by Anne Barton
“Oh, here.” He pulled the spectacles from his pocket and handed them to her.
One lens was cracked, and the wire was badly bent. She attempted, unsuccessfully, to twist them into their proper shape before putting them on.
The oversized spectacles perched on her sloping nose, in combination with her ridiculous cap, confirmed his suspicion.
“I admire your devotion to your family, Miss Honeycote.”
She gasped.
He leaned forward until only a breath separated them. “And I believe I have a proposition for you.”
The duke’s smug smile raised the hairs on the back of Anabelle’s neck.
Although her left lens was cracked, she could see him clearly through the right. His bloodshot eyes suggested he’d had even less sleep than she, and his burgundy jacket with contrasting velvet trim looked like… well, it looked like he’d spent the night curled up under a bridge. Even so, he was handsome as sin.
She’d never spoken so frankly with a man before. Heavens, she’d even alluded to prostitution. But she was in the frightening—and yet oddly liberating—position of having absolutely nothing to lose.
“What, precisely, do you propose?” She managed a calm, matter-of-fact tone. As though she were not utterly and completely at his mercy.
“You say you need money to support your family.”
“I do.” She prickled at the suggestion that she would lie about such a thing.
“And you work at Mrs. Smallwood’s dress shop.”
She thought longingly of the projects waiting for her in the cozy back room. “Yes. Mrs. Smallwood will expect me when the shop opens this morning. She’ll be worried when I don’t arrive for work on time.”
He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “You are in the process of designing gowns for my sisters.”
“True.” She’d been in the process of a great many things. What was he getting at?
“The day I came into the dress shop, I had reservations about you. I mentioned them to Miss Starling, and do you know what she said?”
“I’m sure I don’t.” But she was sure the duke had hung on every word that the debutante uttered.
“She said you’re the secret to Mrs. Smallwood’s success, that there’s not another dressmaker in London with half your talent. She said that the most discerning and beautiful women of the ton demand you make their gowns.”
Anabelle shrugged. It didn’t surprise her that Miss Starling would refer to herself as discerning and beautiful.
“I assume the dress shop is where you heard the gossip about Olivia.”
Heat crept up her neck, and she nodded.
“And will you swear to me that you’ve never extorted money before?”
“I’ve already told you—”
“Do you swear, Miss Honeycote? It is important that I have all the facts. That I know the truth.” His green eyes were skeptical. And hopeful.
Anabelle hated lying—it made her physicially sick. But if she told the duke about her prior victims, he’d demand to know who they were, and she could never, ever reveal that information. She’d created her List of Nevers for a reason. It protected her clients and, more importantly, her family.
“I swear.”
“Well then, here’s my offer. If you’d like to avoid being brought before the magistrate… you may come and work for me.”
She narrowed her eyes. “In what capacity?”
“As a dressmaker, of course.”
Oh. Of course. “You’d want me to work at your residence?”
“Yes, my townhouse is in St. James’s Square, as you’re well aware. I believe you’ve met my butler.”
She felt her flush deepen. But the duke was offering her an alternative to prison, deportation, or… worse. She wouldn’t have to say good-bye to Mama and Daphne. Perhaps she could even keep her job at the dress shop.
A glimmer of hope burned in her chest. “It wouldn’t take me long to complete your sisters’ ball gowns. I’d gladly make them in exchange for my freedom.”
He laughed, a sharp, hollow sound. “The ball gowns are only a start. I want you to create complete wardrobes for each of them. They’ve only recently come out of mourning for my father, and Olivia tells me that all of her older things are out of fashion. Rose had just turned fifteen when he… died. She owns few gowns that are suitable for a young woman.”
“But two entirely new wardrobes would take me months to complete.”
“You’d rather spend those months in Newgate?”
“Of course not.” She squared her shoulders. “I’m accustomed to hard work. I’ll arrive at dawn each morning and work ’til nightfall.”
“No.”
No? “I don’t understand.”
“I can’t unleash an extortionist on the unsuspecting citizens of London. You’ll live under my roof. Where I can keep an eye on you.”
