by Eloisa James
“At least it explains some of her actions,” Lavinia said. It was a feeble attempt to look on the bright side, but it was all she could come up with. “What did the doctor advise?”
Lady Knowe answered in a roundabout way. “You were very ill,” she began. “My brother and I felt that a decision had to be made, and you could not be burdened with it, given your fever. Once the doctor managed to wake your mother, the duke asked him to escort her to a restful sanitarium nearby. Mrs. Aline, who runs the establishment, is a good friend of mine, and your mother will receive the care and attention she needs.”
“You sent her away?” Lavinia gasped. “Without even telling me?”
“You were very ill and your fever might well have worsened if we told you of such a distressing problem. I assure you, my dear, that Lady Gray will recover, given time. They know of such cases, and everyone who works in the sanitarium is kind.”
Lavinia felt a wave of confused panic. “Is that the place where you sent the mad playwright, two years ago? My mother could never defend herself against someone like that.” Her voice rose despite herself. “She’s a gentlewoman, and she’s never had to even think for herself.”
“Absolutely not. Lady Gray is staying at a place where ladies temporarily retire from society to rest,” Lady Knowe said quickly. “Prudence lives in a different sort of establishment. Your mother desperately needed help, Lavinia, and while I know that you would do anything for her, from what I’ve seen among our friends and neighbors, the love of family members is not enough to overcome the lure of laudanum.”
Lavinia took a deep breath. “I see.”
And she did. Lady Knowe was the sort of person whom one instinctively knew would always tell the truth, for good or ill. “But she will get better?”
“God willing,” Lady Knowe said. “At the very least, they will prevent her from taking too many drops and sleeping her way into the grave.”
Lavinia swallowed at that blunt statement. “Mother may have taken an excessive number of drops, but it was an error.”
“I’ve no doubt of that,” Lady Knowe said, patting her hand. “I wouldn’t advise visiting her for some time, but if you wish to write her a letter, I’ll have it delivered this afternoon.”
Her father would have expected Lavinia to solve their financial problems before her mother returned from the sanitarium. She forced herself to stand up. “I must return to London immediately. I have a great many things to do to prepare for my mother’s return. Did you say she’d be released in a month?”
“No, dear, I didn’t say it. It might be as long as six months, or even a year.”
Lavinia reached out for the bedpost as her head swam. Yes, she felt awful, but she had to leave. She would go to London, talk to the family solicitor, and arrive at a plan.
Or a man.
The words tangled in her mind. Plan, man. Man, plan. Whichever came first.
If she didn’t assert herself, Lady Knowe would ride roughshod over her. She had wondered why Diana had accepted a governess position in the ancestral home of her former fiancé—which was bound to cause a terrible scandal—and now she understood. Lady Knowe had made her do it.
She firmed her chin and turned to give the lady a grateful smile. “I am so appreciative of the kind care you gave myself and my mother.”
“My dear, I cannot allow you—”
Lavinia had turned too quickly.
It was a good thing that Lady Knowe was as broad-shouldered as her twin, because when Lavinia’s knees buckled, the lady caught her up and put her back into bed, tucked in so tightly that she couldn’t move a limb.
Chapter Seven
June 25, 1780
Once Lavinia felt well enough to get out of bed again, a different problem presented itself. “This will hang on you like a sack,” her maid, Annie, said with dismay, holding up a gown with skirts like pale mist. Its bodice had been fitted to Lavinia’s precise measurements.
Those measurements, alas, had changed considerably since she’d fallen ill. Even now, she had almost no appetite, and scarcely sipped half a mug of broth before putting it to the side and falling asleep again.
All her Parisian gowns were too large, so she spent another few days in her chamber, helping Annie and the household seamstress alter a day dress and an evening gown to fit her newly slim figure.
“I’m surprised you know how to sew, miss,” the seamstress observed.
“I was lucky enough to have a governess who believed in practical skills,” Lavinia said. Mrs. Granville had for all intents and purposes reared her; she couldn’t remember seeing much of her mother even before her father died, which made Lavinia wonder just how long Dr. Robert’s Robust Formula had been her mother’s dearest companion.
