A Talent for Trouble

by Jen Turano

  The perfect distraction immediately sprang to mind.

  Grayson was worthy of more contemplation, especially since he’d finally proven to her without a shadow of a doubt that gentlemen really were dramatic creatures.

  She’d never dreamed Grayson Sumner would overreact simply because she might have—oh, very well, she definitely had—lost a smidgen of control while she’d been attempting to drive his obviously high-strung pair of horses.

  There certainly hadn’t been any reason for him to throw himself out of the seat once they’d arrived at Eliza’s and kiss the ground numerous times. After he’d finished that alarming business, he’d jumped to his feet and proceeded to give her a blistering lecture regarding something to the effect that lying about one’s abilities with the reins simply wasn’t done. He’d then proclaimed, in a very loud voice, that she’d taken leave of her senses.

  Why everyone believed him to be an amiable and pleasant sort was beyond her comprehension.

  After he’d apparently run out of words, he resorted to grumpiness and spent the remainder of their time at Eliza’s keeping his distance from her. He even went so far as to let it be known to one and all that he’d rather someone else see her home. That had earned him the old cold shoulder from Eliza and Agatha, but she hadn’t been bothered in the least.

  The last thing she’d wanted to deal with was his continued surliness, so when Agatha offered her a ride, she’d jumped at the chance. She hadn’t even bothered to wish Grayson a good night, though it was unlikely he’d noticed, given his continued attempts to avoid her.

  He really did possess the ability to be extremely annoying when he set his mind to it.

  She shifted on her feet and let out a yelp when a sharp pain pierced her side.

  “I do beg your pardon, Miss Murdock,” Mrs. Brown, an alteration lady at B. Altman’s department store, said as she pulled a pin out of the waistband of Felicia’s new gown. “I wasn’t expecting you to move yet again, considering you promised me not five minutes ago you were going to stay still.”

  “I did promise that, didn’t I.”

  “You did, several times.”

  Felicia squared her shoulders. “This time I mean it.”

  Mrs. Brown smiled and returned to the task of sticking additional pins into the material but paused when a knock sounded on the door and Agatha stuck her head in.

  “Ah, there you are, Felicia. I was hoping I’d find you here.”

  It was rapidly becoming apparent that everyone was under the misimpression she was heading for a nervous breakdown. While she appreciated having family and friends who cared about her, it was becoming downright annoying.

  She was not some delicate miss who needed to be coddled or, for that matter, pitied.

  “I thought you were going to be working on a story today,” she said as Agatha moseyed into the room.

  “I got the first draft written for the New-York Tribune earlier than expected and decided to take the rest of the afternoon off.”

  “Of course you did,” Felicia muttered. “How did you know where I was?”

  Agatha strolled over to a gilded mahogany chair upholstered in red velvet and sat down, taking a rather long time to rearrange her skirt before she looked up. “Your mother told me. She showed up at my house an hour or two ago and thought it would be entertaining for me if I joined you.”

  “It’s hardly entertaining to watch a lady get fitted for a new wardrobe, so please don’t feel I’ll take offense if you decide to seek out true amusements.”

  “Ah, tea, how lovely,” Agatha said as she rose from the chair, glided across the room to the tea cart, poured herself a cup, and took a sip. “Delicious.” She raised the cup in Felicia’s direction, moved back to the chair, resumed her seat, and sent Felicia a cheeky grin.

  It was apparent Agatha was not going anywhere anytime soon.

  “That’s a lovely color of green,” Agatha remarked with a nod toward the dress Felicia was currently wearing. “Although I do believe your mother is a touch upset you turned down her offer of a trip to Paris to secure new fashions.”

  Now they were beginning to get somewhere.

  “Is that why she sent you, to convince me to take a trip across the ocean to visit the House of Worth?”

  Agatha took another sip of tea, swallowed, and shook her head. “No, especially after I told her I balked at the same idea, even though my mother believes I would look divine in gowns created by Charles Worth. Lucky for me, my position at the New-York Tribune gives me a ready excuse to avoid taking a leisurely jaunt across the sea.”

