by Eloisa James
“I don’t understand,” Lucien said. “Why is Mrs. Ewing fretting?”
“She has to proclaim who was the best-dressed woman at any given ball,” Louise explained. “But it is not easy to obtain accurate information. She always worries that one of her regulars won’t get invited to a particularly select occasion.”
“She has spies?”
“They aren’t spies,” Louise said indignantly. “They are older women who love fashion and are grateful for a small payment. They tell her how everyone is dressed, so that she can report it. You know—” Louise waved her hand in the air again. “‘A most noble lady wore a petticoat with festooned draperies, blah, blah, blah.’ Everyone knows who the ‘noble lady’ is.”
“Why doesn’t Mrs. Ewing simply attend the ball herself?”
Louise gave him a look that was the mirror of the suspicious ones Emily had thrown him. “How on earth would she do that? We are not invited to balls.”
Lucien threw caution to the winds. “And why is that, Miss Thorpe? You must forgive the impertinence of a stranger, but it is obvious that you are from a distinguished family.”
“My father is an irascible man,” Louise said, with a quick glance at little Phoebe. “He threw me out of the house when I was fifteen years old. Emily, bless her heart, defended me and got herself thrown out as well. And that, as they say, was that.”
Lucien almost persisted in his inquiries, but held his tongue. Then, “I have an invitation to Lady Fester’s ball,” he said. “Do you think your sister would do me the honor of accompanying me?”
Louise had Emily’s blue-gray eyes, but for some reason they didn’t move Lucien at all, not even when she looked him over as minutely as a man selecting a new horse. “I have no idea how Emily would feel,” she finally murmured.
“I think she should go with you, Mr. Boch,” Phoebe piped up unexpectedly. “It would be much nicer than listening to Mr. Hislop.”
“What do you know about Mr. Hislop?” Louise asked, clearly startled.
“I heard Mama telling Sally to stay within earshot, in case Mr. Hislop tried to kiss her,” Phoebe said. “Sally said he was a hateful man, and Mama agreed, but she said that she couldn’t insult him.”
Lucien’s stomach was undergoing a slow burn. “You led me to believe that Mrs. Ewing had female spies,” he said, turning to Louise.
She flushed. “Most of them are women. But Mr. Hislop seems to be invited everywhere. And we don’t have to pay him for his fashion accounts. It’s just that he—he—”
“He’s a bounder,” Lucien said. He was startled by the icy tone of his own voice. “Is Emily meeting with him now?” He didn’t notice that he’d called Mrs. Ewing by her first name.
Louise was still looking at their guest measuringly. It seemed to Lucien that her eyes had softened a trifle.
“Mr. Hislop generally arrives around eleven o’clock each Tuesday morning, doesn’t he, Phoebe?” She stood up. “I trust that you will find a time to proffer your invitation to my sister, Mr. Boch?”
Lucien immediately rose. “I believe I am free on Tuesday morning,” he responded. Their eyes met in perfect accord.
“Then I wish you well in your endeavors.” Louise curtsied, a regally beautiful curtsy—the curtsy of a young woman who had been groomed for the highest society rather than for the shabby room in which they stood.
A few minutes later Lucien frowned at the silk lining of his carriage. They were an odd pair, the thin, intelligent Thorpe sisters. Where was Mr. Ewing, if indeed he ever existed? It seemed to him entirely possible that the said Mr. Ewing was a phantom. Emily had a startled, naive look, not a widowed look.
He should know; he had that widowed look. Suddenly he felt too old even to contemplate an evening with the lovely Mrs. Ewing. He was old—almost forty now—and weary and…very widowed. And yet his marriage to the kindly Felice seemed so long ago. He could remember Michel much more clearly. Michel’s plump little cheeks and rosebud mouth were lodged in his heart, and the memory still jumped to his throat at odd moments.
Lucien swore under his breath and thumped on the roof of his carriage. He instructed his coachman to change direction and take him to his club. He had learned not to go home to an empty house when memories caught him unawares.