Luckily, her inner fortitude was returning with her physical strength. Lady Gray would stay in the sanitarium for at least six months, perhaps more, according to Lady Knowe. Her mother hadn’t responded to any of Lavinia’s letters, but the important thing was that she was safe for the moment.
It gave Lavinia time to snatch up the first rich man who crossed her path. She shuddered at the thought. It wasn’t . . . it wasn’t who she wanted to be.
Or the way she had dreamed of finding a husband. She pushed that thought away. Saving her mother from a prison sentence was more important than Lavinia’s fanciful wish to marry for love.
That evening she made her way downstairs to the drawing room. After exchanging greetings with a roomful of Wildes, Lavinia slipped into a chair beside Diana, and told her quietly that she would return to London on the morrow.
“How will I ever order a wedding dress without you?” Diana wailed.
The whole room overheard, leading to a general clamor of objections. Diana, in particular, wanted Lavinia to stay at Lindow until her wedding.
“Diana, your wedding is on All Hallows’ Eve—and that’s more than four months away! You shall visit me in London, and we will order a wedding gown together,” Lavinia said, squeezing Diana’s hand.
“Go to London?” Diana gasped. “I can’t go to London! What about Godfrey and Artie? We haven’t found a governess, remember?”
“I have an agency looking for just the right person for us,” the duchess said. “Even if we don’t find someone immediately, Godfrey is very happy in the nursery with Artie. He feels safe and loved.”
“It’s not as if Mrs. Butterworth in Mobberley could make your wedding gown,” Lavinia pointed out. “What about your trousseau?”
“What is a trousseau?” Lady Knowe inquired. “My French is rubbish.”
“Living in Paris for two years was remarkably useful in that respect,” Lavinia said. She laughed aloud, her eyes meeting the duke’s. “I used to be paralyzed by Madame LaFleur, our French teacher. I only survived thanks to a secret weapon. A talisman that I would kiss for good luck.”
His Grace shook his head, a slow smile spreading over his face. “I have a suspicion . . .”
“I can guess,” Spartacus crowed. “It was a Lord Wilde print!” The fame of Lord Alaric, the duke’s third son, had led to a proliferation of heroic images of the explorer, engaged in daring exploits of all sorts, from climbing mountains to wrestling wild animals.
None of which Alaric had ever done.
As a girl, Lavinia had nurtured an infatuation for “Lord Wilde,” but it had withered on meeting him—luckily, because it was the same moment her friend Willa discovered how much she fancied His Lordship.
“I had a great many Wilde prints,” Lavinia admitted. “Which one do you think helped with my pathetic French?”
Lady Knowe let out a bellow of hilarity, and Lavinia joined her. Laughing made her feel better than she had in weeks.
“The one in which Alaric is wrestling the kraken,” Spartacus guessed. “Because French is worse than a sea monster.”
Lavinia shook her head. “Good try, though.”
“I have it!” the duchess exclaimed. “The one in which—ahem—Lord Wilde is entertaining Empr
ess Catherine, because the language of the Russian court is French.”
“Another excellent guess,” Lavinia told Her Grace, “but my mother wouldn’t allow me to see Wilde in Love, fearing the play too disreputable. A print depicting a lady’s bedchamber—whether a monarch or not—would not have been allowed in the house.”
“It has to be one of the heroic ones,” Diana mused.
“It was Lord Wilde wrestling a polar bear,” Lavinia confessed.
“I know that one!” Spartacus cried. “There’s a funny title at the bottom . . . what is it?”
“Amorous, Glamorous, Uproarious, and Glorious,” Lavinia said.
Spartacus howled with laughter, and everyone joined in.
“‘Uproarious’ pretty much summed up my relationship with Madame LaFleur,” Lavinia continued, once the room had settled down. “To return to our previous topic, Madame LaFleur would be dazzled by my current vocabulary, which includes the word ‘trousseau’ . . . the wardrobe that a bride brings with her to her husband’s house.”
North instantly said, “My bride must have the most magnificent trousseau ever seen in London.”