  “Perhaps I should look into securing a career. Maybe then my mother would cease her relentless worrying and discontinue sending my friends to check up on me.” She caught Agatha’s eye. “I’m fine, by the way, even though I’m sure Mother told you differently.”

  “That remains to be seen.” Agatha set her teacup aside. “But returning to the idea of a career, how is your writing?”

  “Mediocre at best.”

  “Then I’m afraid you probably wouldn’t make it as a journalist.” She tapped her finger on her chin. “Are you any good at snooping?”

  “Snooping?”

  “You know, ferreting out information. Arabella Wilder has taken to helping Theodore with his private investigation business, and I’m sure they’d be more than happy to bring you on if you’re any good at that sort of thing.”

  “I used to be proficient at running down my brothers when they tried to avoid me, but that was years ago.” Felicia wrinkled her nose. “Besides, Arabella and Theodore, even though they’ve been married for a few months now, still seem overly enthralled with each other. While that’s a lovely state for them to be in . . . considering I’ve recently suffered a direct blow to the heart, I hardly think it would be wise for me to be in constant contact with a couple so in love.”

  “Aha, so you really aren’t fine.”

  It truly was unfortunate Agatha was such an intelligent sort, but since Felicia had no intention of discussing her recent heartache, especially since she was in a lovely frame of mind at the moment, she settled for waving Agatha’s comment away with one deliberate flick of her wrist. “Yes, well, getting back to a career choice for me, I’m afraid I have no real skills, and isn’t that a sad state of affairs for a lady of twenty-four to recognize?”

  “You’re very good at helping the needy. Perhaps you should continue on with that.”

  It wasn’t as if she hadn’t thought about continuing on with her charitable efforts, even though she knew full well it was hardly likely she’d ever help out as much in Reverend Fraser’s church. That would be somewhat awkward, especially since it appeared far too many people had discovered her feelings about the gentleman. It would only be a matter of time until he found out about them, or worse yet, his wife.

  The new Mrs. Fraser was truly a compassionate soul, but her compassion might not extend quite so far as to embrace a lady who’d longed to be with her husband.

  The pesky little problem of what to do with her life now that reality had smacked her in the face had plagued her endlessly throughout the night. She’d taken to having a rather long chat with God, not that He’d sent her any clear solution to her problems as of yet, but in the midst of that chat, she’d come to a few uncomfortable truths.

  She’d changed her identity in order to secure the affections of a gentleman.

  She’d thrown herself into charitable endeavors to please that gentleman, and . . . although she’d gone to more church services than she could count, she’d barely listened to any of the sermons.

  She’d been completely ridiculous.

  She needed to make amends, and in order to do that, she needed to honestly and quietly help the less fortunate—not in a manner that would draw attention to her actions and have everyone exclaiming how wonderful and selfless she was.

  That made what Agatha was suggesting a bit of a problem.

  “Felicia?”

  Felicia blinked. “Good h
eavens, I do beg your pardon, Agatha. I fear I was lost in thought. What were we talking about?”

  “A career for you, but maybe we should change the subject, considering the very suggestion sent you into a trance.”

  Worry was clearly evident on Agatha’s face.

  Maybe it was time to change the subject. She looked down and then back to Agatha. “What do you think about the color of this gown?”

  For a moment, Agatha said nothing as she considered Felicia, but then she shook her head ever so slightly and smiled. “Fine, we’ll talk fashion, although I already mentioned I thought the color was lovely.” She tilted her head. “Moss green does wonders for bringing out the blue of your eyes, and I find the richness of the shade much preferable to the pastels you normally favor.” She bit her lip. “Oh dear, that was hardly amusing for me to say.”

  Felicia laughed. “It was honest, and honesty is something of which I’ve heard relatively little the past few years.” She grinned. “You’ll be happy to learn that I haven’t purchased a single pastel gown today, nor have I requested any frills or ribbons.”