Oh no. “Your Grace,” she begged, “my mother and sister need me. I can’t leave them for days on end.”
He dragged a hand through his dark, closely cropped hair. “Your sister can tend to your mother. If I am able to confirm your story, I will pay your mother’s medical bills and your family’s rent while you work for me.”
Anabelle gulped and her eyes burned. The thought of living away from Mama and Daph devastated her, and yet, it was a generous offer.
“You may send a message to your family,” the duke continued. “Tell them what you will. I’ll inform Mrs. Smallwood of the special assignment I have for you, and if, after you’ve completed your duties, I’m convinced that you’re reformed, I think I could persuade her to give you back your position.”
Anabelle sniffled. “Could I say good-bye to my mother and sister?”
“Why would I let you out of my sight when you’ve given me no reason to trust you? No. You’d have to come with me immediately.” He stood, his patience apparently exhausted. “Take it or leave it.”
She hesitated only briefly before rising and looking directly into his eyes. “It would appear, Your Grace, that you now employ a full-time seamstress.” They shook hands to seal the deal, and the hint of a smirk hovered at the corner of his mouth. It instantly transformed him from austere duke to handsome rogue.
Anabelle’s insides went soft, and an alarm simultaneously sounded in her head. Rule number five on her List of Nevers: Never enter into any form of social interaction with a former customer.
She reminded herself that this was a business transaction, pure and simple. She’d sever ties with him and his family as soon as she completed his sisters’ wardrobes, and they would, no doubt, be relieved to be done with her as well. After all, she was a penniless seamstress with a criminal past. And broken spectacles.
The duke held out a palm, politely indicating the direction they should walk. “Shall we, Miss Honeycote?”
She fell in step beside him and realized—with no small amount of dread—that she’d just made a deal with the Devil.
Chapter Four
Owen didn’t speak to Miss Honeycote during the walk to his townhouse. He was much too busy trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with him.
The little miscreant at his side had threatened to ruin Olivia’s reputation, and instead of turning her in—which would have been the logical course of action—he’d invited her into his home, giving her unfettered access to his sisters. Not to mention the silver. Good God.
He strode through the park and headed west on Picadilly, slowing now and then when she fell too far behind. He’d almost offered her his arm—out of sheer habit—but thankfully caught himself. This wasn’t meant to be a pleasant stroll. He wondered what his friends and acquaintances would think if they saw him in his current disheveled state with his dreary companion. Shuddering at the thought, he walked faster and thanked heaven that no self-respecting member of the ton would be out at this ungodly hour.
At the sight of his brick townhouse, Owen breathed a sigh of relief. Once he stepped through the front door, he could hand Miss Honey
cote off to his housekeeper—Mrs. Pottsbury had a fondness for strays—and return to his normal duties.
He opened the door and hurried Miss Honeycote into the foyer. Dennison sauntered in moments later, his bushy eyebrows twitching at the sight of a strange young woman with the master of the house.
Owen shot the butler a warning look. “Tell Mrs. Pottsbury I wish to see her.”
Dennison rushed off, and Owen paced, his boots clicking on the Venetian tile.
“I don’t have any supplies with me,” Miss Honeycote said. “Thread, needles, fabric, lace… I’ll need a great many things just to get started.”
He paused and glared at her. She must be in quite a hurry to fulfill her duties, which, for some reason, irked him. As did her cap. He pointed at her head. “Why do you wear that ridiculous thing?”
“For modesty’s sake, Your Grace.” Her tone, however, was the opposite of modest. Rather sarcastic, actually.
He wasn’t sure why the cap bothered him so much. All the female servants wore some form of it. But it seemed too dowdy for someone as proud as Miss Honeycote. If she was capable of making such beautiful things, why didn’t she make something less hideous for herself? “It makes your head look like a mushroom.”
