Colonel Fitzwilliam's Challenge

by Jennifer Joy

  Richard signaled for a drink to be brought over for his new friend.

  “Some of my best friends are in trade. I believe a man’s character defines whether he is a gentleman or not. What kind of trade does your family do?”

  “Mostly import and export, though it has been blasted difficult of late with the war on the water. It will be a relief when all this business is done and trade can continue as it did before.”

  Richard nodded. Even the grand families had to reuse tea leaves, and the only good wine for the table was one that had been smuggled into the country. Still, people had their ways. He thought of all the fabrics in Miss Mauvier’s shop and wondered how much of it was smuggled. Could she smuggle secrets out of the country just the same as she could smuggle the best silks from the continent in?

  “Everyone will benefit when this war is over. It has gone on long enough,” said Richard.

  Mr. Thorpe nodded. Taking a sip of his recently served drink, he said, “It is bad enough that there is a war on the continent, but it has affected us here as well.”

  Richard could list a hundred ways this was true, but he wanted to know what Mr. Thorpe meant. “How is that?”

  “Well, I would hate to be a Frenchman living in England, for example. And, I imagine, it is no different across the channel toward us. Nobody trusts anybody. It is a sad state of affairs.”

  Again, Richard thought of Miss Mauvier. He knew of certain families who would refuse to do business with her based merely on her nationality. No wonder she had been so offended by his comments on the way home from Rosings. He wished he could help her see that he viewed her as his equal. Instead, he was about to breach her trust. Did the cause justify the action? Richard furrowed his brow.

  “I am sorry if my comments offend, Colonel. I do realize that my views on the subject may differ from yours. I cannot imagine that the French have made your life easy.”

  Richard waved off Mr. Thorpe’s concern. “To the contrary. I do not think it just for a man or woman to be cast into the same lot as Napoleon simply because they share the same birthplace.” But, had he not done precisely that with Miss Mauvier? His guilt increased, and it would be particularly difficult to do what he had to later that night.

  Raising his half-empty glass, Mr. Thorpe said, “I salute your reasonableness. It is far too uncommon nowadays. The only other man whom I have had a rational conversation with recently about the state of affairs in our nation is Lieutenant General Dovedale. It was outside his office building I bumped into you, I believe. Do you know the gentleman?”

  Acting naturally, though his nerves were on high alert, Richard said, “We grew up together on neighboring estates. His family and mine are long-time friends.”

  “It is good not to forget our closest friends from home. Too many neglect old acquaintances when they move away. Were you close friends in your youth?”

  “He is ten years older than I am and had left for the army when I was just a boy. However, he would race across the fields with me when he took leave to visit his family. We were catching up on old times when you saw me outside the building.” He threw that last bit in to throw off any suspicion… just in case.

  “Lieutenant General Dovedale is a sensible man and highly respected among the officers.”

  “He is a hero, and I am honored that he still views me as a friend. Every young man, especially those recently enlisted, would wish to rub elbows with men of his sort.”

  Mr. Thorpe nodded in agreement, looking into his glass. “Now, I am curious as to who won the races between you and him, and how a gentleman used to the freedom of open fields finds the crowded streets of London when he is on his mount?” Mr. Thorpe leaned back and grinned.

  A lively discussion about blood horses ensued. For being a descendant of a tradesman, Mr. Thorpe knew quite a lot about horseflesh.

  By the end of the hour, Richard thought he would not mind meeting Mr. Thorpe at the club again. He was an amiable fellow.

  The sky darkened, signaling to Richard that he must return to his task. Mr. Thorpe, also, had some patients to see in the late hours. Saying their goodbyes, they left the club, going in opposite directions.

  On arriving home, Richard took a bundle of clothes he had hidden from his closet. It would not do to wear a white cravat while he attempted to break into Miss Mauvier’s shop.

  Chapter 12

  Creeping upstairs to his room, Richard changed his clothes to blend in with the night. Covering himself with his dark greatcoat, he stuffed a cap into his pocket to cover his sandy blond hair.

