Wicked Again (The Wickeds Book 7)

by Kathleen Ayers

  Jordana shrugged. “I suppose he is. I’m sure if he wasn’t, we’d return home.”

  A purposefully bland and useless answer. Marissa had the urge to shake Jordana. “I ran into Lord Haddon at the theater the other evening. He looked rather tired.”

  “My father keeps much later hours in London than he does in the country.” Jordana paused before a small coffeehouse, looking through the window with longing. “May we stop for tea or perhaps hot chocolate?” She turned to Marissa. “Look at these tiny cakes, my lady. I adore pink icing.”

  Late hours? “No, dear. Possibly after we are done at Madame Fontaine’s.” He’s probably busy dancing attendance on Lady Christina Sykes. “Not now. Do hurry along, Jordana.” Taking her charge’s arm, she pulled Jordana away from the window.

  All of London must be out shopping today. The streets had been so congested her driver had been required to park the carriage a bit further away from Madame Fontaine’s than Marissa would have liked, although the walk was surely doing her and Jordana some good.

  “You must hurry along as well,” she called over her shoulder to the young footman tagging along behind them. He was a gangly lad, all elbows and long legs. Marissa couldn’t remember his name. She hazarded a glance at his ill-fitting livery. A conversation with Greenhouse was warranted.

  Jordana rolled her eyes, not bothering to hide the fact she didn’t care about a new wardrobe nor about offending one of the most exclusive dressmakers in London. “I’ve never even been to a modiste. Seems a waste of time.”

  Marissa was aghast, stopping in her tracks. “Who makes your clothing?”

  “There is a seamstress in Buxton. We visit her several times a year and she takes our measurements. Mrs. Divet usually accompanies us. I pick out some fabrics and she makes me suitable clothing.”

  Marissa started moving again. “Very like a modiste. It isn’t as if you’ve been sewing your own clothing, Jordana. You nearly gave me a fit at the thought.”

  Jordana frowned. “At going to a seamstress or stitching my own underthings?”

  “We don’t say such things in public, on a street,” Marissa reminded her. Jordana blurted out her thoughts at the slightest provocation.

  “No one heard me. And I truly don’t see the point in visiting Madame Fontaine. I don’t need any more clothes. I’ve plenty of dresses. I doubt I’ll attend any balls while I’m in London. You’ve seen me dance. I don’t do it well.” Her dark brows knit together. “And I’ve no desire to make some grand debut.”

  “We’ve been over this several times, Jordana. If what you wore when Lady Waterstone came for luncheon is any indication of the contents of your armoire, then you are in dire need of something decent. A proper lady never has enough to wear. You can always benefit from another riding habit, for instance. Hurry along.” She picked up her pace. “You simply must have something other than sprigged muslin to wear in London. We are not in the wilds of the Peak District, climbing gritstone.”

  “I wish I was.” Her eyes held a faraway look. “I don’t belong here.”

  Jordana was stubborn, but not devious, as Arabella had been. It was the only positive thing Marissa could say about her latest project.

  Still grumbling, Jordana allowed herself to be dragged behind Marissa as they approached Madame Fontaine’s. The modiste was only the first stop. Jordana must have new gloves. Bonnets. And Marissa needed a new hat to replace the one which had been ruined.

  He'd been marvelous, climbing that tree to save my little hat.

  Marissa didn’t even attempt to push away her thoughts of Haddon, nor the bits of him which filled her mind at the oddest moments. Everything reminded her of him. Marissa had hoped to catch a glimpse of him when she’d called to retrieve Jordana for today’s excursion, but Haddon had remained absent.

  He thinks I’m having an affair with Nighter.

  “This way, Jordana.” Marissa deftly steered her into a brick storefront. At least there was enjoyment to be found in shopping for clothes. What woman didn’t want a new wardrobe? Besides Jordana? Marissa herself had already ordered three additional ballgowns which should be ready today.

  As they entered Madame Fontaine’s, Jordana grew silent, taking in the clusters of women looking at fabrics and ribbons with mounting horror. While she’d improved, Jordana was still terribly awkward among society, especially with young ladies her own age. Marissa had been hoping it was only shyness that kept her from making friends, but she was starting to realize Jordana truly had no interest in the things most girls valued. Dresses, paying calls, finding a suitable husband; none of those things mattered to Haddon’s daughter.

