by Erica Vetsch
Looking down into the pit, he locked eyes with a woman in the cheaper seats. He gave no sign of recognition, but he caught the glint in her eyes. Aunt Dolly, dressed for a night at the opera. She tapped her folded fan lightly against her palm, and he nodded slowly.
She had information that couldn’t wait.
The woman on stage stopped caterwauling and bowed to the applause of the audience before the heavy curtains descended on the first act. Marcus released Charlotte’s hand, grateful that intermission had finally come.
Soon he found himself standing in the hallway behind the box, surrounded by people laughing and talking.
“That was … interesting.” Whitelock shrugged. “How often does a fellow have to show up at the opera to be considered a gentleman?”
Marcus smiled. “More often than I would like.”
“Oh good. I was afraid I was the only one who wasn’t enjoying it. As soon as I can, I’m taking Diana and the boys back to White Haven.” He tugged at his collar. “I feel like I can’t breathe in London. And I miss comfortable clothes.”
“You’ll be in town for the wedding, I hope? I would like you to stand up with me if you will.” Marcus leaned to his right to keep Charlotte in view. She spoke with Lady Trelawney at the moment. Or rather she listened and nodded as Lady Trelawney talked.
“I’d be glad to. What changed your mind so quickly? Last time we talked, you weren’t interested in getting married, and now, bang! You’re ready to trot up the aisle. Did the Prince Regent put the screws to you like he did me?”
“You didn’t do too badly, arranged marriage or not.” Marcus evaded the question. His reasons were his own, and he hadn’t sorted them all out yet himself.
“No, and I’ll be the first to admit it. The prince did me a favor when he insisted I marry Diana. And Charlotte seems … nice.” Evan scratched his cheek, his eyes clouded. “Your dear mama doesn’t seem too besotted with the idea. Does she have reason for reservations?”
“You know my mother. Half the time Princess Caroline herself wouldn’t be good enough for her son, and the other half, her son wouldn’t be good enough to marry a ragpicker.” Marcus found himself wanting to leap to Charlotte’s defense. “Charlotte’s got a keen mind and sharp sense of humor. She’s well read, and she seems to want to help people.” Including her prostitute sister.
He hadn’t missed her whispered declaration when she’d seen her sister. She wanted to help Pippa even if Pippa didn’t want to be helped.
Evan nodded. “All excellent qualities. I wish you every happiness.” But doubts still lingered in his eyes. “Do you love her?”
“You didn’t love Diana when you married her. People marry for a lot of reasons, and Charlotte and I have ours. It will work out fine.” Marcus hoped he was speaking the truth.
Evan nodded. “I just want you to have the best of life, Marcus. You’ve been a good friend to me and Diana, and I want you to find happiness. You deserve it.”
As people filtered back to their seats, Marcus excused himself. “Now that the crush is thinning, I’ll go down and have some refreshments sent up for everyone.”
Making his way down the curving staircase, he passed several acquaintances. Last Season, he would have nodded and stepped aside so they could get by, but now they made way for him, dipping their heads, showing deference. He pressed his lips together. Inside he felt no different than before, but now he was a high-ranking public figure.
The manager of the refreshment room bustled out from the kitchen. “Your Grace, how may I serve you? Is there something amiss?”
“There are others here ahead of me. See to them first.” He motioned to those waiting at the small tables and those who stood in line to be seated.
The manager and a waiter looked from one to the other, as if they didn’t know what to do. “Of course, Your Grace.”
He scanned the faces, but Aunt Dolly wasn’t in sight. After placing his order to be taken up to his box, he drifted to the foyer.
There she was. Waiting beside a potted palm, studying a placard announcing the schedule of shows for this Season.
“Good evening.”
“You took plenty of time noticing me. Are your skills slipping?” She dug in her reticule as she spoke, keeping her voice low. “You’re playing the part of the smitten swain quite well. I couldn’t tell from where I was sitting, but it looked like you were holding hands with your betrothed for a long time.”