  It was easier to get out of his family’s home without being seen than he thought. They would assume he had found some friends at his club and had joined them.

  Feeling the need to calm himself, he walked along the shadows in the streets. Every noise sent new bursts of nerves running through his veins, and Richard had to remind himself not to overreact. He forced himself to keep walking when he heard footsteps behind him, not an uncommon thing to hear even in the dark of night in town. Only a couple of times, he melted against the side of a building to allow whoever was following him to pass, looking at their faces for any sign of interest in his activities.

  Miss Mauvier’s dress shop was in sight, and his caution increased tenfold. He would need to be as quiet as he could be. The last thing he wanted was to cause the inhabitants alarm. All he needed was information, if any information was to be had. It would be just like sneaking into the kitchen without Cook hearing him. How many times had he successfully pilfered the pantry for an extra spoonful of preserves on a biscuit?

  Pulling a ring with several bits of metal in different lengths and thicknesses out of his coat pocket, he gently eased one by one into the lock, careful that the metal not clink too loudly. He prayed that the side door did not have a bell like the front door did.

  Easing the door open just enough to squeeze in, Richard closed it shut and looked around him. He was in the workroom. He took a step deeper into the room and cringed when a floorboard creaked under his weight. Frozen in place, afraid to move, he listened for the smallest sound from the seamstresses’ room, his gaze focused on the doorway leading to the hall. Nothing.

  His eyes, now accustomed to the dark, glanced about the room for obstacles. The room, exemplary in its orderliness, offered nothing to stumble on.

  It occurred to him that he ought to slip off his boots, but then, what would he do with them? He could not carry them with him, and he did not like the idea of leaving them by the door he had entered. They would be in the way if he tucked them under his arm. He needed his hands to ruffle through the papers he had seen Miss Mauvier extract from a hatbox behind the glass counter. He also thought to look between the fabric stacked against the wall in the main room.

  Taking another step, rolling his weight from the ball of his foot to his toes, the floor squeaked again. At this rate, he would reach the hallway by dawn. With a sigh, he balanced his on one foot to take off first one boot, then the other. If all went well, he would look around, then retrieve his boots beside the door before making his way out unheard.

  His progress improved in his stocking feet, Richard pulled out a wax candle and lit it so that he could cross the room without disturbing anything. Though he muffled the flintlock as best he could, every little noise, including that of his thundering heart, sounded as loud as a crash of thunder in the silent room.

  Reaching the hallway, he looked in the direction of the seamstresses’ room. He paused, willing his ears to hear the soft breathing of sleeping workers. When he was content that no one was awake, he cupped his hand around the candle and entered the hall that took him to the front of the shop.

  The fabric was nearest, so he looked there first, uncertain what he searched for. As his fingers snagged at the delicate fabric, Richard cursed himself for not taking better care of his hands. Years of sport, and the negligence of wearing gloves when nobody looked, had caused callouses on his palms and roughened his fingertips.

  Pour
ing the accumulated candle wax into his hand, he balled it up and put it in his pocket before he went over to the display case. Sliding the glass panel over, he reached into the hatbox and pulled out what he supposed were the ledgers.

  Opening the first one, he saw in neat, legible numbers and letters, payments made and received. As he read the entries, he was impressed with the thoroughness with which everything was accounted for. It seemed that not one needle went unnoticed in the ledger. He flipped through, skimming the pages for anything out of the ordinary. Precious silk thread in various colors, each one itemized, skeins of cotton thread, Kashmir shawls from Paisley, packets of needles, a payment received from Mrs. Hepplewhite, a new fabric acquired, a reminder to ask for payment from Mrs. Tefton… all with totals of the day written in bold numbers at the bottom of each page. About to close the book, Richard’s attention was caught when he saw the word ‘Paris’. Hovering his finger at the entry, it said, ‘Paris Gown’ in capital letters. He had perused the estimated cost of several gowns in the ledger entries, but this gown was considerably more expensive than the others.

