To All the Rakes I've Loved Before (A Honeycote Novella) (14 page)

The duke’s intense gaze, however, was fixed on Anabelle. For three long seconds, he seemed to scrutinize her wretched brown dress, ill-fitting spectacles, and oversized cap. If the dubious expression on his ruggedly handsome face was any indication, he found the whole ensemble rather lacking. She raised her chin a notch.

Even Mrs. Smallwood must have sensed the duke’s displeasure. “Er, Miss Honeycote is extremely skilled with a needle, Your Grace. She has a particular talent for creating gowns that complement our clients’ best features. Why, Miss Starling was delighted with her latest creation. Your sisters will be pleased with the results, I assure you.”

The duke was silent for the space of several heartbeats, during which Anabelle was sure he was cataloguing the deficiencies in her physical appearance. Or perhaps he was merely debating whether a mousy seamstress without a French accent was qualified to design his sisters’ gowns.

“Miss Honeycote, was it?”

He was more astute than the average duke. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“The gowns must be modest.”

As if she would design something indecent. “I understand,” she said. “Are there any other requirements?”

More silence. More glaring. “Pretty.”

“Pretty?”

He frowned and adjusted his cravat as though he couldn’t quite believe he’d uttered the word. “Pretty,” he repeated, “to suit my sisters.”

Rose lifted her head to look at him, her skepticism obvious. In response, the duke wrapped his arm around her frail shoulders and smiled at her with a combination of pride, protectiveness, and love. It was powerful enough to coax a smile out of Rose, and in that instant, Anabelle could see she
was
pretty. Stunning, even.

The whole exchange left Anabelle slightly breathless. Devotion to one’s family was something she understood—and respected. The duke’s interest in his sisters went beyond duty, and that bit of knowledge made him seem more… human.

Oh, she still planned to extort money from him; there was no help for that. But now, she found herself anxious to design dresses that would delight the young ladies
and
simultaneously prove her skill to their brother. Perhaps, in some small way, it would make up for her bad behavior.

Miss Starling swept out of the dressing room, her mother in tow. Every head in the room swiveled toward the debutante, her beauty as irresistible as gravity. Olivia dropped a length of ribbon and rushed across the shop to join her sister. Rose moved closer to the duke.

“Good morning, once again, Your Grace,” Miss Starling said, all tooth-aching sweetness. “How delighted I am to see my dear friends Lady Olivia and Lady Rose twice in the same day.
And
how fortunate that I am here to offer my assistance with their gown selections. Gentlemen don’t realize the numerous pitfalls one must avoid when choosing a ball gown, do they, ladies?”

Olivia replied with an equal measure of drama. “Alas, they do not.”

“Never fear. I have plenty of experience in this sort of thing and am happy to lend my expertise… that is, if you have no objection, Your Grace.” Miss Starling unleashed a dazzling smile on the duke.

His intelligent eyes flicked to Anabelle, ever so briefly, and the subtle acknowledgement made her shiver deliciously. Then he returned his attention to Miss Starling. “That is generous of you.”

Preening like a peacock in the Queen’s garden, Miss Starling said, “You may rely on me, Huntford. A fashionable gown can do wonders for a woman’s appearance. You won’t even recognize your sisters in their new finery. Why don’t you leave us to our own devices for an hour or so?”

The duke searched his sisters’ faces. “Olivia? Rose?” Olivia nodded happily, but Rose cowered into his shoulder. He gave her a stiff pat on the back and looked imploringly at Miss Starling, who had managed to find a small mirror on the counter and was scowling at the reflection of a loose tendril above her ear. No help from that quarter was forthcoming, and Rose’s cheek was still glued to his jacket. The more he tried to gently pry her off him, the tighter she clung. He turned to Anabelle and held out his palms in a silent plea.

Startled, she quickly considered how best to put the young woman at ease and cleared her throat. “If you’d like, Lady Rose, I could start by showing you a few sketches and gowns. You may show me what you like or don’t like about each. Once I have a feel for your tastes, I shall design something that suits you perfectly.” Noting Rose’s shy yet graceful manner, Anabelle hazarded a guess. “Something elegant and simple?”