Her eyebrows shot up and she opened her mouth, but Mrs. Pottsbury teetered in and effectively cut her off. “Good morning, Your Grace,” she said with a curtsey. Owen was always fascinated by how the woman managed to keep her balance. Shaped like her namesake, she was round about the middle, with spindly arms and tiny feet. Even her cap resembled the knob on a teapot’s lid.
“Mrs. Pottsbury,” he said, “this is Miss Honeycote. I’ve commissioned her to design new wardrobes for my sisters, so she’ll be staying with us for a few months.”
The housekeeper smiled at Miss Honeycote, but the wrinkles on her forehead signaled her confusion. “I see. Shall I put her in one of the attic rooms?”
Even his capable housekeeper was uncertain about what to do with a live-in seamstress. “I’ll leave the decision to you.”
Mrs. Pottsbury frowned and spoke to the newest member of her staff. “Where are your things?”
“At my home.” Miss Honeycote gave him a pointed look. “I didn’t have time to retrieve them.”
The housekeeper clucked. “Goodness.”
For the love of—He turned to Miss Honeycote. “We will send for your things. You may write that letter to your mother and sister. I will speak to Mrs. Smallwood about your assignment and ask her to send you all the materials you’ll need. But before you do anything else, you are to follow Mrs. Pottsbury directly to the kitchen and eat a decent breakfast.” He knew he sounded like a tyrant. Didn’t care. “And find yourself another cap.”
Both women gasped, and the housekeeper quickly ushered Miss Honeycote toward the servants’ hall.
Lack of sleep must be responsible for his foul mood. He stalked off to his study, wishing it wasn’t too early for a glass of brandy.
Mrs. Pottsbury escorted Anabelle to a small, tidy room that appeared to serve as the housekeeper’s office. A wall of shelves was crowded with colorful jars of preserves, shiny tins of all sizes, and a variety of household books. The homey smells of coffee, tea, and spices made Anabelle’s stomach rumble.
The housekeeper pointed to a ladder-backed chair that was tucked under a round table just big enough for two. “Sit. The master wants you to eat.” She pursed her lips and eyed Anabelle critically before adding, “And I can see why. I’ll get us each a plate from the kitchen and join you. Then we’ll get you settled. I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you look like you could use a rest before you start”—she fluttered her tiny, graceful hands—“cutting, pinning, and sewing.” She left, black iron keys jangling at her waist, before Anabelle could respond.
Grateful to have a minute to herself, Anabelle willed the stinging in her chest to subside. She attempted to smooth the bodice of her gown, ignoring the bumps of her ribs beneath the layers of cotton and wool.
First, the duke ridiculed her cap, and then Mrs. Pottsbury insinuated she was too thin and tired-looking. Anabelle was no beauty. She’d needed to wear spectacles soon after she’d learned to read and had always been the plain sister. If Daphne was a sunny, perfect daffodil, Anabelle was a plain, dry reed. It was just the way of things.
And quite fortunate, actually. In comparison to her, clients at the dress shop always appeared beautiful and elegant. Gentlemen rarely noticed her, so she didn’t have to ward off unwanted advances.
No, she’d never really fretted over not being pretty.
But today, she wished that she were. If for no other reason than to erase the pity on Mrs. Pottsbury’s face. And, possibly, the sneer on the duke’s.
“Ah, here we are.” The housekeeper’s shoes clicked across the wooden floor with staccato steps, and she set two plates, napkins, and silverware on the tiny table.
Anabelle gazed at the food heaped upon her plate. Ham, eggs, pheasant, and pastries.
“Please, eat,” instructed Mrs. Pottsbury. “I’ll fetch tea.”
The housekeeper toddled off again, and unexpected tears burned Anabelle’s eyes. The food on her plate amounted to more than her family had eaten in the past two days. While she sat there with a feast before her, at home Mama and Daph choked down dry toast and maybe a poached egg. She would speak to the duke today and ask—no, demand—that he send them money and a delivery of some necessities, too.
As she debated how to approach the duke, Mrs. Pottsbury returned.
“What’s this? Miss Honeycote, you must eat. Good heavens, child, what’s wrong?”
