by Madeline Hunter, Caroline Linden, Megan Frampton, Myretta Robens
He turned into the mews and handed off the carriage to a groom. Perhaps he ought to have asked more specific questions about what she wanted before he agreed to this bargain. He thought about that as he went into the house and strode up the stairs to his study. What would he have done differently?
Not much, he concluded. The only real possibility, which he could still elect, was to let Grantham to handle the business. He had already spent far too much time thinking about Felicity Dawkins, often for reasons he didn’t want to examine closely, and if he told Grantham to deal directly with her, it would free Evan from any obligation to see her again.
And yet, inexplicably, he didn’t do that.
Instead he sent off a note to Mr. Abbott, the estate agent he’d had to leave standing on the step in Soho Square, detailing the sort of property Miss Dawkins wanted. Anticipating the man’s first objection, he added that rents up to one hundred pounds per annum were acceptable this time. That could be negotiated with the landlord, once a place was found.
To his relief, the agent was very prompt. The next morning he arrived with a list of properties near Bond Street that might be suitable. Evan told him to arrange viewings, then sent a note to Follette’s dress shop informing Miss Dawkins. The best and fastest way to get that woman out of his thoughts was to get her out of Vine Street. Once she was gone, his unwarranted fascination with her would fade. She would be occupied running her shop and he would be occupied with his building project. There would be no more distraction in his life, the way it ought to be.
Felicity received the earl’s note as she went down to the salon. The seamstresses often arrived at nine and began work, but she didn’t open the salon to clients until later. London ladies didn’t shop early. The presence of a liveried footman peering through the window gave her a start, and she rushed across the room to open the door.
“With Lord Carmarthen’s compliments,” said the fellow as he held out a note.
“Thank you.” She fingered the thick paper. Bracing herself, she broke the seal. But instead of the curt dismissal she feared, he wrote that he had located more properties and asked if she would be willing to view them, beginning this afternoon. This time he listed the streets, which were all west of Regent Street, and some were very near Bond Street.
She felt at once heartened and chastened, and resolved to be more diplomatic next time. She must stop thinking of the earl as an opponent and consider him a partner instead. When they viewed these properties, she must be clear and objective about them, and communicate clearly to the earl what was right and what was wrong. A little explanation goes a long way, she reminded herself, thinking of how she would approach a client.
“Will there be an answer?” the footman asked. “His Lordship asked me to inquire, and carry back any reply you wished to send.”
“Oh! Of course. Tell him that will be perfectly agreeable, please.”
The servant bowed and left, and Felicity went back into the shop.
She headed upstairs to the workroom, where her employees were busily sewing the gowns that should—would—set Follette’s on the path to success and security. Felicity had asked everyone to be here today because it was time to tell them about Lord Carmarthen’s plans. His note only made her more certain of what she would say. At her entrance they all looked up.
“Good morning,” she said. “I want only a few minutes of your time. I have news.”
She caught the worried looks exchanged between Alice and Sally, the two apprentice seamstresses. “Is it very bad news?” Sally asked hesitantly. She had been here for four years, since she was a child of twelve. She’d seen Felicity dismiss Mrs. Cartwright, which had not been a completely cordial parting.
“On the contrary,” she said firmly, “I think it’s very good news. But first… You must all have noticed the changes in Vine Street. Mr. White’s tailor shop closing up, for instance.”
“And the coffee shop at the end of the street,” murmured Selina Fontaine. She had been at Follette’s the longest and must be very aware of the recent decline.
Felicity nodded. “All the shops are closing up, I’m afraid.” Anxiety seemed to ripple through the room. “The reason for this is a large improvement planned for Vine Street. Someone has bought every other building, and plans to build new sewers and install pipes for gas. To do all this, however, all the buildings must be torn down and rebuilt.”
Delyth Owen gasped. Selina’s face went perfectly still. Only Alice seemed undaunted. “But ma’am, that’ll be a terrible mess. Look at Regent Street!”
“Precisely,” Felicity agreed. “The gentleman expects Vine Street to be as fine as Regent Street, and to that end he wishes to buy this building as well.” She paused, suddenly uncertain about what she was about to promise her employees, these talented, hardworking women who depended on her. Delyth had left a career designing costumes for the theater to come work for her; Selina had stayed with her through the hardest of times. Alice and Sally were learning a trade, but their wages helped support their families. Not only Felicity’s family depended on Madame Follette’s, and that meant they were all depending on Felicity’s wisdom in making the right decisions.
But… She believed Lord Carmarthen to be a gentleman who would keep his word.
“The gentleman who has bought everything has made my mother a handsome offer for this building,” she went on, tamping down her doubts. Her first duty was to be honest, but also optimistic. If Delyth and Selina left her before the coronation commissions were completed, Felicity didn’t know what she’d do. They had already attracted several excellent clients. Delyth had secured a large commission from the Merrithew family, whose matriarch had been one of the leaders of London fashion in years past, and Selina was working on a number of gowns for the sister-in-law of the Duke of Barrowmore. Those were the sort of clients Follette’s desperately needed. “We will only accept it when we have secured a comparable, if not superior, location for the shop. No one’s employment is in danger, and neither is any commission your clients have made. We shall be able to complete every gown ordered for the coronation in time. But at some point, Follette’s will be relocating from Vine Street.”
