by Madeline Hunter, Caroline Linden, Megan Frampton, Myretta Robens
“That sounds delightful,” she said in bemusement, “but how will you change the proportions of the rooms?” Her voice trailed off as she spoke.
Evan went for the bold strike. “I would like to buy this building, Miss Dawkins. Everything in Vine Street will be torn down and built anew, exactly as I said—and you’re right, it will be delightful, and a vast deal better than this.” He swept one hand around the shop.
“What?”
He ignored the horror in her exclamation. “Mr. Nash himself approved the plans, and the work will be carried out with his advice. This street is very near Piccadilly, but has frankly grown too shabby to be fashionable. In two years’ time, it will rival Bond Street.” He paused, but she only gaped at him, her face pale. “I’m prepared to make a very handsome offer, Miss Dawkins.”
“No,” she said faintly.
“An offer you would never receive from anyone else,” he said softly. “This is an old building. The work in Regent Street will disrupt traffic for years and cut you off from the fashionable part of town when it’s complete.”
“No!” Her expression grew stormy. “You cannot sweep in here and have my shop for the asking! I presume you’ve come because my mother has refused all your solicitor’s previous inquiries”—he said nothing, and she jerked her head in a knowing nod—“and you should know that I agree with my mother. We will not sell Follette’s!”
Evan sighed. As pretty as she was in a fury, he didn’t have time for this. “That would be foolish.”
“Foolish?” She raised one brow in disdain. “How arrogant, to presume you know anything about my shop or my concerns. Good day, sir.” She swept around the counter and went to the door. The bell jangled sharply as she jerked it open, and Midas hissed from beneath the chair.
He tugged at his gloves, studying her through narrow eyes. By God, she was throwing him out. “It would be foolish to stay,” he said coolly,” because I have already bought every other building around you.” Her eyes went wide, and he gave a small shrug. “Vine Street is coming down, Miss Dawkins. If you stay, it will come down around your ears, and when the work is complete, yours will be the lone spot of drab in the middle of a gleaming new street, devoid of all the modern trappings I just described. How much will it be worth then? If, however, you accept my offer now, you’ll get good—no, exceptional—value for it. I could even sweeten the offer by extending you a lease in the new premises at favorable terms,” he added.
She swallowed. “When do you expect this destruction to begin?”
“The last tenant will be out by the end of the month.” He put on his hat. “I expect to begin tearing it down the next day.”
“The end of the month,” she gasped. “Why so soon?”
Evan rocked back on his heels. “So soon? I’ve been acquiring property for almost a year. Did your mother not mention the multiple letters my solicitor has sent her?” She blanched. “No? Because I assure you, this has been several months in the planning.” He took out another card and laid it on the counter. “You may inquire with my solicitor, Thomas Grantham, if you don’t believe me.”
For a long moment she just stared at him, her blue eyes wide and unfocused. “Good day, my lord,” she finally said.
Confounded woman. Annoyed, Evan strode past her, only to pause on the pavement beside his waiting horse. “Look around, Miss Dawkins,” he warned her, waving one hand at the shop across the street. The tailor had already gone, and the windows of his shop had a blank, dead look about them. “Soon every window on this street will be dark except yours. Soon the street itself will be torn out. Your clients won’t be able to drive to your door, and dust from the demolition will seep through the cracks in your windows and ruin every bolt of silk you possess. Do you really want to run your shop under those conditions?”
For answer she closed the door with a snap, and remained behind it glaring at him, arms crossed over her chest. This time Evan didn’t even glance at her splendid bosom. “Think about it,” he said again. “And when you reach the obvious conclusion, you have my card.” Somewhat sardonically, he bowed to her, then got back on his horse and rode away.
Chapter Two
Felicity glared at the hateful man until he vanished into traffic at the end of the street. As satisfying as it had been to slam the door on him, she couldn’t so easily shut out his words.