Of course he couldn’t ask Emily Ewing to the Fester ball. For one thing, she was apparently a social outcast and would likely feel uncomfortable. And for another, she was entirely too young. She deserved someone with a young soul, not someone burdened by painful memories and endless regret.
BY THE TIME that Madame Carême arrived in person to supervise a fitting of her new wardrobe, Gabby was like to go out of her mind with boredom. She took the carriage every morning to visit Kasi but, even so, it had been a supremely tedious month. Lady Sylvia spent her days making calls to her friends, but when Gabby wistfully asked to accompany her, she shuddered and said, “Not in those clothes, gel.” And that was that.
Quill was remarkable only for his absences. He had posted to Bath twice, but he stayed only one night on each visit. Even so, he was rarely seen around the house and certainly didn’t offer to show her about London. Gabby couldn’t help but think that Quill had succumbed to the horror of her white dresses. Perhaps he didn’t want to be seen with her, even at the Tower of London.
Gabby read The Morning Post every day, and she knew that small parties were being given, even though it wasn’t the Season, so-called. Yet Quill never offered to accompany her to a musical evening or other gathering.
He conveyed the daily message from Bath concerning his father’s health. He occasionally joined her and Lady Sylvia for supper and punctiliously inquired about Kasi Rao. But he never asked her to meet his friends or go to a play.
Thus the arrival of Madame Carême and her chattering group of assistants was a relief. On the other hand, Madame’s dresses were not.
“I cannot wear this garment. I cannot!” Gabby cried, growing more distressed by the moment.
“This is the mode.” Madame was unimpressed. She had shocked many a client in her day.
“Miss Jerningham, you are to marry Monsieur Dewland. You must exhibit a strong sense of personal style, because you will be judged harshly due to your husband’s exquisite taste. Since you do not have that sense of style, Monsieur Dewland was wise to put you in my hands.”
Gabby heard this without resentment. “But it is still I who must be seen in this gown,” she insisted.
“You will not be seen. You will be adored,” Madame Carême snapped back. “Men will slaver at your feet.”
It was not an unattractive proposition. But, oh, if her father had seen the dress! Gabby shuddered to think of it.
“I have composed your wardrobe in slightly heavier fabrics than we are using these days,” Madame continued briskly. “They will disguise the curve of your hip.”
Gabby blinked. She quite liked the curve of her hip. Quill seemed to like it too, she thought, remembering how his fingers had lingered and caressed.
“Your breasts are great assets.” Madame was still ticking off her thoughts. “We display them. And your derriere is also an asset. Therefore, each gown—day and evening—has a small train. I am seeking that dip and sway,” Madame said.
Her breasts certainly were on display, Gabby thought. In fact, they were only precariously confined by the evening gown she was trying on.
“Now you may emerge into the public spaces,” Madame said with satisfaction. “Monsieur Dewland will be happy, no?”
“Absolutely,” Gabby hastened to say. “But, Madame, what if this bodice”—she touched it anxiously—“what if it drops below?”
“Drops below? Drops below?”
With an alarmingly easy wiggle of her shoulders, Gabby demonstrated.
Madame stared with affront at the pale pink nipple that appeared in response to Gabby’s motion. “You must not move in that manner,” she pronounced. “All of my clients wear low bodices in the evenings, even those who have nothing to dis
play. You should be very grateful for your bosom, Miss Jerningham. Undergarments would destroy the drape of my bodice. Never wiggle your shoulders. My clients do not wiggle.”
Well, of course not, Gabby thought. They’re terrified.
But she was tired of being in the house. If Madame Carême took the gowns away to be remade, Gabby would be unable to demand that Quill take her somewhere, introduce her to someone—anyone!
So she said farewell to Madame Carême. Margaret helped her put on a morning dress ornamented with a knot of ranunculuses. Over it she wore a mantle of a very pale blush color with a large hood, lined in pink silk. Margaret was beside herself with excitement.
“This is the most beautiful mantle I’ve ever seen,” she said reverently, adjusting the hood one last time. “What color did Madame call it?”
“Peach blossom,” Gabby said. “But that’s just a fancy way of saying pink, Margaret, no matter what Madame said.”
