When She Was Wicked (8 page)

She stood and dipped a curtsey. “Good afternoon,
ladies.” She swallowed, wondering how to begin her duties on the best possible foot.
I’m sorry I threatened to spread a scandalous rumor about you, Lady Olivia. It’s quite fortunate that your brother saved you from social ruin. Tell me, would you prefer the bombazine or satin for your pelisse?
Clearly, that would
not
do. If she was to work with the ladies for the next few months, she ought to develop some sort of a rapport. “I’m very much looking forward to—”

“Look, Rose, it’s the beginnings of our ball gowns—the ones Miss Starling helped us choose.” Lady Olivia rushed past Anabelle to the table where she’d laid out the fabric. She plucked the rich pink silk from the pile and held it against her cheek. “Ooh, it’s lovely, isn’t it, Miss Honeycote?” She reached out and squeezed Anabelle’s hand as though she were not a servant but a dear friend.

“Quite lovely,” said Anabelle. It had been ages since anyone besides Daphne had touched her like that. Guilt sliced through her, and she gently pulled her hand away.

Lady Rose glided to the table, stood beside her sister, and smiled at the sight of her gown draped over the hill of supplies. Currently it was little more than several panels that would eventually comprise the bodice and skirt. The sky blue color was perfect for her creamy skin and strawberry hair. A little safe, perhaps, but Anabelle would attempt to convince her to try a sash or shawl in a deeper shade.

“This is all very exciting,” said Lady Olivia, clasping her hands together.

“Indeed,” said Anabelle. These women were not at all like her self-assured clients in Mrs. Smallwood’s shop. Thank heaven. “Where would you like to start?”

Lady Olivia frowned. “Oh, I don’t know. What do you think, Rose?”

The question had been asked as though Rose routinely responded to inquiries with more than a nod or shake of the head. Anabelle was scrambling to think of a way to end the awkward silence when she saw Rose gesturing.

Anabelle’s spectacles would have proved immensely helpful at this juncture. She moved closer and squinted. Lady Rose held a palm flat in front of her, formed a loose fist with her other hand, and rested it on her palm.

“Heavens, you’re quite right,” Olivia exclaimed. “Why, I have no manners at all.” She stuck her head into the hallway, and called to a passing maid. “Judy, fetch us tea, please. And some rolls and butter.” She rejoined Anabelle and Rose. “Let’s sit and have a chat, shall we?”

Anabelle hesitated, but Rose gently pulled her hand toward the large bench beneath the window. They settled themselves on the faded but comfortable cushion, propping pillows behind their backs. Anabelle occupied a sunny spot and savored the warmth of the rays on her neck. The nursery-turned-workroom was a marked improvement over the dark, crowded back room of Mrs. Smallwood’s shop. Also, vastly preferable to a jail cell. A chill skittered between her shoulders, a not-so-subtle reminder of why she was here.

Anabelle cleared her throat. “I think that my first project should be finishing the two ball gowns. Together, they should take no more than three days to complete. Although, if we decide on elaborate embellishments, a fourth day might be necessary.” If she didn’t find her spectacles, it could take even longer.

“I’m sure that’s fine,” Lady Olivia remarked in a polite
if only vaguely interested manner. Lady Rose nodded her head, so Anabelle continued.

“Thereafter, I’d like to create one dress a week for each of you. You can decide which items are most pressing, but I expect you’ll need morning dresses, walking dresses, and evening gowns. And all the garments to be worn with them, of course. Spencers, pelisses, cloaks, mantles, and chemises.” Just listing all that she needed to do was rather daunting. It was an ambitious schedule, but she was determined to keep to it so that she could complete the terms of her sentence and return home to Mama and Daphne. Just being around the Sherbourne sisters made her miss her own. “This will require you to try the garments on two or three times a week to ensure the best fit. But at the end of three months, you’ll each have ten new gowns. What do you think?”

“Why, it sounds positively exhausting. Not the fittings—Rose and I have nothing better to do, do we, Rose? But that is an awful lot of sewing. Do you have an assistant?”

Anabelle choked on a laugh. “No. I will be busy, but I enjoy making dresses. It’s actually… rewarding.”

Rose leaned forward as though fascinated. Even in her half-blind state, Anabelle understood the question in her eyes.