  One of Madame Fontaine’s assistants saw Marissa enter and approached, bobbing politely to her before taking in Jordana.

  Jordana treated the poor girl to a scowl.

  “Lady Cupps-Foster.” Her English held a charming French accent. “It is my pleasure to greet you today.”

  “Bonjour, Claudette.” Marissa smiled at the girl. Claudette was one of Madame Fontaine’s proteges. “This is Miss Ives.”

  “Madame is expecting you both. This way, please.”

  As she and Jordana made their way through the shop, Marissa pointed out the groups of women, reciting their names and titles to Jordana.

  “Over there is Lady Ralston and her daughter, Emily,” Marissa whispered. “She’s to be married shortly to the eldest son of the Earl of Devon and her mother is giving a grand ball to celebrate. I myself will be in attendance. Everyone will be there.”

  Jordana’s lips puffed in agitation. “You’re always spouting off everyone’s names and titles as if you expect me to remember them all. As if it were of importance. Which I don’t believe it is.”

  Jordana was being particularly difficult today.

  “Perhaps we should purchase you a small notebook to take down the things I tell you.” Marissa patted her arm. “I leave myself notes all the time to help me remember what is important.”

  “I still won’t remember because I don’t care to.”

  Marissa pursed her lips. She’d made progress with Jordana, but there was still much more work to be done. Jordana seemed determined not to engage with society and not to marry. She delighted in informing Marissa she meant to spend her life as a midwife or something equally disagreeable.

  “Ah, Lady Cupps-Foster.” Madame Fontaine came forward and kissed Marissa on both cheeks. “I see you’ve brought me another young lady, no? Lady Malden wasn’t enough?”

  Madame Fontaine towered over Marissa and every other woman milling about her establishment. Taller than most men, the modiste favored red painted heels which added several inches to her height. Along with her tower of hair which was often full of the pencils she used for sketching, Madame Fontaine resembled an overly large, fashionable porcupine. The gossips whispered the modiste had left France after murdering her married lover.

  The story seemed suspicious, especially when the modiste’s accent slipped. No matter the truth of her origins, Madame Fontaine was one of the most sought after modistes in London. Her original designs were nothing short of stunning, her taste impeccable.

  Marissa adored her.

  Madame Fontaine plucked a pencil out from the mountain of her hair. Glancing first at Jordana and then back to Marissa, her tongue flicked over the end of the pencil, a small leather-bound notepad appearing from her pocket.

  “May I present Miss Ives.” Marissa brought Jordana forward.

  “Miss Ives.” Madame Fontaine peered down from her great height at Jordana.

  “Madame.” Jordana’s eyes had widened to the size of saucers taking in the modiste.

  “She will need a new wardrobe, from scratch, as I explained earlier.” Marissa produced a list from her reticule and handed the paper to Madame Fontaine. “Perhaps you have two or three dresses which can be fit for her today while the rest can be delivered later? Something appropriate for paying calls?”

  “I have just the thing.” Madame looked down her long no
se, studying Jordana while taking notes. “Blue-grays, perhaps. Or violet. Periwinkle. Her eyes are a most unusual color. We must take advantage.”

  Jordana shot the modiste a defiant look.

  Madam Fontaine laughed softly. “Oh, my dear Lady Cupps-Foster, I find your new charge very similar to Lady Malden in temperament.” She tapped the pencil against her temple. “I remember the dark colors so favored by your niece. I wept every time she came in for a fitting,” the modiste said dramatically. “Staid, matronly fashions which gave no hint of her lovely figure. Such atrocious colors for such a gorgeous creature. Now she adores crimson.” Madame Fontaine lowered her voice. “As does Lord Malden.” Her long graceful fingers waved in invitation as she began to move in the direction of the fitting rooms. “Come, come.”

  Jordana hesitantly stepped behind the curtain as directed by Madame Fontaine, shooting Marissa a look of reproach.

  Marissa gave her a not-too gentle nudge.

  Madame Fontaine clapped her hands and two assistants immediately appeared, rushing forward to remove Jordana’s dress and take her measurements.