“No,” Diana said, shaking her head. “I haven’t—”
The duke intervened, his calm voice cutting through a babble of voices. “My dear Diana, I consider you my daughter already. It would give me great pleasure to provide you with a trousseau fit for a future duchess.”
“Artie is a happy child, partly because of your care,” Ophelia put in, nodding. “We owe you so much, Diana. You were the best governess any family could have had.”
“That’s so kind,” Diana said, and burst into tears.
Instantly North pulled her onto his lap and began whispering in her ear. Lavinia stared down at her hands. It had been bad enough when Willa fell in love. Being around North and Diana made her feel terribly lonely, as if the ache in her heart would never heal.
“Diana and I will travel with you to London,” Lady Knowe announced, acting as if Diana wasn’t most improperly wrapped in her fiancé’s arms. “If you will wait a day or two for us, perhaps a week?”
What could Lavinia do? She smiled and assured the lady that she would be happy to have their company on the trip.
“I’d love to join you,” the duchess said, smiling at Lady Knowe. “I shall, if I have found a new governess to replace Diana by then. If not, you three can order a gown for me and I’ll arrive in time for fittings.”
In the midst of the frenzy of planning that ensued, Lavinia rose and smiled at the Wildes. They were so eccentric, so loving, and just so dear. She couldn’t take any more of their company without growing maudlin. “If you will all forgive me, I will take supper in my bedchamber again tonight, as I am still regaining my strength.”
Lady Knowe looked at her with a slight frown, so Lavinia widened her smile until it fairly sparkled with confidence. It was the smile of an heiress without a care in the world.
“I’m so grateful for your kindness to my mother.” She caught the duke’s eyes. “I shall expect a full accounting of the cost of Lady Gray’s care, Your Grace. My mother would be comfortable with nothing else.”
Another lie. Amazingly, considering that Lavinia used to pride herself on her honesty, she was growing expert at delivering falsehoods without so much as a guilty look.
She went back to her room and started fretting again. Her mother had not only stolen Diana’s emeralds, but had taken all of Lavinia’s jewelry—gifts from her father and aunt—and had the pieces counterfeited in paste.
What if she had done the same with other people’s jewels? During Lavinia’s debut ball, a countess had lost a diamond brooch. Now it occurred to Lavinia that her mother might have purloined the brooch to pay for the event. Last year, in Paris, one of Marie Antoinette’s ladies-in-waiting had complained bitterly when she couldn’t find a string of pearls. What if that loss was due to Lady Gray as well?
Lavinia’s mouth firmed. As soon as her mother left the sanitarium, she would insist on a full accounting of all the thefts. Once she was married, her husband could discreetly make restitution, as well as help Lavinia put a stop to her mother’s larcenous inclinations.
One striking aspect of that terrible conversation with her mother was Lady Gray’s utter lack of guilt or remorse. She had veered between blaming Lord Gray, for dying; Willa, for marrying; and Lavinia, for not marrying. The memory sent Lavinia back to bed with a wretched headache and no wish to eat supper.
Rather more than a week had passed before Lady Knowe was prepared to have her trunks loaded onto the duke’s traveling coach. Lavinia spent the time writing letters to her mother that disclosed no signs of alarm, and letters to the family solicitor that verged on panic.
Thankfully, just before they left, she received a reassuring letter from London. Their financial situation was dire, but if Lady Gray would agree to sell the country estate, she would have enough to pay her debts and allow her—if she practiced economies—to keep her townhouse.
Lady Knowe was an excellent travel companion, quick to point out interesting sights and skilled in card games that could be played in a moving vehicle. But none of it stopped Lavinia from bouts of worry about her mother’s possible future in Newgate Prison.
On a happier note, she also had spent time mulling over Diana’s trousseau. At the time of her debut, her cousin had been the most fashionable young lady of the Season—because Diana’s mother paid outrageous sums to every modiste with a reputation for extravagance.
The result?
Diana had debuted with the widest skirts, and the showiest plumes, and the most outlandish wigs. In Lavinia’s opinion, she had worn absurdly exaggerated versions of current styles, but never introduced a fashion of her own.