She gave a despairing huff. Her first sight of him was dazzling: tall and handsome, exuding confidence and wealth. Felicity’s imagination had run away from her for a moment, imagining all the commissions such a man might have come to make, and she’d got butterflies in her stomach at the prospect of outfitting his mother, his sister, his wife, his daughter, even his horse if that’s what he desired. After dealing with Lady Marjoribanks, no request would make her blink.
Instead he’d come to ruin her. Sell Follette’s! Move away! The very thing she’d vowed never to do. And all so he could raze it to the ground and build something new, probably with rents she could never afford. Felicity had seen the building going on in Regent Street. While it had cleared away some ramshackle old buildings and improved the general tone of the area, she couldn’t help noticing that those pristine new shops had contributed to her own business’s decline. Why venture to Vine Street when one could find plenty of shopping only two streets away, situated along a broad, well-lit, perfectly paved boulevard?
And Mama had known, for months, that that—that predator was preying on them, but not said a word. Felicity pressed the heels of her hands to her forehead, trying to calm her temper. It seemed her mother had steadfastly refused His Dazzling Lordship, which gave her a vengeful delight, but how could her mother keep such a thing secret from her and from Henry?
Her hands dropped. Had Mama kept it from Henry? “She must have,” Felicity whispered. Surely her brother would have told her, even if Mama had tried to swear him to secrecy for some reason…
She strode through the shop and into the tiny office at the back. She grabbed a short cloak hanging on a hook and threw it over her shoulders, then tied on her bonnet. She shouldn’t leave the shop, but this was an emergency. Stopping only to ask Selina Fontaine, the other head seamstress who had no clients in at the moment, to mind the salon for a while, she headed out to see her brother.
Clutching her cloak with one fist, her lips pressed into an irate line, she strode toward Henry’s lodgings. Although they weren’t far from Vine Street, the trip required her to cross Regent Street, forcibly driving home the truth of Lord Carmarthen’s words. Construction made a mess. The shop would be filthy, even if she swept twice a day. And the familiar buildings that she’d beheld every day of her life would be gone, torn down just because they were old.
She tried not to think of the burst of delight she’d felt for that brief moment when she imagined Lord Carmarthen’s vision of new sewers and gas lighting benefiting everyone already living in the street, not merely himself.
She knocked firmly on Henry’s door, not certain if her brother was awake. He would be soon, she grimly vowed, and knocked again.
“That sounds like my dear sister’s way of pounding on the door,” said Henry as he opened that door. He was in shirtsleeves and had clearly been lingering over his breakfast. “Good morning, Fee.”
Felicity pushed past him. “Henry, did Mama ever tell you someone offered to buy Follette’s?”
His eyebrows went up as he shut the door. “No.”
She sighed, although she wasn’t sure if it was relief or dismay, and pulled off her bonnet. “A gentleman came to the shop today and claimed he’s been making Mama offers to buy the shop for months. Obviously she refused him.”
“And you thought I wouldn’t have told you, if I’d known?”
“No,” she murmured, abashed at his frown. “But I had to be sure. If Mama had sworn you to secrecy…”
He gave her a deeply disappointed glance, but his frown faded. Henry was extraordinarily good-natured. Sometimes Felicity thought she’d got all the temper in the
family, and Henry all the forbearance. “What gentleman wants to buy a dressmaking shop?”
“The Earl of Carmarthen.” Felicity held out the expensive card the earl had left on her counter. “Do you know anything about him?”
“No,” said her brother slowly, appearing quite thrown. “Felicity, why on earth would an earl want Follette’s?”
“So he can tear it down. He says he’s bought every other building in Vine Street and will demolish them all around our ears. He’s got plans for improvements like in Regent Street,” she said, trying not to spit out the word “improvements.” Those plans would improve things for the landlords and the wealthy shopkeepers looking for shiny new premises. Felicity was dreadfully afraid, though, that those plans were meant to force out her and other ordinary shopkeepers. Clearing away the rabble, she thought grimly.
