by Madeline Hunter, Caroline Linden, Megan Frampton, Myretta Robens
Henry looked past her at the earl. As amiable as Henry was, he was also quite a big fellow and could look intimidating when he wished to. “Where are you going?”
She took a deep breath. “My lord, my brother Henry. Henry, this is Lord Carmarthen, who wishes to purchase the shop. He has found a potential new location for us, and I’m going to inspect it.”
Her brother gave her a measured look. He thought she’d lost her mind, leaving the shop in the middle of the day. Either that, or he was in shock that her mad scheme might possibly be working. “Now?”
“As you see, Lord Carmarthen is here and has offered to escort me there.”
Henry didn’t appear convinced, but he didn’t protest further. Felicity shook her head and hurried to get her things. Her fingers fumbled a little with the bonnet ribbons as she tied them. It would have been polite of Lord Carmarthen to send a note, instead of arriving out of the blue and expecting her to drop everything to go off with him. She preferred not to dwell on the fact that she had jumped to do so, instead of thinking of her responsibilities at Follette’s. She buttoned on her spencer and went back into the main room, where Henry and the earl were standing in the middle of the salon, gazing up at the ceiling.
“I doubt it’s unsafe, but it’s a sign of decay,” the earl was saying. He broke off as she returned. For a moment he gazed at her as if caught by surprise. Felicity tugged on her gloves. She knew she dressed well. Her appearance, she reasoned, was an advertisement for Follette’s and as such she took pride in it. Her dress today was simple, but her spencer was a glorious blue and gold damask with a silk ruffle starched into a graceful arch for the collar. She’d made it over from an old polonaise jacket, bought secondhand for the fabric. It must have been a duchess’s, and it made Felicity feel bold and confident—something she needed with the earl about.
“I’ll keep an eye on it,” Henry said. His head was still craned back as he squinted at the ceiling. “Thank you, my lord.”
“Of course,” murmured Carmarthen, his gaze locked on Felicity. “Shall we go, ma’am?”
He helped her into his curricle in the street. At the corner he turned into Regent Street. The southern end, near Piccadilly, was almost entirely new construction, from the gleaming curved Quadrant north to Oxford Street. Some of the houses were still being finished, and Felicity pressed a handkerchief over her mouth as a cloud of dust rose around them, kicked up by a wagon loaded with bricks. “London’s barely fit to live in, with all the building going on,” she muttered.
“I daresay this is a better method than having it all burn to the ground,” said the earl.
“A fine argument to make to those displaced,” she said wryly.
“No? A fire sweeps all away before it, without warning or recompense. Planned improvements, on the other hand, offer everyone an opportunity.”
She gave him a jaundiced look. “I have the opportunity to uproot myself and my business. You have the opportunity to build expensive new shops, without having to endure any of the inconvenience yourself.”
He laughed. “Anyone who thinks there is no inconvenience associated with rebuilding an entire block of buildings has obviously never done it.”
“So this isn’t your first time turning people out of their homes?”
The earl’s easy smile stayed in place, in spite of her provocative queries. “I’ve never turned anyone out of his home. However, I have made fair and reasonable offers to purchase in areas that were primed for improvement.”
“All at a tidy profit to yourself, of course.”
“Of course,” he agreed, “but not only to me. Think of the bricklayers and surveyors, Miss Dawkins, the plasterers and ironmongers who were able to pay their rent and feed their families because I employed them.”
“How many of them were able to afford the houses you built?”
“Some. But all of them were paid on time, and what they did with their earnings was their choice.” He slanted a curious glance at her. “Surely you can’t disapprove of providing employment to so many men.”
Felicity pressed her lips together. “No,” she conceded. “But on that philosophy, we should keep building everywhere, all the time, so that anyone who wants to work may have a job.”
“That would be ridiculous. Why build houses or shops where no one wishes to live?”
“Why tear down and rebuild houses and shops that are already occupied?”
He inhaled a deep breath, then let it out, the sound of patience being tried. “Because they are old, Miss Dawkins. Because they are unsound, and often it would cost more to repair them than to tear down and start anew, only this time with modern methods and conveniences included.”
“At a tidy profit to yourself,” she said again. He was not doing this out of altruism, no matter how worthy he made it sound.
“Surely the man who brings functioning sewers and drains to Vine Street must deserve a little something.”
“Perhaps,” she admitted, thinking of the gleaming new buildings in the Quadrant, now several streets behind them. “Although so do the people who will be displaced.”
“I never said otherwise.” He paused. “I couldn’t help but notice that your own shop, so dear to your heart, has a leaky roof. Water has been coming down inside the walls and is responsible for the stains on your ceiling.”
She darted a wary glance at him. “Yes, but it’s been repaired.”
“When?”
“Several months ago,” she said slowly. It would have been done sooner, except that the leak had been behind a wall hanging in her mother’s room, hidden from view. By the time Sophie-Louise left, the damage had reached the ground floor and thoroughly ruined the wall behind several cupboards in the workroom above. Henry had exclaimed over the bills for the repairs.
“I suggest you don’t hire those workmen again,” said the earl. “It’s still leaking. There are fresh signs of damage in your main salon.”