“You have information for me?”
“It’s been years since I went to the opera, and I’ve never sat in the pit before. I always had an invitation to the private seats back when I was a working girl.” She pursed her lips. “Though I never aspired to rise so high as Miss Cashel. Front row in the Royal Box no less.”
She dropped her handkerchief, and as he bent to pick it up for her, he palmed the note inside, slipping it into his coat pocket without opening it. “Thank you.”
She appraised him. “You certainly look like a duke tonight. Not a bit like Hawk, who swoops in and out of my place in the dead of night.”
He shrugged in the tight-fitting jacket and fingered the intricately tied cravat at his throat. “Just as well. Wouldn’t do for everyone to know I’m both.”
She nodded, flicking open her fan but not flapping it. “Still looking for that information you wanted from way back in the day, but that little note should shed some light on the Napoleon-is-dead news.”
Sir Noel and the stock exchange investigators had been following leads all day. The entire enterprise seemed to be a hoax perpetrated for the purpose of manipulating government stocks. There had been quite a brouhaha in the market, but the dust seemed to have settled for now. However, some quite influential names had been bandied about as the source of the manipulation, and Marcus suspected the fallout would continue for quite a while yet. There might even be a court case in the offing. Careers would be at stake, as well as the reputation of the exchange.
“Thank you again.”
“Best get back up there, Your Grace. Wouldn’t do your reputation much good to be seen talking to the likes of me.” She smiled, but the wistfulness about her eyes pierced him.
CHAPTER 8
“I DON’T KNOW where to begin.” Charlotte tried not to meet her reflection in one of the many mirrors adorning the modiste’s fitting room, fidgeting with the belt on the wrapper the assistant had given her when she had surrendered her dress and bonnet.
Diana Whitelock perched on the edge of a pale-green upholstered chair, her gloves folded in her lap. “Perhaps the wedding gown first, and then …” She dug in her reticule. “I made a list.” She gave a soft chuckle. “Evan is always teasing me about my lists, but he relies on them just the same.” She opened a crisp sheet of paper. “I spoke with Marcus, and he’s made his wishes plain. You’re to have everything you need and not to spare the expense. He must be quite besotted with you to give you such a free hand and generous clothing allowance. I’m glad. He deserves someone nice like you.”
Charlotte was certain the duke was not besotted with her. He was merely responding to and agreeing with what his mother had declared: that Charlotte was too dowdy and plain and her clothing too plebeian to suit the requirements of a duchess. She would have to be brought up to scratch—or at least as up to scratch as possible given what they had to work with—as quickly as possible.
The modiste, a buxom woman with round cheeks and a jolly manner, bustled in. “I’m Franny Cooper, but you can call me Miss Franny. You’re needing an entire wardrobe, are you?”
Though the sign over the shop said Antoinette’s, the woman was as British as Berkshire butter. At Charlotte’s surprised look, she said, “I know. I called the place Antoinette’s because rich folks want their couture to have a Continental flair. We might be at war with France, but when it comes to cooks and seamstresses, the English want French influences. If I called the place “Franny Cooper’s,” nobody would bother coming in. Truth is, I’m from Suffolk, but never you mind that. I
can design and sew, and I’ve clothed some of the finest ladies in London, Her Ladyship included.” She waved toward Diana.
“It’s true. And she’s fast. She and her girls. And she listens, which is why I like coming here.” Diana handed Miss Franny the list. “Lady Charlotte needs everything from the skin out, but we’d like to start with the wedding dress first. There are three weeks remaining until the wedding, so this is a rush order.”
Miss Franny read through the items, pulling a pencil from the hair knotted at the back of her head, puffing out her cheeks. “A proper trousseau. In three weeks.” She nodded, narrowing her eyes as she neared the bottom of the page.
Charlotte moved to read over her shoulder. At the end of the lengthy list, the last line said, “Send all bills to the Duke of Haverly’s residence, Cavendish Square.”