Henry’s brow furrowed again. “He’s bought every other building? I noticed Mr. White’s tailor shop had closed, but never imagined… Did you ask the neighbors if that’s true?”
She shifted her weight. “No. Not yet. When do I have time to visit the neighbors and ask if anyone’s offered to buy them out? Besides, we’re one of the few tenants who owns our building.” That was thanks to Sophie-Louise’s foresight decades ago, when she’d been determined never to be poor or homeless again. Their mother had fled revolutionary France during the days of the Terror, and it had left a deep mark on her mind.
“It would be good to know,” Henry pointed out. “If Mama refused him, perhaps others did as well. He may be trying to cozen you.”
“Do you think he lied?” Her heart rose hopefully. How she would love to call Lord Carmarthen’s bluff, and see his handsome face fall as he realized he’d been bested by a woman…
Henry shrugged. “He wouldn’t be the first. It should be easy to verify, though. The parish must have records of the deed holders.”
“Would you?” She saw his face; he was not enthusiastic about the prospect, but he would do it. She gave him an adoring smile. “You take such good care of us, Henry, and of Follette’s. Mama would be proud—”
“Mama,” he repeated. “What will we tell Mama, assuming this fellow’s claim is true? If he tears down the whole street, it won’t be good for Follette’s. And to be clear, Fee, I doubt he’d say he owned everything if it weren’t substantially true.”
Her mood darkened again. “We can’t move, not now.” The king’s coronation was swiftly approaching. No lady of quality planning to attend would want her gown from a modiste in Bloomsbury or Islington. Bloomsbury and Islington, though far more affordable than Piccadilly or Bond Street, smacked of middle class, not the leading edge of fashion. In the last year and a half, Felicity had fought fiercely to push Follette’s back to that edge. She had hired Delyth Owen, a new seamstress with a keen, bold eye for design, and promoted Selina, and all three of them had been creating bold new interpretations of the latest styles. They had staunched the decline of their clientele and even attracted a few prominent new clients who placed expensive orders—and absolutely nothing could be allowed to interfere with delivery of those commissions, because Follette’s entire future depended on them.
It was not enough for a dressmaker’s shop to produce handsome clothing of good quality. To be considered a fashion leader, a modiste must produce exquisite garments of superior quality for the right ladies. Outfitting a merchant’s family, no matter how wealthy, or a country squire’s wife, no matter how beautiful, would not put a modiste’s name on everyone’s lips. That required patrons of some prestige, although notoriety could be just as good.
From the moment the old king died, Felicity had set her sights on the coronation of the new king. As prince, George IV had proved himself a man of lavish tastes, exceedingly fond of spectacle, and the stories printed in the papers promised that this would be his crowning moment in every sense of the word. With days, even weeks, of dazzling festivities planned in celebration, every peeress and lady of quality would want a new gown or five, gowns they would wear in front of the most rarefied society in all of Britain. Felicity was determined that at least a few of those splendid new gowns would come from Follette’s. But to make that happen, she needed to avoid anything that would disrupt work at the shop.
“How much did he offer?” Henry’s question broke into her thoughts.
Felicity flushed. “He didn’t say. He said he’d give exceptional value and offered to grant us a lease on favorable terms after the reconstruction is complete.” She grimaced, absently straightening some of the dishes on Henry’s breakfast table. “Which won’t be for a year or more.”
“Exceptional value,” repeated her brother. “I’d like to know what he thinks that is.” She shot a furious glare at him. Henry put up his hands defensively. “I didn’t say we should accept it. It’s just hard to know what the property is worth. And … er… We might need a mortgage.”
“What?” she cried. “You never mentioned that!” Sophie-Louise would be appalled. Debt was evil, in her mind. It was the threat of not being able to pay their accounts that had persuaded her to let them take over the management of Follette’s, after all.
“Nigel Martin is tightening our credit,” he said, naming the owner of her favorite silk warehouse. “He wants to be paid in full. I wonder now if he knew about this plan for Vine Street and foresaw trouble for us.”