  Jordana stood frozen, eyes looking up at the ceiling briefly before her gaze settled on Marissa with no small amount of hostility.

  Marissa ignored her and settled herself on a damask-covered settee. Accepting a glass of wine, she began leafing through a pattern book as she waited for fabric swatches to be brought to her.

  “Is this necessary?” Jordana blushed furiously on the small block while the two girls stripped her down to her chemise. She shifted on the balls of her feet, jerking as if in the throes of a fit, clasping what remained of her clothing around her.

  Marissa was half-afraid Jordana would leap from the podium and run half-naked from the shop to avoid being fitted. Goodness. The last thing she expected from the girl was such extreme shyness what with her having three sisters, not to mention her unnatural interest in . . . body parts.

  She looked so miserable.

  “Jordana,” Marissa said, putting the wine aside. “If you tolerate being pinched and pinned without complaint, I will take you to Mr. Coventry’s. The apothecary.”

  “Truly?” she said in a blissful tone, lips tilting up at the corners.

  “Jordana, I’m shocked. You appear to be smiling.”

  “Perish the thought, my lady.” Her mouth immediately resumed the usual tight-lipped scowl. “And I should like nothing more.” She slapped at the assistant who attempted to measure her waist. “Sorry,” she murmured to the girl. “You startled me.”

  Marissa pressed her fingers to her forehead. Jordana would try the patience of a saint. “You must stay still, dear, and allow your measurements to be taken without injuring Madame’s assistant,” Marissa admonished. “In case I was not clear before.”

  “Fine.” Jordana stoically fixed her gaze on something across the room, ignoring the small flurry around her. “You promise?”

  “I do indeed. I must stop there and pick up something for myself, at any rate.” Marissa had mentioned Mr. Coventry’s establishment during one of the girl’s recent visits. Jordana had been in the midst of describing a drink the local midwife had mixed for Jordana’s mother after her sister Delphine’s birth when Marissa had brought up the apothecary. Jordana had been pestering Marissa to visit Mr. Coventry ever since.

  Marissa regarded Jordana standing on the block, her shoulders stiff and unyielding, facing the world with a stubbornness few females her age possessed. She admired Jordana’s single-minded purpose in wanting to become a physician because she knew where it came from—the agonizing death of her mother. But society would not look kindly on Jordana or her interests if she were given freedom to pursue them.

  Possibly I can find her a gentleman who would be encouraging of her passions.

  Marissa had played matchmaker before with excellent results. But it would take some time to find the correct man for Jordana. One who was open-minded and would not be intimidated by her intellect or her dedication to helping women.

  Jordana now had her arms stretched out and was glaring daggers at Marissa.

  “My lady.” Madame Fontaine came forward and looked at the pattern book in Marissa’s lap. “If I may give my opinion?”

  Marissa nodded. “Please.”

  The dressmaker flipped open the book, pointing an elegant finger stained with pencil lead to the pattern of a simply cut dress. “This one, I think. Simple, with clean lines. The design can be adjusted easily to a ballgown as well. She does not strike me as a young lady who will appreciate frills or additional embellishment. Modest necklines.” Madame Fontaine cocked her head taking in Jordana. “Her bosom is generous.”

  “It is?” Marissa sat up and looked at Jordana. Madame was right. She’d never taken notice with Jordana always jumping about in dresses much too girlish for her.

  The modiste nodded.

  “Agreed.” Squinting at the pattern book in her lap, Marissa finally sighed in resignation before reaching into her reticule for a pair of reading glasses. Perching them on the end of her nose, Marissa leafed through the pages, agreeing with the suggestions or choosing something else, but staying with the same basic design Madame Fontaine had suggested. After selecting fabrics for a handful of dresses appropriate for paying calls and walking in the park, Marissa took off the glasses and set the book aside.

  “I also have these.” Madame Fontaine gave a sharp clap.

  An assistant rushed forward to drape a lovely dress of periwinkle over a dressmaker’s dummy to Marissa’s left. “I will add a ribbon of darker color here,” her hand ran along the neckline, “as well as the sleeves. This can be ready in a day or two.” She snapped her fingers and another dress was brought out, this one the color of summer grass.