“Oh, no, Miss Gabby, I have to have the words right,” Margaret said earnestly. “They’ll want to hear everything downstairs.” She handed her mistress a silk handkerchief bordered in the very same peach blossom.
Gabby had her first idea of the effectiveness of Madame Carême’s designs when she was ushered into Mrs. Ewing’s tiny front parlor. She had been coming once or twice a week to take Phoebe to visit Kasi Rao, and she had formed a rather stilted but friendly relationship with Phoebe’s adopted mother.
But this morning Mrs. Ewing visibly checked her pace when she saw what Gabby was wearing. Gabby smiled to herself. Phoebe’s mother always looked so well-dressed that Gabby felt like a positive dowdy beside her.
“If you will forgive me for the comment, Miss Jerningham, you look quite elegant this morning. Your gown is truly beautiful.”
Gabby smiled. “I am the recipient of a wardrobe from Madame Carême.”
“She’s given you a small train,” Mrs. Ewing said, walking forward. “What an interesting choice! And your mantle is of merino cloth, is it not?”
“I couldn’t say,” Gabby replied cheerfully. “I do know that Madame Carême has declared my hood to be peach-blossom colored, rather than plain pink. Which”—she leaned toward Mrs. Ewing and whispered confidentially—“I was naturally most pleased to learn, as I should hate to be caught wearing a color worn only by low persons.”
At that Emily Ewing laughed, for the first time in Gabby’s memory. “Madame is a terrible snob, is she not? She quite terrified me the first time I met her.”
Just then Phoebe entered the room, already wearing her pelisse and carrying a small basket. “Miss Gabby,” she said breathlessly, dropping a curtsy. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting, but I was helping Cook in the kitchen.”
“Come here, you silly goose,” Gabby said affectionately, and Phoebe darted into her arms.
“I’ve made Kasi Rao a little pie,” the little girl said, turning back the napkin covering her basket. “I made it myself—well, almost by myself. Do you think he’ll like it?”
“He will adore it,” Gabby said. “Shall we be off, then?” She smiled at Emily Ewing. “I shall return Phoebe in a few hours, if that is quite convenient with you.”
“Thank you very much for your kindness,” Mrs. Ewing replied, giving Phoebe a squeeze and a kiss.
They arrived in Sackville Street to find that Kasi was having a particularly difficult day. It took Phoebe over a half hour to coax him out of the broom closet, where he was huddled in the darkest corner.
“It was the Watch, miss,” Mrs. Malabright said unhappily. “They came to the door, collecting donations, they were. And before I realized what was happening, they walked right into the parlor. Well, I thought Kasi was safely upstairs, but he wasn’t. The poor mite found himself surrounded by four men, and one of them greeted him—in a nice way, mind. But it was too much for the poor thing, and he’s been in the broom closet ever since.”
“I completely understand, Mrs. Malabright,” Gabby said. “I’ve spent many an hour trying to fetch Kasi out of a dark corner. It’s just the way that he is. Goodness knows, my father tried hard enough to break him of the habit.”
Mrs. Malabright twisted her hands in her apron, her eyes anxious. “I know that your father instructed me to do just that, Miss Jerningham. So I did take him out of the closet once, but he became so agitated, he—well, he—”
“I know exactly what happened,” Gabby said, with a comforting smile. “And I absolutely agree with you, Mrs. Malabright. There is no point to tormenting Kasi. But just look at him now!”
Kasi was sitting on the corner of the settee, blissfully eating Phoebe’s pie and watching her as she chattered.
“He doesn’t take it to heart,” Gabby said. “If he’s allowed to emerge when he wishes to, Kasi is perfectly happy.”
“Oh, he’s a downright cheerful little soul,” Mrs. Malabright confirmed. “As long as he doesn’t get overset by being outside or by being around strangers. I’ve never been one for the outdoors, at any rate.”
That evening Gabby thoughtfully put on one of Madame Carême’s evening gowns. Her train swept the floor behind her and made her wiggle as she walked. She tried to remember that while it was desirable to dip and sway below the waist, one must not wiggle above the waist. In truth, dip and sway was not an unpleasant sensation. Gabby let herself dip a bit more. She dipped and swayed her way right down to Quill’s study and knocked lightly on the door.