“Where to?” asked Sally timidly.
“I don’t know yet,” Felicity confessed. “I hope not far from here. I’m going out later today to view more properties with Lord Carmarthen, who is improving the street. He’s agreed to help us locate appropriate premises.”
Delyth and Selina exchanged a glance. “You’re quite certain everything will work out well?” asked Delyth.
“Yes,” she replied immediately. One way or another, she would make it so. “I wanted you to know that we shall not close. No one will lose her place because of this, and indeed, I hope it will lead to even more commissions from society ladies, which will benefit us all. If you have any questions and concerns, please speak to me. I value each and every one of you, and your talents.” She looked around, but no one spoke. She mustered a smile. “Then I suppose we should all get back to work.”
Chapter Six
Evan turned into Vine Street resolved to remain focused on business today. Yesterday he’d treated it too lightly, so confident had he been that the shop in Soho Square would solve the problem. He hadn’t understood Miss Dawkins’s position, and he’d made a bad choice. She must have feared as much; during the drive to Soho Square, he’d tried to tease her, and her replies had been a bit tart.
So today he would take careful heed of what she said. They had a bargain, after all, and Evan was keen to fulfill his side of it. He stopped the carriage and went inside the shop.
This time she was waiting for him, stunning in a raspberry walking dress. She said a quiet word to the young lady behind the counter as she tied on her bonnet, and then she turned to him. “I am ready, my lord.”
Evan noticed the girl at the counter watching him very closely. He gave Miss Dawkins his arm and led her out to the curricle. “Am I hated by the whole shop now?” he asked, guessing what mo
tivated the young lady’s stare.
A faint blush colored her cheeks. “Of course not. Why would you think such a thing?”
“Your assistant is glaring at me.” He tipped his hat to the girl, who was watching them through the window. She quickly turned her back, and Evan started the horses.
“I spoke to everyone this morning to let them know what is happening in Vine Street. I’m sure some had begun to wonder; I rarely leave the shop during the day, yet have done so several times this week because of…” She paused, clearly searching for the right words to describe it. “You.”
He gave a short bark of laughter. “No wonder she stared! You make me sound ominous.”
“Oh no!” she exclaimed, laying her hand on his arm. “I didn’t mean that.”
Her hand seemed to sear his wrist. Evan called himself three kinds of fool for being so aware of this woman. “Excellent,” he said lightly. “It would be very distressing to be thought a monster.”
She released his arm. “I wouldn’t call you monstrous, sir, but disruptive. You cannot deny you’ve turned things upside down in Vine Street.”
He thought about telling her how some of the other tenants and owners had jumped at his offers to buy. They recognized that Vine Street had two futures: It could remain as it was, growing shabbier and more neglected until it became a forgotten little alley overshadowed by Regent Street; or it could be transformed into an extension of Regent Street, just as modern, but shielded from the traffic of the thoroughfare. Sooner or later they must leave Vine Street, and Evan offered them good value to leave sooner.
Again he reminded himself that Felicity Dawkins had a different view, and that arguing his side of the story would only cause more discord. “Only with good intentions,” he settled for saying.
“Yes,” she said quietly after a moment. “I believe that.”
Evan glanced at her from the corner of his eye, uncertain that he’d heard correctly. Her cheeks were still flushed—beautifully, he couldn’t keep from noticing—but she was studying him thoughtfully.
“I do,” she repeated with some force, as if he’d questioned her. “But I hope you can understand that I—and my mother—are reluctant to move for equally good reasons.”
“Convenience,” he said. “Security.”
“I have four employees. Four women whose livelihoods depend on Follette’s, and I am responsible for them as well as for my own family. Your offer to purchase our shop is generous,” she allowed, “but my greater concern is to keep the business on sound footing, which requires clients. In Soho Square we would be even farther from Mayfair, making it less convenient for ladies to visit us. Yes, we can sew the gowns anywhere; but to have commissions for those gowns, we must have clients, and my seamstresses must be able to come to the shop in safety. We often work late hours, my lord, and I cannot ask them to walk all the way across London in the dark.”
“I see,” he said, mildly ashamed that he’d not thought of young seamstresses walking home at night. “I should have inquired more closely into your requirements for a shop, and for that I apologize.”
She smiled, the same warm, dimpled smile that had snared his attention the first day he met her. “I accept.” Her smile grew, and she gave a rueful little laugh. “When I told my brother about your first visit, he asked what an earl could want with a dress shop. He was right, of course; what could you know about being a modiste? I should have explained my position better at the start.”
“I haven’t the first idea about being a modiste,” Evan admitted. “But I did research property values very thoroughly, and what improvements would yield the most benefit for the longest time.”
“That is good sense,” she replied. “And good dressmaking sense as well. I don’t make gowns that cater solely to the fashion of the moment. A gown can be fashionable while still being timeless, so a woman might wear it for a few years at least, with alterations and different accessories.”