  “These are the only two I have at present, my lady. But both dresses need only minor alterations to fit Miss Ives.”

  “Perfect, thank you.”

  “It is my greatest pleasure, Lady Cupps-Foster.”

  Madame Fontaine sauntered off and pulled another pencil from her hair. “I assume you will want new underthings for Miss Ives as well?” she said, brow raised at Jordana’s slightly worn chemise. “Petticoats. Chemises.” She gave another wave of her hand.

  “Yes. Thank you. Everything to be sent to the home of Lord Haddon.” Marissa rattled off the address.

  Once the assistants had whisked away the two dresses, Madame Fontaine informed Marissa the gowns she’d ordered for herself would require one more fitting.

  Marissa looked to where Jordana stood clenching her fists, waiting impatiently for her gown to be buttoned up, eager to be gone from the dressmaker’s and off to Mr. Coventry’s. “I think I’ll return later this week.” She smiled. “Miss Ives grows ever impatient.”

  “I concur,” Madame Fontaine agreed. She bowed politely to Marissa and went to greet Lady Barton and her three daughters. “I bid you good day, Lady Cupps-Foster.”

  Jordana hopped off the podium, ignoring the outstretched hand of one of the girls sent to help her. Her skirts lifted, showing a great deal of ankle. “May we go to Mr. Coventry’s now?”

  “Dear, must you leap and jump at every turn? A lady waits for assistance. And yes, I did promise you a trip to Mr. Coventry’s. Thank you for not biting off anyone’s fingers.”

  “You’re welcome, my lady.”

  “I think perhaps you should call me Marissa after all of our adventures.” Regardless of her initial reluctance in taking on Jordana and the girl’s difficult manner, she was enjoying herself immensely. She hadn’t realized how much she missed mothering another ‘duckling’.

  I will miss Jordana dreadfully when Haddon’s sister arrives to take charge.

  “Marissa.” Jordana tested the name on her tongue while taking Marissa’s arm. “Thank you, Marissa.” Her silver eyes, so like Haddon’s, gleamed with real affection.

  Marissa blinked and turned away, ashamed to find her eyes filling with tears over the prospect of losing Jordana.

  “Oh, Mama.�
� A familiar shrill voice cut the air. “I simply must have the dress of peacock blue to wear to Lady Ralston’s ball. Madame’s assistant assures me no one else has taken the silk. I shall stand out in the crowd.”

  Lady Christina Sykes, stunning in a confection of peach satin and lace, came around a table on which several bolts of fabric were stacked, trailed by her mother, Lady Stanton.

  “The color is a bit mature for a girl your age,” Lady Stanton cautioned. “Though I agree, you would look lovely in it.”

  Jordana quickened her pace, towing Marissa along in a most unladylike fashion. “Please hurry, my—Marissa.”

  “Are you avoiding someone?” She cast a glance at Lady Stanton who was smiling at her daughter. “If you are, it is a foolish task. Better to confront obstacles head-on.”

  “I don’t wish to speak to Lady Christina or Lady Stanton. I’ve had my fill of them both. They’re always inviting me to tea or to go shopping. I don’t care to renew our acquaintance.”

  “It is very kind of them to wish to bring you into their circle.” Marissa’s heart had started a slow pounding at the sight of Lady Stanton and her daughter. Knowing the pair were making efforts to ingratiate themselves with Jordana told Marissa how far things had progressed with Haddon.

  “She wants to marry my father.”

  Marissa had an inclination to punch Lady Christina right on her perfect nose. Wouldn’t that cause a scene? A longing for Haddon filled her, one she could not easily push away. “I’m sure your father has his reasons for considering her. Come. Our backs are to them. They won’t notice us.”

  “You know the reason my father tolerates her,” Jordana said, her voice soft as they exited Madame Fontaine’s shop. “I know that you do.”

  Marissa’s lips tightened as she shot a look of annoyance at her charge. “I have no idea what you’re speaking of, Jordana.”

  “You shouldn’t frown,” Jordana said in an airy tone. “Wrinkles.”

  “Jordana.” Marissa admonished. “I am not frowning. I am deep in thought, considering the best way to get to Mr. Coventry’s.” She nodded to the footman who had been patiently standing outside.