“A pretty dress makes a woman feel happy. I can see it in her face, and that makes
me
feel wonderful. Don’t get me wrong, the sewing is sometimes tedious—mind numbing, if you want to know the truth—but even plying a needle can be soothing—”

“Until one’s thread gets jumbled in a disastrous knot.” Lady Olivia shuddered, as though she’d experienced her share.

“True,” Anabelle admitted. “Knots are ghastly.” And they chuckled—even Lady Rose, in a silent sort of way.

A tall footman appeared in the doorway, holding a beige blob which Anabelle deduced was her shabby portmanteau. “Oh,” she said, standing, “my things have arrived.”

“Come in, Roger,” said Lady Olivia. She turned to Anabelle. “Would you like your bag in your room?”

“I’ll take it.” She was eager to know if there was a note from Daphne.

Roger walked in and handed her the case. She thanked him and rummaged through her bag. Three simple dresses—one of which was Daphne’s—two chemises, a corset, stockings, slippers, a hair brush and mirror… but no letter. She’d probably been too busy. Anabelle sighed.

“Where are the rest of your things?” asked Lady Olivia.

Anabelle flushed. “Besides a few personal effects, this is all that I have.” She frowned as she sifted through the garments in the bag once more. “Although my nightrail does appear to be missing.” She’d left it on the floor behind the dressing screen in her hurry to leave for Hyde Park that morning. It was hard to believe she’d slept on the settee in her family’s parlor just last night. It seemed a lifetime ago.

Lady Olivia opened her mouth to say something but was distracted by the arrival of a maid pushing the tea cart. Lady Rose poured, and they all helped themselves to warm, buttered rolls. Anabelle couldn’t recall ever having eaten so much in one day.

As luck would have it, she was popping the last morsel of the delicious roll into her mouth when the duke strode into the room.

“Owen!” cried Lady Olivia. “Come sit. You must join us for tea.”

Anabelle focused on swallowing. And not choking—after having first been caught napping and now enjoying a leisurely tea during what was to be her first day of work.

He glared at the three of them, and while they waited for his response to a simple invitation, Anabelle had time to think.

His Christian name was Owen. It seemed very improper that she should know this, and yet she was amused to discover that the very intimidating Duke of Huntford was simply “Owen” to his sisters. It suited him. The brevity of it, the roundness of the vowel, the crispness of the consonant ending.

“No, thank you.” He adjusted his cravat, and Anabelle’s gaze was drawn to the thick, corded muscles of his neck. “The fabric and the, ah… other supplies—have they arrived?”

“Oh yes. Everything is over there on the table.” Lady Olivia patted Anabelle’s knee. “Was there anything else you needed, Miss Honeycote?”

Anabelle set her plate, empty but for a few crumbs, on the tea tray. “Not at the moment.”

He stared at her for several heartbeats but said nothing. She realized this was something she must accustom herself to—his habit of silently appraising her.

At last, he said, “The matters we discussed earlier this afternoon have been settled.”

She assumed he referred to her debts.

“This letter”—he walked closer and handed it to her—“is for you. The footman brought it after retrieving your things.”

Anabelle held the letter close to her face. Her name, in Daphne’s buoyant script, appeared on the outside, but the note wasn’t sealed. There probably hadn’t been time. Anabelle assumed the duke had read it and hoped Daphne hadn’t revealed anything too embarrassing. Although, she supposed, he knew most of their secrets now anyway. “Thank you.”

He grunted and jerked his chin toward her portmanteau. “You have your things.”

“Yes.” She forced herself to sit perfectly still, a polite smile pasted on her face, as he stared some more.

“I trust that you have another, more tasteful, cap in your bag. See that you’re wearing it tomorrow.” He gave a nod to each of his sisters, who stared at him slack-jawed as he stalked out of the room.

Lady Olivia cleared her throat. “I must apologize for my brother. Sometimes, he can be rather…”

“Overbearing?” Anabelle offered—though it was clearly not her place.

“Precisely.” Lady Olivia sighed. “I believe he means well. He was very different before our father died. But let’s not discuss such heavy matters today. We should let you unpack your things and prepare for dinner.”

Dinner? Anabelle hoped she wouldn’t have to eat again for at least a few hours. “Thank you. I’d like to spend some time working on your ball gowns so they’ll be ready for you to try on tomorrow.”

“We shall look forward to it. Shan’t we, Rose?”

Lady Rose smiled, nodded demurely, and stood.