Felicity seethed. Curse Mr. Martin, she thought, and curse Lord Carmarthen, too. She wasn’t going to sell her shop. She was going to see those gowns produced, one way or another, even if she had to mortgage the shop thrice over in order to take a single room in the middle of Mayfair…
And there her thoughts paused. The middle of Mayfair would not be a step down. If she had a shop there, it would show that Follette’s was moving toward fashionable London in light of the destruction of Vine Street, not away from it.
Lord Carmarthen wanted her shop very badly. That much was clear from the way he’d come himself and tried to convince her how greatly his plans would benefit everyone in Vine Street. He also knew she wanted to stay, just as he knew she could become a large thorn in his side. For all his bluster about tearing everything down around her, Felicity knew that her shop shared a wall with the building next to it. He couldn’t pull down that wall without destroying her property. But it meant he would probably accept almost any remotely reasonable terms she proposed as the cost of moving out of the shop…
“I have an idea,” she said softly, still thinking hard.
Her brother tensed. “What?”
She gave him a sharp look. Henry was too amiable to send into battle against Lord Carmarthen. Besides, she wanted to best the earl all on her own. It still rankled that he’d asked to speak to her man of business, and only broached his true purpose when she insisted she was in charge of Follette’s. “Never mind now. I’ll deal with this.” She went up on her toes to press a quick kiss on her brother’s cheek. “Thank you, Henry.”
He still looked wary. “Please promise me I won’t have to rescue you from Newgate. Assaulting an earl is a capital crime.”
She laughed as she put her bonnet back on. “No, no. It shall be perfectly legal and proper. I’ve decided the evil earl may help us yet.”
Chapter Three
Evan strode into his solicitor’s office, still incensed by his encounter the previous day with Miss Dawkins, or Madame Follette, or whatever her real name was. “How much can I tear down in Vine Street without damaging the modiste’s shop?” he demanded without preamble.
Thomas Grantham looked up over the top of his spectacles, and put down his pen. “It didn’t go well, did it?”
“No.” He flung his hat and gloves into the waiting arms of Grantham’s clerk. “Do you still have the engineering reports at hand?” Perhaps there was a way to tear down everything except the dressmaker’s shop. Evan told himself he had to be coldly logical about this, and not let a stunning pair of blue eyes shake his resolve. Miss Dawkins had had her chance, and she’d refused it. He was convinced
she’d change her mind once work began and she was forced to deal with the dirt and noise and upheaval. She would be on his doorstep begging for another chance to accept his offer, which would not be quite as generous the next time.
Grantham looked at his clerk. “Fetch the reports, Watson.” The man nodded and left. “How badly?” the solicitor asked, leaning back in his chair and smiling, once the clerk was gone.
Evan glared at him. Thomas Grantham was not just his solicitor but his friend, a fellow student at Cambridge who had tutored Evan to a surprisingly strong showing in mathematics. Grantham had an engineer’s mind, precise and logical, but his father, an attorney, had decreed Thomas would follow in his footsteps and read law. At the time Evan had privately thought it sounded dry and dull, but in recent years he’d come to appreciate his friend’s training. As his interest in improvements had grown, he’d realized how vital a good solicitor was to the job, and had promptly put the opportunity to Thomas, who accepted on the spot.
This partnership between them put the best of Grantham’s skills to full use: He was able to make sense of the engineers’ reports and estimates, and he knew how to guide a large renovation through the byzantine bureaucracy of Whitehall. It had been his task to buy all the property and smooth the way for the construction, while Evan dealt with the architects and tradesmen, to say nothing of using his position to get the necessary approvals.
But now Thomas was enjoying Evan’s failure to acquire one dressmaker’s shop a little too much. “Horribly,” he muttered grudgingly, before turning the barb around. “In part because you neglected to tell me whom I’d be facing.”
Grantham’s brows went up. “Who? The sole owner is Sophie-Louise Dawkins, widow, although she uses her maiden name, Follette, in her business. Is she even more shrewish in person?”