He looked up as she entered. In the twilight of the library, his face was hard and dark, unwelcoming. It was a pity that Gabby kept forgetting the set of Quill’s mouth when she was away from him. It brooded, that mouth. It was shocking how different Quill was from Peter’s slim perfection. His body, even the leg that caused him such grief, was large and muscled.
“This room needs light,” Gabby remarked. For a moment she walked into the room at her normal pace, and then she remembered to dip and sway.
So she made an unnecessary little turn about the library, turning the wicks of the wall sconces. Quill’s eyes had darkened perceptibly by the time she returned, Gabby noted with satisfaction.
“I should like to go out this evening, Quill.”
“Go out?” He was all but gaping. Not slavering at her feet, but close enough.
“Go out,” Gabby said, pacing her words slowly. “I should like to go to the theater, or to a party. A Lady Stokes is having a card party with dancing this evening. And we have an invitation!” She held out one of the embossed cards that arrived every day for Peter and were ceremoniously placed on a mantelpiece by Codswallop.
“To a party,” Quill repeated stupidly. “We can’t do that. I never go to that sort of thing.”
“Why on earth not?”
Quill forbore to answer. If Gabby couldn’t guess why he avoided occasions designed for dancing and prolonged periods of standing, he saw no reason to enlighten her.
“I suppose we could go to the theater,” he said reluctantly.
Gabby favored him with a smile and then drifted over to perch on the edge of his desk. She wanted to make sure that Quill had taken in the effect of Madame Carême’s bodice.
After a second, she was quite certain that he had. His eyes were simmering with a dusky, dangerous light. Gabby felt powerful—a heady sensation. She leaned toward him slightly.
“I should be very pleased to visit the Dorset Gardens. One of my favorite Shakespeare plays is being performed: The Taming of the Shrew.”
Every damned thing sounds like a proposition, Quill thought numbly. His brother was marrying a woman whose very voice made feverish promises.
His brother. Peter. Quill reined in his melting control.
“I’m afraid that I forgot an important engagement this evening,” he said stiffly, shifting his chair backward from the table. “I must ask you to forgive me.”
Gabby’s face fell ludicrously. Suddenly the alluring enchantress was replaced by a disappointed child. “But, Quill, I am so tired of staying in the house all day!”
&n
bsp; “Peter will be back soon,” Quill promised.
“There is no sign of it in his daily notes,” Gabby pointed out. “I know that Peter is a great comfort to your mother.”
“She doesn’t need any more comfort,” Quill snapped. “Father is doing as well as may be expected. I shall write Peter and tell him to return at once.”
Indeed, Viscount Dewland was resting comfortably, ensconced in the finest of Bath’s inns. Undoubtedly he would never be able to walk, and doctors held out little hope that he would speak again, but he was fully himself, scrawling irascible notes right and left. “From what Peter’s letters have said, Father could go on this way for years,” Quill added.
“Please don’t write to Peter,” Gabby beseeched. “I would not want him to leave your mother at a time when she needs him.”
Quill looked unconvinced.
“You see, Peter and I are going to be married for a long time,” Gabby said earnestly, reaching out to touch Quill’s knee. “It would be fatal if I came between him and his mother. I have seen these situations at home, in India, and it invariably strains the love between a man and his wife.”
Quill’s throat tightened. It was becoming increasingly difficult even to be around Gabby. Especially when her eyes shone so sweetly and she talked about love between man and wife.
He pushed his chair even farther from the desk where she was perched. “I shall inform my brother that you wish an escort to the theater.” Then he couldn’t help adding, “I am sure that when Peter realizes that you are dressed like this”—he gestured at her gown—“he will rush back to town in order to prance you before his cronies.”
Gabby ignored the icy drip of sarcasm in Quill’s voice. His expression had chilled; something she said had infuriated him. Quill was remarkably moody, for a man. But she had always found that it was best to ignore people’s little moods. “Do you think so, Quill? Madame’s gowns are beautiful, are they not?” She was blatantly fishing for a compliment.