by Kelly Bowen
“Then why don’t you?”
It wasn’t that simple. “I can never find the time or someone to make the connections… Can you set me upright and give me my glasses? I can't see you, not well at all.”
“I suppose that makes me the keeper of your fate, and I did stop you from toppling. You are not a very lithe woman. Tall but not slender. Very nice.”
Cheeks heating, she pressed on his shoulders. “Let me up.”
“Of course, Miss Nettles.” He swung her up but then slung her back to the same dangling position. “I had a thought. I suppose it's good I kept you.”
“Mr. Sedgewick, please.”
He swept her fully onto the seat. Then she felt his fingers on both sides of her face sliding on her spectacles, brass limbs along with his thumbs skidding against her skin.
She had to be the color of the scarlet dress she’d made for Madame.
Mr. Sedgewick stayed an inch, a kiss, away.
Perfectly in focus, perfectly sweet, he perfectly filled her stomach with knots, with what-ifs and why nots and maybes.
The carriage stopped.
He popped out and held his hand out for her. “So I wear this disguise?”
“Yes, my clients think I’m exotic. You’ll be Raul, my eunuch helper.”
“A eunuch? Really.”
“I’m the keeper now, and you promised to follow my rules.”
He leaned inside and drew out her bundles. “I don't sound exotic or Raul.”
“Excellent point.” She stashed another bundle into his hand. “Then you’ll have to be mute. We wouldn't want your prim and proper tongue to give us away.”
“Prim? I must say your brogue sounds just as prim and not exotic at all.”
“Yes, I worked hard to bear no hint of a West Indies origin. Now, princy, come along.”
He took a step and stopped. “You are full of surprises and the description of this house seems familiar. This is Madame Labonne’s residence?”
“Yes, and no more words. You are my mute, Raul.”
He nodded, but there was something that distracted him. “Do you know whose mistress she is?”
“No, and I am not to know. That’s how I work.” She pulled out her watch. “But I will tell you, she’s been very emotional. Her gentleman caller is threatening to marry some daughter of a wealthy family.”
“Well, that's the other thing important men do.”
Something weighed upon him. His clear eyes were large and cloudy, but it was Madame's time. “Mute, remember? This is your first lesson in trade. Give the customer and the employer or advisor what they want. I want you mute.”
“Trust me, Miss Nettles. I've nothing more to say.”
She stopped halfway up the steps. “Does she know you? Were you ever her friend?”
“No. Mistresses are expensive, and I don't share well.”
Mr. Sedgewick wasn't happy. His lips had disappeared and his tight jaw pulled tighter, the look he had when haggling for a better price.
“If this is above your principles, sir, please return to the carriage.”
“What, Miss Nettles?”
“Men. You are allowed to have mistresses and allowed to think it all too common and coarse. My clients are not respectable to some, but they are people. People who needn't be judged, especially when they pay very well for my services.”
He bounced up a step ahead. “I said I wanted to observe and you’ve already cut up my coat. Can't be for naught.”
He started pointing, motioning with his index finger for her to take the lead.
She went ahead of Mr. Sedgewick and exchanged smiles with him, then waited for the footman to open the doors for her and her mute clerk.
The doors opened and she focused her thoughts on her client and hoped Mr. Sedgewick did not spoil their ruse and get Mary-Anne terminated. She did not want to lose her best client, her only friend.
7
The Earl's Courtesan
Uncombed hair, slashed up coat, shirt sleeves showing—August imagined he looked as if he’d been set upon by footpads.
He should feel embarrassed, but that wasn’t the heat swirling in his gut. It wasn’t a cold or that feeling when one became sick in their cups. This was rage coiling his innards.
From the gossip, Madame Labonne was his brother's mistress.
From the looks of the house, the gold tapestry lining the floors, the watercolor paintings hanging along each wall, he could only guess how much of his late father's fortune was wasted here.
No wonder his brother had said he had nothing for Sarah.
And how could Haverthon chastise her worth when he had a bigger secret?
If August wasn't playing a mute, he might mutter a foul word or three.
He’d seen the name, Labonne, on a stray cut of his brother’s foolscap. Then August overheard whispered conversations at White’s alluding to this courtesan, the expensive woman, that his brother kept.
But seeing her lifestyle was more cutting than anything.
Haverthon lied and would keep lying when it came to his sisters.
The footman led them to a room, a parlor of garish pink furnishings. At least the walls, which reeked of fresh paint, were sand colored.
“Madame,” the footman said, “will be in in a moment.”
Oh, Lord. Was his brother here?
That would be awkward.
And wouldn’t his brother laugh at August’s costume?
But who’d explain first—August dressing as a mute clerk or Haverthon’s lies?
Miss Nettles tugged his arm. “Are you well? I know paint fumes can make some sick. Nod once for yes. Twice for no.”
The modiste looked up at him. Kindness and concern filled her gentle brown eyes. It was times like these he wished he was bold like his brother and claimed things that weren’t his—like an embrace from a sympathetic, impassioned woman.
He dipped his head once. His confronting his brother would look poorly on her. He’d play this out and wait.
“Good. It’s a little fun being mysterious.” She tweaked her glasses and gave him an approving glance.