Charlotte had known this was part of the marriage agreement between the duke and her father, but her cheeks burned when she remembered how her parent had preened and gloated about how the duke was bearing all the expenses of the wedding and outfitting her, and her father had no outlay to get rid of her. As far as he was concerned, it was the best possible outcome.
And he was already scheming about how to leverage having a duke as a son-in-law to his advantage.
Diana went to the table under the windows to examine the folio of dress designs laid out there. “Charlotte, what do you think for the wedding gown? A train, or no?” She held up a sketch.
There followed a shower of designs, lengths of fabric, trims, colors, and choices. Every time Charlotte picked up something in a slate gray or subdued brown, Diana would lift it from her hands. “No, that won’t do at all. With your beautiful coloring, you need richer jewel tones. Emerald green, sapphire blue, garnet red. And …” She studied Charlotte, who now stood on a small, round platform in the center of the room, with arms outstretched as several assistants measured and jotted notes and turned and prodded her. “You have a lovely figure. You need dresses that flatter you. I don’t mean to offend, but all your drab colors and tight underpinnings haven’t done you any favors. You’re hiding under all those stays and straight lines.”
Charlotte was so grateful for Diana’s help and encouragement, she didn’t take offense at the gentle critique. In fact the compliment on her figure and coloring gave her a confidence she had never felt before.
She ran her hand over a roll of satin, rubbing the fabric against itself to hear the smooth swish. “Do you think an evening gown in this color would suit me?” Holding a length of the seafoam textile up under her chin, she studied herself in the mirror. She had never worn anything like it.
“What a perfect shade for you. Look how your eyes change color to match it. That’s the beauty of green eyes. Yours take on the hue of whatever you’re wearing.” Diana held a corner of the fabric up to her cheek. “Mine, on the other hand, are brown no matter what I wear.”
That Diana ever felt a single qualm about her looks made Charlotte think. “I wouldn’t suppose you would ever regret anything about yourself. You’re so beautiful.”
Diana laughed. “Thank you for those kind words. Though I suppose every woman has at least one thing she would change about herself, eye color, hair color, nose, chin, lips … it’s silly, really, but there it is. We always seem to want what we don’t have. I used to want golden hair like yours, or sapphire eyes, or …” She laughed again, waving down her front. “A better-endowed figure, though having a baby has changed that somewhat. Still, Evan is happy with how I look, and he tells me often that he thinks I’m beautiful, so that’s more than enough for me.”
The countess was a blessed woman to have her husband so in love with her and so generous with his compliments. She prayed it would last a long time for them.
Charlotte couldn’t quell the spark of hope that maybe, someday, when she and the duke had been married for a long time, he might feel some affection for her. Maybe not a passionate love for the ages, but a fondness. Was that too much to ask or hope for? Would God grant her that good gift someday?
The Earl of Whitelock’s boast that his wife had an excellent eye for design was borne out over the next two hours. “You don’t want to be overwhelmed with a dress all in one single bold color. Rather than an entire gown of this royal blue, what if we inserted a cream panel down the front? Perhaps with some pin-tucking to add interest? It harks back to the stomacher design, but with the empire waistline, it would be as modern as tomorrow. And you can use this cream-and-blue ribbon as trim where the fabrics meet.” She draped the blue fabric around Charlotte’s shoulders and held the cream up before her with the ribbon dangling against the lighter fabric.
“An excellent choice, my lady,” Miss Franny said around the pins in her teeth. “We could do something similar with the ruby fabric, and she won’t run the risk of looking like a High Church official with all that red satin and nothing to relieve it.”
“Or you could do the reverse, with the cream as the base and the ruby as the accent.” And they were away again, discussing options and sorting through sketches.
Charlotte could hardly believe any of this was real. Not only was she in a dressmaker’s shop, allowed to choose or refuse any suggestion sent her way, but she was with a … friend. She’d never had a woman friend before. And while Diana and Miss Franny plotted and planned, Diana was careful to ask Charlotte’s opinion on each choice, giving Charlotte the final say. And as they went along, Charlotte’s confidence grew, and she added her own thoughts, though often she bowed to Diana’s taste and her knowledge of what was fashionable and necessary for a woman of the ton.
