone to dress.”
“And how fortuitous that it was Lady Marjoribanks.”
Miss Owen blinked. “Fortuitous?”
“That you found a client who shared your sensibilities.”
“Oh,” Miss Owen said. “Yes. That.”
Simon waited, but she said no more.
“What would you recommend for my sister?” he asked.
Miss Owen turned back to Louisa and took a deep breath. “That would depend,” she said, “on what Miss Merrithew wants.”
“What do you want, Louisa?” Simon turned to his sister.
“I want some time to discuss my options with Miss Owen,” she said. “Alone,” she added.
Simon didn’t move. He wasn’t ready to cede this conversation to his sister just yet. There was information about Delyth Owen that he wanted to know and that she apparently did not want to tell him. He would show her a thing or two about stubbornness. He sent an implacable glance toward Louisa and settled back in his seat.
Louisa turned to their guest. “Apparently we’re not ready to discuss my options, Miss Owen. Do have a biscuit.”
“Come now, Louisa,” Simon said. “You know how much I enjoy fashion. Please don’t banish me just when the conversation turns interesting.”
The silence that followed Simon’s pronouncement was deep and prolonged. Or at least it seemed that way to Simon. He was well aware that Louisa was giving him a sidelong look and that Miss Owen was looking at him in confusion. He could hardly blame either one of them. He sounded ridiculous, but he had no idea how he would pursue his quest without this particular ploy. And were anyone to look deeply into his interests, they could hardly deny that fashion was one of his enthusiasms. Of course, who would look deeply? And how would they accomplish that? He tried to imagine someone coming up to him at Almack’s and asking, “Is fashion one of your enthusiasms?” Where had this train of thought come from? Suddenly he realized that the two women were looking at him in complete bafflement. Maybe they wanted to ask him if fashion was one of his enthusiasms.
At last, Miss Owen did them all the kindness of breaking the silence. “Well,” she said, placing her cup on the table and putting her hands on her knees. “Why don’t we retrieve my valise and we can discuss, er, fashion.”
Simon relaxed. His stratagem had worked and he was strangely grateful to Miss Owen for complying so gracefully. He doubted that Louisa would have done the same.
Louisa confirmed Simon’s guess by shooting him an impatient look. She called for a footman to bring Miss Owen’s bag into the drawing room, and Simon sat back to enjoy the show. It was true that he had not discovered as much of Miss Owen’s background as he had hoped, but he had other sources for that sort of thing. This—this example of how she worked—was the real reason he had brought her to Portman Square.
The moment her bag was before her, Delyth Owen transformed. As she pulled out fabric swatches, her eyes lit and her color heightened. No one observing her could doubt that this was her element. Simon was by turns transfixed and confused. There seemed not a shred of subterfuge about the woman displaying silks and muslins to his sister. And yet he could not shake the idea that she had deliberately made Lady Marjoribanks a laughingstock. Could she be that good an actress? He supposed he should pursue that possibility, but every moment in Delyth Owen’s company made him increasingly uncomfortable with the path he had set for himself.
After some time, during which Louisa exclaimed over the various fabrics set before her, Miss Owen suggested that perhaps it would be helpful if Louisa told her what style of gown she preferred and what she had in mind for the one Miss Owen would design. Louisa declared that she would take Miss Owen to her chambers and they would examine her wardrobe.
Simon recognized that he had likely overstayed his welcome in this discussion and excused himself to make other inquiries about the mysterious and confusing Miss Delyth Owen.
What did he know? She was from Pembrokeshire. This was probably true. Her accent certainly confirmed that she was from Wales. What about her family? She had the manners of the gentry. This was interesting in light of her rather inferior position as a seamstress and aspiring dressmaker. And this was the place to start. One thing Simon knew for a fact was that Miss Delyth Owen was employed at Madame Follette’s. So that was where he would begin.
Miss Felicity Dawkins was not in the shop when he arrived. Simon removed his hat. “Is Miss Dawkins ever here?”
The girl who had
greeted him colored. “Miss Felicity is a very busy woman,” she said.
“So it would seem. One would think, however, that she would be busy attending to her business. Is there someone I may speak to about your seamstresses?”
“Mr. Dawkins is in the office right now,” the girl said, gesturing toward a door in the back corner.
“Mr. Dawkins?” Simon had never heard of a Mr. Dawkins.
“Miss Felicity’s brother. He sometimes helps with the accounts.”
Simon gathered this was as much as the girl knew, but it was good enough for him. “Would you ask Mr. Dawkins if he will speak with me?”
Chapter Four
“She’s from the theater.” Simon paced the drawing room where he and his sister had served tea to Miss Owen. “The theater!”
“Good heavens, Simon. Please calm down. You say that as if she had been in Newgate or had joined the circus.”
Simon could not understand how Louisa could be so unaffected by this information. “She might as well have joined the circus. What was Madame Follette—or Miss Dawkins, or whoever hired her—thinking when she hired a costume maker from the theater?”
“Perhaps she thought she was very good at what she does,” Louisa said, earning her a stern look from her brother.