Rose slowly peeled herself off of her brother, who looked relieved beyond words.

“Why don’t you and your sister make yourselves comfortable?” Anabelle waved them into the chairs beside her and winked. “I promise to make this as painless as possible.”

The duke leaned forward and gave Rose an affectionate squeeze. “Very well.” Anabelle endeavored not to stare at his shoulders and arms as they flexed beneath his jacket.

Miss Starling snapped her out of her reverie. “We’ll need to see bolts of French pink muslin, green silk, blue satin, and peach sarsenet, as well as swansdown and scalloped lace.” Anabelle had started for the back room, rather hoping all the items were not intended for the same dress, when Miss Starling added, “And bring us a fresh pot of tea, Miss Honeycut.”

“Honey
cote
.” In a shop teeming with women, there was no mistaking the duke’s commanding voice.

Anabelle halted. She imagined that Miss Starling’s glorious peacock tail had lost a feather or two.

“I beg your pardon?” the debutante asked.

“Her name,” said the duke. “It’s Miss Honeycote.”

With that, he jammed his hat on his head, turned on his heel, and quit the shop.

* * *

A few hours later, Anabelle tiptoed into the foyer of the townhouse where she lived and gently shut the front door behind her. Their landlady’s quarters were beyond the door to the right, which, fortunately, was closed. The tantalizing aroma of baking bread wafted from the shared kitchen to her left, but Anabelle didn’t linger. She quickly started up the long narrow staircase leading to the small suite of rooms that she, Daphne, and Mama rented, treading lightly on the second step, which had an unfortunate tendency to creak. She’d made it halfway up the staircase when Mrs. Bowman’s door sprang open.

“Miss Honeycote!” Their landlady was a kindly, stoop-shouldered widow with gray hair so thin her scalp peeked through. She craned her neck around the doorway and smiled. “Ah, I’m glad to see you have an afternoon off. How is your mother?”

Anabelle slowly turned and descended the stairs, full of dread. “About the same, I’m afraid.” But then, persons with consumption did not usually improve. She swallowed past the knot in her throat. “Breathless all the time, and a fever in the evenings, but Daphne and I are hopeful that the medicine Dr. Conwell prescribed will help.”

Mrs. Bowman nodded soberly, waved for Anabelle to follow her, and shuffled to the kitchen. “Take some bread and stew for her—and for you and your sister, too.” Her gaze flicked to Anabelle’s waist, and she frowned. “You won’t be able to properly care for your mother if you don’t eat.”

“You’re very kind, Mrs. Bowman. Thank you.”

The elderly woman sighed heavily. “I’m fond of you and your sister and mother… but luv, your rent was due three days ago.”

Anabelle had known this was coming, but heat crept up her neck anyway. Her landlady needed the money as desperately as they did. “I’m sorry I don’t have it just yet.” She’d stopped during the walk home and spent her last shilling on paper for the demand note she planned to write to the Duke of Huntford. “I can pay you…” She quickly worked through the plan in her head. “… on Saturday evening after I return from the shop.”

Mrs. Bowman patted Anabelle’s shoulder in the same reassuring way Mama once had, before illness had plunged her into her frightening torpor. “You’ll pay me when you can.” She pressed her thin lips together and handed Anabelle a pot and a loaf of bread wrapped in a cloth.

The smells of garlic, gravy, and yeast made her suddenly light-headed, as though her body had just now remembered that it had missed a few meals. “Someday I shall repay you for all you’ve done for us.”

The old woman smiled, but disbelief clouded her eyes. “Give your mother and sister my best,” she said and retreated into her rooms.

Anabelle shook off her melancholy and ascended the stairs, buoyed at the thought of presenting Mama and Daphne with a tasty dinner. Even Mama, who’d mostly picked at her food of late, wouldn’t be able to resist the hearty stew.