By the time they had finished ordering everything from chemises and nightwear to a riding habit and the wedding dress, Charlotte was exhausted. “I cannot possibly make another decision today.” She shook her head when Miss Franny pointed from one lace to another for trim on a petticoat. “Select the one you prefer, and I shall be delighted.” She subsided onto an overstuffed ottoman. “Would you have one of the girls bring my dress back?”
“If you’ll pardon me for being outspoken, I can’t bring myself to return that dress to you. It would be a crime. I have something better. It was made for another customer, but in the end she decided not to buy it. If you would like to try it on?” Miss Franny swept up the swatches and sketches into piles with her copious notes and tucked her pencil into her bun.
“Oh yes, I was just going to ask if you had anything Charlotte could take away with her today.” Diana consulted her list one last time before giving it a satisfied nod and tucking it into her reticule.
Miss Franny returned with a russet gown laid over her arms. “I think this will look lovely on you, and it will give us a good idea of fit for the ones to be made.” With swift, well-practiced movements, she drew Charlotte behind the changing screen and had her in the new dress, complete with new undergarments that were much less restrictive than Charlotte was used to, almost before she knew what was happening. “Let me fasten these buttons in the back, and you can tell me what you think.”
Charlotte stepped from behind the screen and stared at herself in one of the long mirrors. She tentatively stroked the skirt with her fingertips. The fabric was luxuriously soft and plentiful, not at all the thin, dull fabric of which her own dresses had been made for years. She felt the heavy, golden braid trim and the gentle ruches on the bodice.
“Oh, Charlotte, that’s perfect.” Diana did a slow turn around her. “It could’ve been made just for you. What an excellent fit.”
A stranger looked back at her from the glass. Never before had she felt so womanly and … pretty. The cut and drape of the dress flattered her figure, accentuated the curves she was always told to hide, and drew the eye with its cheerful color. It made her think of fall leaves in the sunshine. The gold locket with the emerald lay well above the neckline of the dress, which while not overly revealing was lower than she had ever worn before. The metal was warm against her skin and threw back the light from the high windows.
The dr
ess was perfect, and she fell in love with it.
Her hands went to her hair, which had become rumpled with all the changing of clothes. A few curls had escaped their pins and were running amok, and she pulled them back, skewering them into submission.
“We’re dealing with that next, don’t you fret. I’ve a few ideas in that direction that I hope you’ll like.” Diana put her hand on Charlotte’s arm. “And we’ll have to hurry too. We’ve still so much to do. Miss Franny, send the garments as you get them made. Lady Charlotte has several social engagements before the wedding, and she will want to be properly attired. Tomorrow, we’ll see to shoes, handbags, hats, and the like, but we’ve done enough shopping for one day.”
An hour later, Charlotte felt the outward transformation from dowdy spinster to expectant bride was nearing completion. She turned her head one way and then another, looking in the handheld mirror, studying her reflection from every angle.
She sat in Diana’s dressing room in the Whitelock townhouse, and Mrs. Bradford, one of Diana’s maids, stood behind her with shears in her hand and piles of dark-blonde curls on the floor. “It feels so light and free.” Her waist-long hair had been trimmed to fall in curls to just about her shoulder blades.
“And it’s taken about ten years off you too. Now it’s not so heavy, and you can put it up in an easier style.” Diana rocked William, now sated and sleepy from nursing, against her shoulder while the other boy, Cian, pulled everything out of a lower drawer, babbling and grasping with his little starfish hands.
When Charlotte had marveled that Diana had two children so close together, she had explained that Cian was her adopted son, child of her late sister. The babies’ young nurse sat on the floor, patiently returning items to the drawer for the boy to pull out again.
“Beth, you can take the boys back to the nursery.”