Anabelle swiped at her face and shook her head. “Nothing. This looks wonderful—thank you.” She picked up her fork and took a bite of ham. It was heavenly. She would see to it that Mama and Daph had food in their cupboards. Soon.
A quarter of an hour later, her plate was empty, her belly full, and her eyelids drooping. She took a sip of tea and sighed. Mrs. Pottsbury placed her last bite of egg in her mouth and dabbed her lips with a napkin. “Now then,” the housekeeper said, “I’ve been thinking about which room you should use during your stay.”
“Anywhere is fine, I can assure you.”
“Mmm. But it occurs to me that you’ll be spending most of your time with Lady Olivia and Lady Rose. You’ll need room for all your supplies and sewing projects. The attic rooms are small and would not be convenient.”
Anabelle shrugged. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m certain I can manage.”
“No, no. An attic room won’t do. I’m going to put you in the spare chamber next to the young ladies’ rooms. It connects to the nursery, which will make an excellent workroom for you.”
“I don’t know…” It didn’t seem right for her to stay in a guest chamber when she was half-indentured servant, half-prisoner. However, Mrs. Pottsbury was correct—Anabelle would need ample space for designing and creating.
“The duke left it up to me, and I think the guest chamber is the perfect solution.” The housekeeper stood and pushed in her chair. “Come. I’ll show you to your room.”
Mrs. Pottsbury ushered Anabelle from the tiny office and led her down the carpeted hallway, detouring to point out the well-equipped kitchen and spacious dining room. But the opulent drawing room on the first floor took her breath away. The ceiling was comprised of hexagons that fit together like a honeycomb, and at the center a painted frieze depicted plump seraphim frolicking among the clouds. Three recessed windows framed with elegant carved paneling stretched from floor to ceiling. Several large mirrors placed at regular intervals around the room made it seem even more enormous than it was. The top half of the walls was covered in a light green brocade that tied everything in the room together: the ceiling mural, the plush carpet, and the graceful furniture.
That particular shade of green—sea foam—made Anabelle’s heart beat faster. She’d often dreamed of making herself a dress of light green silk. Maybe one day, after she’d served her sentence, a
nd Mama had recovered, and Daphne had married an upstanding gentleman—then Anabelle would sew herself a pale green gown. She sighed softly. The odds of this particular dream coming true were about as great as her chances of ascending to the throne.
But dreams were free.
On the first floor the housekeeper also proudly pointed out the duke’s study, which was, of course, strictly off limits.
“And now for the second floor.” Mrs. Pottsbury held a finger to her lips as she tiptoed up the stairs. “Lady Olivia and Lady Rose are still abed, which is as it should be. Such fine girls,” she said. “They’ve been through so much.”
Anabelle longed to ask what had happened to the young women and whether it had anything to do with their overbearing brother but didn’t want to risk waking anyone.
The housekeeper paused at the top of the stairs to catch her breath and pointed down the hall. “To the right is the master’s suite,” she whispered with the appropriate amount of respect. “These two rooms”—she indicated the closed doors located side-by-side in front of them—“are Lady Olivia’s and Lady Rose’s bedchambers. Yours is to the left. Come.”
Mrs. Pottsbury entered, waved Anabelle in, and closed the door behind them.
Anabelle caught her breath. The entire chamber was decorated in… pale green. It reminded her of the lichen that had grown on the trees in the woods surrounding her family’s cottage and the new leaves that sprouted each spring. Though the room was small, the furnishings were sumptuous. The silk bedding, velvet curtains, and thick Aubusson rug were fit for a palace.
“It’s terribly dusty,” the housekeeper said apologetically. “I didn’t have the chance to air it out.”
Understandable, since she couldn’t have predicted that the duke, after being out all night, would return home with a seamstress.
“It’s beautiful.” Much too grand, in fact. After spending each night of the last two years either in a chair or on a settee, such luxury seemed positively decadent.
“I’ll have a maid bring up some water. You’ll find paper, pen, and ink in the desk drawer. I know you want to send a message to your family, so make use of whatever you need.”