The moment the sisters had taken their leave, Anabelle read Daphne’s letter. She was understandably curious about the terms of Anabelle’s new employment, but made
no mention of Mama’s condition. Anabelle would write tomorrow and ask Daph for daily reports.

Sighing, she went to work on Rose’s gown. The design Miss Starling had chosen for the young redhead in the dress shop seemed too fussy for her. Miss Starling had requested epaulettes of lace, crepe trimming, and three rows of muslin frills around the bottom. But now that Anabelle knew a little about Lady Rose, she felt certain that a simpler, more refined style would better suit.

Deciding to trust her own judgment, Anabelle adjusted the lines of the dress and set about replacing the epaulettes with cap sleeves. She would decorate them with two rows of tiny pearls that would fall from the back of the shoulder to the front of the arm. The softer, more feminine sleeves would complement Lady Rose’s long, graceful arms.

Anabelle cut, pinned, and sewed until the light from the nursery window was too dim for her to see her needle, and then she lit some lamps and worked some more even though her eyes ached from squinting. Mrs. Pottsbury stopped in to remind her to come down for dinner, but Anabelle was too caught up in her project to take a break, and, besides, she wasn’t hungry in the least.

Several hours later, she was done—at least all that she could do that evening. Tomorrow morning, she would wake up early and begin working on Lady Olivia’s gown. She had put away the pale blue gown and was crawling on the floor, feeling for loose threads and tiny scraps of silk, when she heard a knock at the doorway. Her heart pounded. Surely the duke wouldn’t seek her out at this time of night.

She scrambled to her feet and faced the doorway.
Without her spectacles, she couldn’t tell who her visitor was, but since she wore a dress, Anabelle felt she could confidently rule out the duke. The red hair, however, was her best clue.

“Lady Rose! It’s so late. Is everything all right?”

The girl nodded and smiled, then produced a white bundle from behind her back. She placed it in Anabelle’s hands.

“What’s this?” The soft white garment was folded in a neat square and smelled of crisp, clean cotton.

Lady Rose said nothing, so Anabelle unfolded it. Waves of white lawn billowed to the floor.

A nightgown.

“Is this for me to sleep in?”

Lady Rose raised her eyebrows and smirked, as though she’d have thought the answer would be obvious.

A lump formed in Anabelle’s throat. “Thank you. It’s lovely.”

The girl smiled and glided from the room.

“Good night,” Anabelle called. She wasn’t sure why a simple act of kindness had almost moved her to tears.

But she
was
sure of one thing. She was going to make Lady Rose a ball gown sure to bring every handsome bachelor in the
ton
to his knees. After the Miss Starlings of the world saw Lady Rose in her finery, they’d never again look at her with pity or condescension. In fact, the only emotion they’d feel toward her would be hot, desperate envy.

A
fter getting off to a slow start, Miss Honeycote
finally
seemed to be earning her keep. Owen had last seen her taking a leisurely tea with his sisters in the nursery, of all things. But in the three days since, he’d received impressive reports of her industriousness from Mrs. Pottsbury and Olivia. If one believed the housekeeper, Miss Honeycote rarely slept and had to be reminded to stop and take her meals. Olivia gushed over the seamstress’s sketches as though she were an artistic genius—nothing short of Gainsborough with a needle and thread. Most surprising, though, was that Rose—who was an excellent judge of character—was purported to like Anabelle immensely.

Anabelle.

The extortionist-turned-seamstress had a name. Olivia had reasoned that since the three women would be
spending the next several weeks together, they should be less formal.

Owen grunted to himself. He didn’t give a damn what Olivia called her. As far as he was concerned, she was Miss Honeycote. Or, better yet,
the seamstress
. And she always would be.

The odd impulse to kiss her after finding her sleeping was nothing more than a bizarre aberration. His mistress had left him two months ago, and he’d tired of their arrangement three months before that. He couldn’t explain why, except she was so damned eager to please him all the time. She lacked spirit and… authenticity. His friends were convinced he’d gone mad.

They were probably right.

Miss Honeycote’s unexpected loveliness had caught him off guard in the bedroom that day. It was like discovering that an ugly stalk in one’s garden had managed to bloom into a rare flower. Interesting at first, but once the novelty wore off, it was just a pretty flower in a garden chock full of them. No, the intense physical pull he’d felt toward the seamstress was clearly due to lack of sex, sleep, and, possibly, his sanity.