“Perhaps we’re not so different,” he said, pulling up in front of the first shop to let. “We want to make things that will last.”
Her lips parted in surprise as he jumped down and held out a hand to help her. “Perhaps not,” she said, sounding pleasantly surprised.
Evan grinned. “Let’s hope this shop is suitable, then, so we can both carry on.”
Felicity Dawkins laughed, and then she took his arm, and Evan felt the strangest sense of something falling into place inside him. What was wrong with him? He was attracted to her—understandably, on purely physical grounds—but even when he tried to suppress it in the interest of furthering his architectural ambitions, talking business with her made him want her more. What lady in London would talk about creating things—even more, openly speak of being in business? Not one he could think of.
She tipped back her head to survey the building, and belatedly Evan did, too. He was pleased to see that Abbott had done better this time, finding a shop that looked every bit as clean and sound as the one in Soho Square, but located just steps from Bond Street.
The door opened and a man stepped out. “Lord Carmarthen?”
“Yes. And Miss Dawkins.”
The fellow was already looking at her with far too much interest. “A pleasure, ma’am. Joseph Ferrars, at your service. Won’t you come inside?”
“Thank you, Mr. Ferrars.” She gave him a bright smile as they went into the shop. As she passed the man, his gaze raked over her in obvious appraisal. Evan tightened his jaw, and made certain to stand between him and Miss Dawkins.
“The salon is large,” she said, oblivious to the way Ferrars was staring at her.
“A full fifteen feet from wall to wall,” said Ferrars. “May I draw your attention to the windows? Newly glazed, and ideal for display. I believe you are searching for premises suitable for a milliner?”
“A modiste.” She leaned forward to inspect the window, and Ferrars stole a glance at her bottom.
“It’s a bit dark,” said Evan. “North-facing shops always are.”
“It has gas lighting.” Unperturbed, Ferrars demonstrated the valve on the sconces.
Miss Dawkins walked around the room, studying the shelves behind the counter and the office at the rear. “There are no rooms that could be used for fittings.”
Ferrars jumped forward. “Upstairs. Let me show you.” He led the way up the stairs.
“Are you the landlord?” she asked him as they walked through three rooms on the first floor. Evan alternated between watching her face for any indication of approval, and keeping an eye on Ferrars.
“As it turns out, I am.” Ferrars was watching her, and now he smiled, a rather predatory expression to Evan’s mind. “May I ask if you’re the owner of the business in question?”
“My mother founded it and now I am in charge.” She ran her fingers along a window pane in the large front room. “This is small for a workroom, but it might suffice. The fitting rooms are quite generous.”
“Yes, indeed they are.” Ferrars glanced at Evan, who was standing with his arms folded. “Are you a partner in the business, my lord?”
“Oh no,” exclaimed Miss Dawkins before he could speak. “His Lordship is merely helping me find a new situation. He has nothing to do with the shop. He is…” She hesitated, darting a quick glance at Evan. “A friend,” she finished.
Evan’s private delight at that appellation was instantly squashed by the satisfied look on Ferrars’s face.
“And I believe you’re interested in taking the lodgings upstairs as well?” the landlord asked as they went back into the corridor. Evan knew this shop was suitable, if small, but somehow he wanted to find fault with it. He didn’t like the way Ferrars looked at her, and he didn’t like the idea of Ferrars stopping in all the time. The man had keys to the place and he could let himself in at will. Evan told himself he was concerned for the welfare of all the women working at Madame Follette’s, but the truth was he didn’t want Ferrars prowling about Felicity Dawkins. He could only imagine how hard
it would be for a woman, living alone, to fend off advances from her landlord…
“Yes, if they are available.”
“They are,” said Ferrars, “but they’re not large. If you are searching for lodgings for a family…”
“No,” she told him. “Only myself.”
“Very good,” murmured Ferrars with satisfaction. “Let me show you.” He took out a ring of keys and unlocked a door at the rear of the corridor, opposite the stairs to the salon below. “A private staircase, as you see, ma’am.” He swept it open and bowed. Miss Dawkins gave Evan a pleased look and started up the stairs. Ferrars turned to watch her go, a focused, hungry expression on his face, and Evan’s sour mood condensed into one thought: The problem with the shop was Ferrars. He hoped some other shortcoming would put Miss Dawkins off the place entirely, because he found himself thinking that he’d have to set Ferrars straight, and perhaps post one of his footmen as a guard, if she relocated her shop here.
He brushed past Ferrars to follow Miss Dawkins up the stairs, putting out his arm to block the man when he started to come, too. “Allow us a few minutes to discuss things,” he said, in a tone that brooked no argument. With only the tiniest flash of annoyance, Ferrars nodded. Evan pulled the door closed behind him, and jogged up the stairs.
Felicity Dawkins stood in the middle of a modest sitting room. She had taken off her bonnet, and the afternoon sun illuminated her hair into a glowing halo of gold. She turned to face him. “It’s a wonderful location.”
That was not what he wanted to hear. “Really?” he said vaguely, strolling around the room and taking a look out the windows.
“Oh yes.” She came up beside him. “I think it may be suitable.”
“You said the workroom was too small. That seems a great failing.”