Lavinia meant to change that. Lady Roland Wilde’s wedding gown would set fashion, as would every other garment in her trousseau.
Chapter Eight
Lady Knowe, Diana, and Lavinia arrived at the Lindow townhouse in Mayfair on a bright morning in July. After taking a few days to recover from the long journey, they climbed into the duke’s town coach.
“Where will you take us first?” Lady Knowe asked.
“We will begin at Nichole’s in the Strand,” Lavinia said. She had already informed the coachman of the direction.
“Excellent,” Lady Knowe cried. “I hope Nichole has many pattern books. I want to order three or four new gowns, as well as something for the wedding. And I mean to order a few gowns for Ophelia as well.” The duchess had decided not to accompany them to London.
“Nichole is a stay maker,” Lavinia said.
Lady Knowe’s face fell.
“Underpinnings are the most important part of a woman’s appearance. I learned that in Paris, and it is true.”
“That was one thing I adored about being a governess,” Diana said gloomily. “I stopped wearing uncomfortable corsets, which are forever pinching one’s waist, or flattening one’s breasts.”
Diana and Lavinia had been endowed with matching, and generous, bosoms—or, at least, Lavinia’s had been generous, before her illness. Like the rest of her, it was now sadly shrunk.
“Nichole’s corsets will surprise you,” Lavinia promised. “He begins with seventeen or more pieces, instead of the usual eight. Rather than employing boning to produce a desired shape, he shapes each pair of stays to the individual client’s figure.”
“No boning?” Diana asked, astonished.
“I will not be ordering one,” Lady Knowe announced. “I will allow alterations only by my own seamstress, my dear maid, Berthe. I brought her back from Paris years ago, when I was a mere child, and she’s been with me ever since.”
Lavinia’s eyes widened. How on earth did Lady Knowe expect a London modiste to agree to that unheard-of demand?
“They don’t mind a bit,” Lady Knowe advised, guessing her thought. “It saves them work. They take a look at me and make the gown most of the way, leaving extra length because I’m so deuced tall. I’ve brought Op
helia’s measurements with me, and they’ll do the same with the gowns I order for her.”
“You refuse to be fitted?” Diana asked, her eyes lighting up. “I had no idea one could! It took days and days when my mother was preparing for my debut, and I counted each hour a lost one.”
Lavinia intervened quickly. “Diana, you simply must be fitted for your wedding dress. There’s no escaping it.”
“True,” Lady Knowe said. “I’m merely saying that modistes will happily hand over half-finished work, and Berthe will complete their gowns to my measure. I pay full price, after all.”
“A wedding dress must be fitted a minimum of four times,” Lavinia said. And then, over Diana’s groan, “After Nichole’s, we’ll go to G. Sutton, in Leicester Square.”
“Is G. Sutton a modiste?” Lady Knowe asked hopefully. “With books full of delicious ladies, looking perfect in every way?”
“No, he is a silkman, a mercer.”
“A mercer?” Diana asked, confused. “Couldn’t we simply ask the modiste we choose to make a gown in whatever fabric we prefer?”
“In the two days it will take to make your stays, we shall visit all the best mercers in London,” Lavinia said. “When we do visit a modiste—or rather, several modistes in order to choose the right one—we shall know precisely what are the finest fabrics available, and how much they cost. Then you will be measured for your wedding gown while wearing a proper corset.”
“My mother never bothered to visit a silk merchant,” Diana observed. “Her modistes showed us little scraps of fabric.”
“You might well have been shown—and paid for—a fine watered silk,” Lavinia pointed out, “but who knows what silk was used in the end? Especially given the abundance of ruffles sewn onto every garment you owned, not to mention the spangles and lace.”
Lady Knowe huffed, a smile in her eyes. “I didn’t realize that I was creating a monster when I asked you to help with Diana’s trousseau.”
Lavinia grinned at her. “I know it’s shallow and not at all noble, and doubtless worthy of disdain by people with better things to do, but I adore the art of dressing.”