Fun.
How much fun did a woman dedicated to work have?
She was never at her warehouse. She’d driven her poor horse into the ground, all for clients no one would entertain in proper society. Her talent was worth more than this.
Miss Nettles pried the bolt of fabric from his hands, then spread out a dress the color of Devonshire cream onto a chair. “You shall hold my sketches, my mute clerk.”
The woman was giggling. Savoring her own private joke made her giggle. This was fun for her. Did she know what true fun was?
His chest tightened. August felt compelled to show her.
The doors to the drawing room opened and a slender woman made her appearance. A pile of blood red curls framed a thin rosy face.
But who would stop at her face.
A large, ripe bosom lay half exposed, barely wrapped in a royal red robe. “On time as usual. And with help. I am so glad, ma chère. You work too hard.”
“Well, good help is hard to find. Mr. Raul is helping on a trial basis.”
She came over and fingered August’s shoulder. “Good stock, chère. But a quiet one.”
“He’s mute, ma’am. It’s tragic.”
“Positively tragic, Miss Nettles.” The woman moved away taking her strong nose-wrinkling jasmine perfume with her. She came upon the dress his employer had laid on the chair.
But the glance Madame Labonne kept offering him reminded August of the examination one would do a horse—one that had been found wanting and discarded.
He didn't like that.
“The dress looks so sweet. Too sweet.”
“Yes, ma’am, but it will still show off your finer attributes.”
His brother’s mistress held the dress against her then whirled around and around until she stopped in front of a gold inlaid mirror in the corner of the room. “I think I love it. I should try it on no
w.”
“No, ma’am. Mr. Raul is a… a eunuch. He shouldn’t be…entertained.”
“Now, that is a shame, but I don’t need to try this on. I know it should fit. You are the best designer.”
“I have brought some more sketches. More dresses that will make you look divine. What about something in peach?
“Peach? That will make me pale, chère.”
Miss Nettles shuffled through the fabric bundles and took out a fruity looking fabric that shimmered in the candlelight. Was it satin or silk she unfurled?
“Now that is beautiful. But, chère, are we back to gloves? You can be free in front of me.”
“My hands are cold, ma’am.”
August glanced at Madame Labonne, and then back at Miss Nettles, he searched his memory for a single time he’d seen her hands uncovered.
Nothing.
They’d never been naked or exposed in front of him. Why? Leprosy. No, no. Something else.
Miss Nettles wafted the discarded fabric into the air, covering August’s head, and picked another bolt. “See how this looks in candlelight.”
He shook free and watched the way light skipped along the weave, like a stone across the Serpentine waters, but the shine was nothing like the peachy material.
Tired of feeling powerless, he looped the first fabric about Miss Nettle, making her spin like a top to be free.
She smiled, then frowned, then smiled at him.
He hoped not to burst anything by swallowing his laugh.
“Ma’am,” Miss Nettles said as she tugged away. “I picked this because it will make you look youthful as you requested. You emphasized that you wanted something to make you look like a sweet siren. I think it will do just that.”
Madame Labonne came close to August, took the cloth from his shoulder and held it close to her chin. Such a contrast, the innocence of the white and the guileless jade.
But then he saw tears in her eyes. How could that be from one hardened by flesh peddling?
“I don't know what to do, ma chère. My earl has not come or sent a note, not since telling me of his plans to propose to that duke’s daughter.”
Miss Nettles came to her side, offering a handkerchief and a hug. “You’re beautiful without him. You have the means to live without him. You don't have to keep twisting yourself in knots trying to hold on to a man who doesn’t want to stay.”
The courtesan, the woman, mopped at her face. “I am nothing without my Max.”
Confirmation. Maximillian Sedgewick, the Earl of Haverthon was the culprit, and from the tears, someone who was loved. Lucky fool.
Tugging her back toward the mirror, Miss Nettles locked arms with the courtesan. “Your earl does this every year and dangles an impending marriage to some new girl of the season. It is cruel. It’s to control you.”
Madame sniffled. “Yes.”
“But every year, he does not marry. He chooses you.”
“Yes, but the uncertainty this time is unbearable. The horrid truth of caring for a man who can only give but so much. I am stupide.”
Putting hands to the woman’s cheeks, Miss Nettles pulled her face close. “No, not at all. But maybe you don't have the heart for this back-and-forth business anymore.”
“Advisor and modiste. Miss Nettles, you don’t charge enough.”
The designer looked back at August. “That’s interesting. Some think I charge too much.”
“You are worthy of your wages, ma chère, even more. Good thing your eunuch is mute. Not a single word of this sentimental blustering can be repeated.”
He nodded, though the words of agreement and sympathy were on his tongue. He was glad to play mute and not say the wrong thing and miss the truth of these women’s situations.
Miss Nettles returned and took up her sketches, but the gaze she offered stole his breath, ramped his pulse, and put other words, words of praise on his tongue.
But a mute eunuch couldn’t comment.
Page turn and page turn, the sound of paper crinkling echoed.
August found himself straining to hear their words. He moved closer, directly behind the chaise and watched.