  Agatha’s eyes grew round. “You’re worse off than anyone imagined.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You keep saying that, but you just admitted you ordered gowns without frills. You’re far from fine.”

  “Agatha, you and I both know a lady of my advanced years should never wear frills in the first place. Instead of being concerned with my selections, you should be relieved. At least now no one will have to avoid eye contact with me when I arrive at a society event dressed in revolting styles.” She glanced down when Mrs. Brown paused in her work. “No offense, Mrs. Brown. It wasn’t your fault I demanded you attach bows and ribbons to all my purchases.” She blew out a breath.

  “Truth be told, I dressed that way because I believed—wrongly, of course—that a gentleman who shall remain nameless thought I looked delightful drowned in ribbons and bows.”

  “That explains a lot,” Mrs. Brown said before she stuck one last pin in the hem and straightened. “There, all done. I’ll have this altered within the week, and then I’ll send it to your house along with the other garments you’ve chosen.”

  Felicia smiled her thanks and stepped off the raised platform, turning to allow Mrs. Brown access to the buttons running down her back. When Mrs. Brown finished, Felicia held the bodice of the gown in place with one hand as she moved over to a rack of clothing that held many of the garments she’d purchased. Pulling out a darling navy-and-white-striped walking dress that had already been altered for her while she shopped, she folded it over her arm and stepped behind the privacy screen. It took her only a moment to shrug out of the pin-ridden gown and slip into the new dress. Mrs. Brown joined her behind the screen, making short shrift of fastening her up. She moved out into the main room and winced when she heard Agatha release what sounded like a snort.

  “You don’t like it?”

  Agatha rose from the chair, walked up to Felicia, looked her up and down, and then wrinkled her brow. “It’s lovely to be sure, but you look . . . different.”

  Different was rapidly becoming one of Felicia’s favorite words.

  “Wonderful. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.” She smiled at Agatha, who was once again watching her in concern, and then strode across the room, plucking the hideous confection of palest orange she’d worn to the department store from a chair. She held it up to Mrs. Brown. “Now then, let us move on to discussing my old clothing.”

  Alarm flickered across Mrs. Brown’s face. “I don’t believe my talents are such that I can turn that into anything resembling the latest styles.”

  And didn’t that speak volumes about how she’d been parading around the city for the past four years?

  She absolutely refused to sigh—even though if there’d ever been a time to sigh, this was certainly it. “I wasn’t suggesting you alter the gown, Mrs. Brown. Skilled as you obviously are in the art of alteration, even you have your limits. Do you know of anyone who could benefit from my old wardrobe?”

  Mrs. Brown eyed the massive amount of fabric in Felicia’s hand. “I do have a cousin who works in the theater district. He’s constantly lamenting the dismal state of their budget. I imagine he would be thrilled to receive your old garments, and I would be happy to furnish you with his address.”

  She’d apparently been garbed in outfits best suited for the theater.

  She managed to nod, which sent Mrs. Brown hurrying over to a desk, rummaging through it for a moment until she finally located a piece of paper. She took a moment to scribble something down, walked back to Felicia, and handed her the paper, taking the orange gown from her in return. “I’ll send this along with your order so you won’t have to lug it around, but before you go, would you care to show Miss Watson the gown you’ve chosen for the ball?”

  Agatha frowned. “What ball?”

  “The ball Mrs. Beckett is holding for Zayne,” Felicia reminded her.

  “Oh, that ball.” Agatha’s expression turned somewhat glum, but then she drew in a breath and practically stomped across the room, coming to a stop in front of the rack that held Felicia’s new clothing. She began to sort through the garments, exclaiming every now and then over the cut of a gown, or the color, but then her hand stilled right before she plucked out a gown of brilliant red and shook it in Felicia’s direction.

  “I’m going to assume this gown has been hung here by mistake.”

  Felicia frowned. “That’s what I’m wearing to the ball.”