  Richard flipped through the entries again, trying to find similar entries, but there were none. Disappointed, he memorized the entry, and put the books back in place. He had found what he had hoped not to see. He had to reconcile his mind to the fact that Miss Mauvier might not be so innocent as he had thought. Still, he would not rush to conclusions. There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation for her to make an exorbitantly priced gown made of smuggled materials and send it to the very place where enemies paid dearly for secrets to be sent.

  Rifling through the contents of the hatbox, and finding nothing else out of the ordinary, Richard placed the contents back how he had found them and closed the glass case slowly.

  Padding across the floor, Richard peeked down the hallway, shielding the flame of the candle with his hand.

  He was half-way across the workroom, his eyes focused on his boots beside the door, when he felt his coat catch on something as he passed. He stopped, but a stool tipped over with a resounding thud on the floor. Richard went still. Blowing out his candle, he turned, keeping his eyes on the doorway to the hall as he righted the bench, pricking his finger against the needle which had caught on his coat. Backing out of the room, his hand reaching out behind him to feel the doorknob leading to his escape, he heard a noise. Excited whispers and footsteps added to the pounding in Richard’s ears and the rasps of his own breath.

  Finally reaching the door, he closed his hand around it, hoping he could make his exit before anyone noticed him.

  A loud crash, like breaking glass, came from the front of the shop. As Richard closed the workroom door behind him, he watched the shadows run by the room to the store front.

  Cold seeped through his stockings, and Richard realized the mistake he had made. So distracted was he to leave the room unseen, he had left his boots beside the door. Cracking open the door, he looked into the dark for any sign of life, then reached out and grabbed his boots, pulling them outside and onto his feet in one smooth motion.

  The chill ran up his back and down to his fingers. It had been dark, but he could have sworn that there was a small figure standing in the doorway.

  Pulling his greatcoat snugly about him, he walked to the end of the side street, taking a different route to his home.

  Adélaïde poured over her sketches for Mrs. Bartlow’s dress. It had to be perfect. Earlier in the day, she had budgeted in her ledger the exact amount she would allow herself to spend on the gown. It was extravagant, but the end result would be worth it. Now, she used the time she should sleep to settle on the design and begin her work. There was no time to waste. The Bartlows would leave for Paris in less than a month.

  A thump downstairs broke her concentration. Her head jerked up from stooping over her drawings. She walked to her bedchamber door and opened it, listening for sound. She heard the butler go down the creaky stairs, as well as the shuffling feet and whispers of her girls downstairs.

  When she heard the loud crash of glass, she tossed her loose hair behind her shoulder and marched downstairs, her anger mounting with each bare footstep. If someone was breaking into her shop, she would make certain it was the last time it happened. Various methods of torture crossed her mind as she made her way into the shop.

  Hands on her hips, she felt fierce. Just wait until she saw the thieving vandal. Only, there was nothing left to see— only the familiar faces of the household staff and the girls.

  “Miss, take care not to step this way,” said the butler in front of her. One of the girls with the presence of mind to have shoes on ran to the workroom, to come back with a broom. The glass tinkled and clinked against the wood floor.

  Gathering her thoughts, Adélaïde asked everyone present and no one in particular, “Did you see anything? Is the only damage to the glass?” It was the stained glass Luc had put in their front door when he had first bought the shop and upper apartments. He had said that a proper dress shop needed colorful embellishments, just as a fancy gown did. Now, only a few shards remained. Adélaïde bit her lip, preferring the physical pain to the emotional hurt burning her eyes and making her nose run.

  She sniffed, blaming the dust from the broom for her state.

  Candles were lit and a footman went in search of a constable while Adélaïde and the girls looked about the room. Adélaïde checked the safe in the back room, but it appeared untouched. She looked at the expensive pieces of lace, and other luxury items in her glass case, but it was undisturbed.