“With these designs, everyone will see your best qualities. The bodice will be sleek, lifting and surrounding your womanhood. You will be like a package to unwrap.”
The music of her words, the encouragement of her phrases reminded August of what Miss Nettles had said to his sister and the smile Sarah bore that day.
“A package. He does like to unwrap things. Like birthday presents.”
August began to cough, choking on the sentiment.
“Does your Raul need something to drink, ma chère? He’s a big one, and I don’t want you to lose your help. You need support.”
“It’s the new paint, ma’am. He’s sensitive to the fumes.”
He nodded to show his agreement, but he wanted this feeling of empathy to stay in his skull. Pity it would take masquerading as a mute eunuch to see the humanity of a courtesan or feel the depth of kindness Miss Nettles offered her clients.
“You are very pretty, chère. There are men, gentlemen, who seek out a woman such as you to meet their needs. You would make more than you earn at dressmaking.”
Though the woman had just tried to recruit her to be a harlot, Miss Nettles’ smile never wavered. “I prefer to make outfits to be on display than to be displayed.”
“Perhaps. And from the way your mute assistant is looking at you, perhaps you do not need companionship. Have you checked to see if he is all eunuch?”
Miss Nettles’ cheeks darkened, very red, burnished red like paneling. It felt as if the heat touched him where he stood, but it could be a fever induced by the fresh paint.
“He’s fine, Madame, no checking. And you don’t have to check for me.”
A blush and possessiveness. A double win.
“Let me show you another gown, Madame.” Miss Nettles picked up a new drawing and began describing her vision.
If August hadn’t been mesmerized by her beautiful sketches, he’d have missed the way her voice, its meter intensified like a fine violin’s song as she personalized the emotion of her art for Madame Labonne. And he wouldn’t be enjoying the way her deep brown eyes shined with hints of claret, candlelight, and the coziness of their shared secret.
Unexpected. This notion of drowning in her smile.
That feeling coursed through his chest again. It kept August from turning away.
And it wasn’t paint fumes or the room being too warm.
This couldn’t be their only outing.
The dressmaker and her mute eunuch had to have more time.
Fun. This was fun. Miss Nettles needed fun.
“Raul, could you show Madame the lace fabric?”
August rummaged through the samples until he found the creamy lace that looked like Chantilly lace with dots and leaves—like one of his mother’s shawls. He swept it across his arms like a magician’s cape.
Miss Nettles’ mouth curled up. Smothered laughter left crinkles near her cheeks.
Fun might be the way to fulfill the benefactor’s challenge, and Miss Nettles seemed far from immune to its power.
August caught her smiling again and purposed to become the most fun man in England.
8
A Little Help
The sun was setting when Mr. Sedgewick’s carriage made it to Mary-Anne’s warehouse off Wood Street in Cheapside.
Hers.
The one and only time she’d used her father’s money and influence to procure. Well, fathers were good for something…sometimes.
“Mr. Sedgewick, you don’t have to be silent any more. Your day of being a mute is over.”
“And a eunuch.” He leaned over and clasped her palm. “Today was eye opening.”
Mary-Anne dipped her chin. “I apologize for Madame’s …boldness.”
“She was an eyeful, but your other appointments, the vicar’s daughter, the baron’s niece, they were more memorable.”
&
nbsp; Panicked, Mary-Anne grasped his hand, squeezing his fingers as if to rein him back. “No, Mr. Sedgewick. Don’t try to puzzle out who they are or who they are connected to. My business survives on keeping these secrets.”
He rolled her palm and took control, his hands now shrouding hers. “That’s not what I meant. I never saw the pain of the secrets. My sister was in love with her scoundrel. Sarah was brazen about it and never appeared vulnerable, not until I tried to negotiate a lower price on her gown.”
“Women hide pain. We bundle it up and keep it all inside until it can’t be bottled up any longer. It’s rare to feel safe enough to share. Your sister was very distressed. I know she believed she’d disappointed you.”
“I understand now. And I liked how you made her and each lady today feel beautiful, even the courtesan.”
His hand tightened and drew hers to his mouth and kissed them atop her glove, to the smooth skin above her wrist. “I have a better sense of what you do. You are a wonder.”
He didn’t release her or her gaze.
Warm and rich and heated, his eyes spoke of things she understood but could not allow herself to acknowledge. Desire was dangerous, to her business and her heart.
“You can let me out here,” she said, “I think you’ve been generous enough with your time. Hand me your jacket. I’ll have it ready for you tomorrow.”
Mr. Sedgewick did not move, no unbuttoning, nothing. “Not generous enough. It will be dark soon, let me take you to your residence.”
“My residence? I live above my shop.”
He craned his neck toward the window. “You live here? It looks cold. Only one chimney. You could get a sore throat or a cough.”
His lips thinned and again she felt judged.
“My shop is clean. I work hard. I’m not a fresh flower of the season or anything else. I only need room enough for my muse.”
“A place of business should not be your home, Miss Nettles.”
“My home is across the sea. Here on these shores… I am lucky to have what I have.”
“The rents must be very high. No wonder you charge so much.”
“Good evening, sir.” She let herself out of his carriage, but the man followed taking her bundles.