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  Felicia eyed the wispy bit of silk Agatha was still shaking at her and smiled. “Not at all. I’ve come to the conclusion red is a wonderful color for me. Mrs. Brown believes it makes my eyes sparkle.”

  “It does,” Mrs. Brown added with a nod. “And it fits her form to perfection.”

  “I don’t think you’re helping me,” Felicia muttered as she glanced at Agatha, who was now staring back at her as if she’d suddenly acquired two heads.

  “Too right you are,” Mrs. Brown exclaimed before she consulted a watch pinned to her sleeve. “My, would you look at the time. I’ve almost missed lunch.” She hurried across the room, set Felicia’s old gown on a table, and plucked up a hat. “I must thank you once again, Miss Murdock, for your order today, and . . . best of luck to you at the ball, and . . .” She shot a look to Agatha, snapped her mouth shut, strode to the door, and disappeared a second later.

  “You cannot wear this gown.”

  Felicia moved to Agatha’s side, took the gown from her, and hung it back on the rack. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”

  “I disagree. For one, it’s red, and for two, well, it seems to be missing a bodice.”

  “It’s not missing a bodice. It’s simply a little low-cut. I’m quite certain there will be other ladies at the ball, younger and more appealing ladies at that, who will be wearing similar styles. I’m an old spinster. No one will even notice me.” She smiled. “Besides, it’s the off-season. Most members of society are languishing at their summer homes, enjoying the sun and sea, so they won’t even be in attendance.”

  “Oh, please, this is a Beckett ball. Everyone will come back to enjoy it.” Agatha planted her hands on her hips. “All the sticklers for propriety will be there, and I can guarantee you that the talk of the evening won’t center on the fact that Zayne is finally going off to join his soon-to-be fiancée, Miss Helena Collins. No, talk will center on you, no matter your proclamation in regard to your spinster status. Honestly, Felicia, spinsters don’t wear bright red gowns, and they certainly don’t possess a remarkable figure such as yours—a figure, I must add, that no one is even aware you possess.”

  “The gown I wore yesterday afternoon showed off my figure” was all Felicia could think to respond.

  Agatha arched a brow. “Did it?”

  “You didn’t notice?”

  “Forgive me, but I was more concerned regarding your mood, and over the fact that
Grayson was so obviously put out with you. I didn’t happen to notice the curves you’ve been hiding for years.”

  “Grayson might have noticed.”

  Agatha’s mouth went slack. “He did?”

  “He was rendered somewhat mute when he first saw me at my house, and then, when he did speak, his voice was remarkably high.” She bit her lip. “Although, he might simply have been surprised I was wearing two different shoes, my hair looked like a rat’s nest, and I told him and my mother I was going to be Clara for the rest of the day.”

  “Ah, hmm” was all Agatha seemed capable of saying for a moment. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I can’t fathom why you’d declare yourself a Clara for a day, but an explanation regarding that troubling matter will have to wait.” She tilted her head. “Tell me, was your decision to purchase a red gown influenced at all by what Grayson might think?”

  Needing a moment to craft a response to that rather uncomfortable question, Felicia headed toward a mirror hanging on the wall and took a moment to secure her new hat on her head. For a second she admired its navy base paired with a single white ribbon wrapped around the body and not one bow in sight, but then she heard the sound of Agatha’s toe tapping all too impatiently on the floor and forced herself to turn, having no idea how to reply.

  Had the thought of Grayson and how he might react to seeing her in the red gown come to mind the moment she’d spotted the gown hanging on a dress form?

  Yes, it had, but she didn’t understand why, nor had she taken the time to ponder the matter, which meant she wasn’t prepared to discuss it with Agatha.

  She loved the lady dearly, had enjoyed getting to know her better the past year, but Agatha was a meddler—everyone knew that. If Agatha discovered she was even remotely attracted to Grayson—not that she was admitting she was—well, that would simply never do.

  “I think Grayson’s interested in you.”

  Felicia blinked rapidly out of her thoughts. “Come again?”

  “He allowed you to drive his prized horses.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”