She pushed open the door but didn’t call out, in case Mama was sleeping. After unloading the items she carried onto the table beneath the room’s only window, she looked around the small parlor. As usual, Daphne had tidied and arranged things to make the room look as cheerful as possible. She’d folded the blanket on the settee where she and Anabelle took turns sleeping. One of them always stayed with Mama in her bedroom at night. Her sister had fluffed the cushions on the ancient armchair and placed a colorful scrap of cloth on a side table, upon which sat a miniature portrait of their parents. Daphne must have pulled it out of Mama’s old trunk; Anabelle hadn’t seen in it years. The food forgotten, she drifted to the picture and picked it up.

Mama’s eyes were bright, and pink tinged her cheeks; Papa stood behind her, his love for his new bride palpable. Papa, the youngest son of a viscount, had sacrificed everything to be with her: wealth, family, and social status. As far as Anabelle knew, he’d never regretted it. Until he’d been dying. He’d reached out to his parents then and begged them to provide for his wife and daughters.

They’d never responded to his plea.

And Anabelle would never forgive them.

“You’re home! How was the shop?” Daphne glided into the parlor, her bright smile at odds with the smudges beneath her eyes. She wore a yellow dress that reminded Anabelle of the buttercups that grew behind their old cottage.

She hastily returned the portrait to the table. “Wonderful. How’s Mama?”

“Uncomfortable for much of the day, but she’s resting now.” Daphne inhaled deeply. “What’s that delicious smell?”

“Mrs. Bowman sent up dinner. You should eat up and then go enjoy a walk in the park. Get some fresh air.”

“A walk would be lovely, and I do need to make a trip to the apothecary.”

Anabelle worried her bottom lip. “Daph, there’s no money.”

“I know. I believe I can get Mr. Vanders to extend me credit.”

Daphne probably could. Her cheerful disposition could melt the hardest of hearts. If she weren’t chained to the apartment, caring for Mama, she’d have a slew of suitors. She retrieved a couple of chipped bowls and some spoons from the shelf above the table and peeked under the lid of the pot. “Oh,” she said, closing her eyes as she breathed in, “this is heavenly. Come sit and eat.”

Anabelle held up a hand. “I couldn’t possibly. Mrs. Smallwood stuffed me with sandwiches and cakes before I left the shop today.”

Daphne arched a blonde brow. “There’s plenty here, Belle.”

“Maybe after Mama eats.” Anabelle retrieved the paper she’d purchased, pulled out a chair, and sat next to her sister. “I’m going to write a letter this evening.” There was no need to explain what sort of letter. “I’ll deliver it shortly after dark.”

Her sister set down her spoon and placed a hand over Anabelle’s. “I wish you’d let me help you.”

“You’re doing more than enough, caring for Mama. I only mentioned it so you’d know I need to go out tonight. We’ll have a little money soon.”

Later that night, after Daphne had returned with a vial of medication as promised, Anabelle kissed her mother, said good night to her sister, and retired to the parlor.

She slipped behind the folding screen in the corner that served as their dressing area and removed her spectacles, slippers, dress, shift, corset, and stockings. From the bottom corner of her old trunk, she pulled a long strip of linen that had been wadded into a ball. After locating an end, she tucked it under her arm, placed the strip over her bare breasts, and wound the linen around and around, securing it so tightly that she could only manage the shallowest of breaths, through her nose. She tucked the loose end of the strip underneath, against her skin, and skimmed her palms over her flattened breasts. Satisfied, she pulled out the other items she’d need: a shirt, breeches, a waistcoat, and a jacket.

She donned each garment, relieved to find that the breeches weren’t quite as snug across the hips as they’d been the last time. Finally, she pinned her hair up higher on her head, stuffed it under a boy’s cap, and pulled the brim down low. It had been a few months since she’d worn the disguise, so she practiced walking in the breeches—long strides, square shoulders, swinging arms. The rough wool brushed her thighs and cupped her bottom intimately, but the breeches were quite comfortable once she became accustomed to them.

Her heart pounded and her breathing quickened, not unpleasantly, as she tucked the letter she’d written to the Duke of Huntford—left-handed to disguise her handwriting—into the pocket of her shabby jacket. A few subtle inquiries had yielded his address, which was, predictably, in fashionable Mayfair, several blocks away.