  Yvette said, “Someone has been here. Look, miss. You know how much care we take to smooth the fabric so it does not wrinkle, but this gauzy cotton has been trifled with.”

  “How can you see that? And why would someone break into our shop only to touch the fabric?” With a sore lip and cold feet, Adélaïde let her irritation return. She welcomed it. Fear and sadness were a weak combination, and one for which she did not have time.

  Mary came in from the workroom. “Someone opened the door in there,” she said, pointing in the direction from which she had come. “My stool was tipped over on the floor, and one of my needles is lost.”

  Adélaïde’s concern grew. It could not have been only one person attempting to break in. Assuming it was a man, he could not have entered the side and thrown a rock through her stained glass door in the front. Then, Mary’s words sunk in further.

  “Mary, you have not been poking your embroidery needles into the side of your stool again, have you? How many times must I remind you not to dull the tips by doing that?”

  Mary looked sheepishly at the ground. “I am sorry, miss. It will not happen again.”

  Taking a deep breath and letting out her pent up anxiety, Adélaïde softened. She would not take her unexpressed wrath out on one of her girls, especially the newest and youngest. She would save it for the louts who intruded her home and ruined her beautiful door.

  “See that it does not. As it is, your misplaced needles are most likely the cause of the noise we heard from the workroom, and the reason the criminal escaped. I just wonder why someone else had to smash through my door if his accomplice had already gained entry from the side.” It was so pointless unless their purpose was only to scare her.

  Adélaïde felt the blood drain from her face. She had escaped the bold acts of bullies while her brother resided with her. But he was not there to defend her. She was alone. Just she and her girls, who depended on her for protection.

  Chapter 13

  The constable inspected the little there was to see and only confirmed what they already knew. Two people, with some unknown motive, had broken into the dress shop. They had stolen nothing, had disturbed very little, and had only left behind a stone which they had used to smash the glass in the front door.

  Hours after the constable left, Adélaïde could not bring herself to sleep. The butler stationed a footman at the bottom of the stairs, but she could not relax enough to even lie down. When the first rays of
sunshine reflected into her bedroom window, she was awake to see it.

  Feeling that her time was better spent doing something of benefit, she hastened downstairs to her workroom, not bothering to break her fast. Her stomach was tied in knots, and she missed Luc more than she ever had before. He had protected her during the Revolution, he had managed their safe arrival to England, he had won the affections of Maman, who had kindly taken them in, he had helped her establish her business by giving her experience stitching costumes in his theater and introducing her to ladies who later became her first customers…. He had done everything possible to ensure that she could take care of herself. Now, at the first sign of oppression during his absence, she was afraid.

  Disgust with herself and her weak thoughts stiffened her shoulders. Was she not a proud woman and owner of a thriving business? If she showed weakness, her competition would swallow her whole before she ever made it to Bond Street. Her girls needed her to be strong. She was her own master. It was the life she had chosen, and it was time she acted the part. If she acted it well enough, she would convince herself, and she would be unstoppable.

  It was to an extraordinarily calm, prepossessed Adélaïde whom the girls joined in the workroom, already engrossed in a project. One sketch lay before her on the table— a gown with matching pelisse, colored in a soft green the color of sea foam in a storm. It had been stormy the day they escaped from Calais.

  Yvette gasped in delight when she saw the drawings, and for the minutes it took Adélaïde to describe the ensemble, they had forgotten the events of the night before, if only for a moment.

  “I need to find a silk gauze in this color. Mrs. Bartlow has auburn hair and hazel eyes, which this soft green will compliment beautifully. I will embroider a bouquet pattern in flossed silk, mixing darker and lighter shades of this green, on the front of the bodice and the circumference of the hem to match the petal capped sleeves on the pelisse.” Woven braids at the cuffs, shoulders, and along every seam on the bodice softened the pelisse’s pointy petal shoulders and matching collar.