Now she regarded him with dismay. “I’ll have someone in to look at it.”
“Don’t you believe me?” he asked with amusement. “Why would I possibly tell you your roof was leaking if it were not?”
“Because it’s another mark against the building, a sign that you’re correct in wishing to take it down—and for a lower price as well, no doubt.” Felicity spoke pertly, but his words gave her real alarm. She knew Number Twelve was old. The floors all sloped, the stairs squeaked horribly, and the back chimney had a terrible draw. If Lord Carmarthen had offered to buy the building next winter, once all the commissions for the Season and the coronation festivities were completed, she would have been far more likely to accept. Now she could only say a prayer that she could stave off structural damage, and the earl’s persuasions, for another few months.
Carmarthen grinned. Felicity’s gaze lingered on his mouth for a moment before she resolutely looked away. “I give my word not to lower my price,” he said. “Though if the leaking roof makes you more inclined to agree promptly, I shan’t be disappointed.”
She laughed reluctantly. “It does not. There are other reasons why I cannot accept, which I made quite plain to you and Mr. Grantham.”
“So you did.” He pulled up the horses and set the brake. “I trust you’ll keep your side of that bargain as quickly as I’ve kept mine.”
Felicity looked around to get her bearings; she’d been so caught up in their conversation she hadn’t paid much attention to where he drove them. It was a small street, quiet and quaint, but now that she thought about it, she didn’t remember turning west. “Where are we?”
“Frith Street, near Soho Square.” The earl jumped down and held out his hand.
She could only look at him in dismay as her heart sank. “No…” Soho Square was not the right part of town. Soho was practically Bloomsbury, even farther from the fashionable customers Felicity desperately needed to attract.
“No?” Astonished annoyance flickered over his face for a moment, quickly masked. “It’s an excellent property
. The light is good, the rooms are quite large, and the rent is reasonable. And the roof is entirely sound.” He waved one hand, indicating a wide storefront of red brick behind him.
Felicity shook her head. “I’m sorry, my lord. It’s not acceptable.” She ignored the hand he still held out to help her down.
Carmarthen stared at her. “I beg your pardon. It fits every particular you listed—”
“No, it doesn’t,” she returned quietly. Sitting in his glossy black curricle in the middle of the street made her self-conscious. It seemed passersby were watching everything. “Please take me back to Vine Street, sir.”
The earl looked utterly flummoxed. He stepped closer to the carriage and put his hands on his hips. A thin frown creased his brow. “Tell me why you object to this manifestly suitable shop,” he said in a low voice.
Against her will she glanced at it again. A gentleman waited on the step, conspicuously facing away from them; no doubt the estate agent with an agreement to let in his pocket. Lord Carmarthen was certainly eager to get her out of Vine Street. And it did look like a handsome shop, with tall mullioned windows that would expertly display wares … to the wives of the prosperous merchants who lived nearby.
She turned away. “I’m sorry, my lord,” she said, softly but firmly. “It is not acceptable.”
“Is that all the explanation you’re going to give?” he exclaimed.
“If you drive me home, I will explain.” Unlike him, she was trying to keep her voice low. Even though she couldn’t possibly bring Follette’s to this street, it was a clean and well-kept neighborhood, and she had no wish to offend anyone who lived here.
For a moment she thought the earl would lose his temper. His mouth flattened, his eyes flashed, and Felicity felt her own temper stirring. If he upbraided her in public—
“Very well,” he said curtly. “A moment, please.” He stalked away and spoke to the lingering gentleman. Then he came back and stepped into the curricle. With a snap of the whip he started the horses. “Explain what was so deficient you could not even set foot in the place.”
“The shop itself looked large and pleasant,” she said. “Please don’t think I found it lacking, particularly the sound roof. The problem is with the location.”
“In what way?”
She heard the cynicism in his voice and it poked at her temper again. “You don’t understand fashion, if you need to ask.”
Carmarthen frowned. “Obviously I do not. What has fashion got to do with shop premises? Is your ability to stitch silk and lace compromised by the general character of the neighborhood? I confess, I’d no idea seamstresses were so susceptible to such vanity, particularly at the paltry rent you wish to pay.”
“I don’t pay any rent at the moment. Even thirty pounds a year will be an increase.”
“Yes,” he said—through his teeth from the sound of it—“but you shall have the money from the sale of your current shop.”
“Which must also be spent on preparing the new premises, moving my household, replacing any fabric damaged in the move, and many other expenses! And once it is gone, that sum will be gone forever. My mother may well wish to set something aside for her old age; her life’s work and savings are invested in Follette’s.” She glared at him. Only a wealthy man would carelessly brush aside the issue of money.
Felicity’s plans, if they came to fruition, would push her family’s income back to comfortable levels, but she was keenly aware that the Dawkinses were still far from secure. Until she, her mother, and her brother had healthy sums saved and invested, with a thriving shop to support them without touching the capital, she would not stop tracking every shilling. She couldn’t. If they lost Follette’s, their options would be too terrible to contemplate.
The earl fell quiet. Felicity felt flushed and irritable, which made her feel awkward as well. She wished they were already back in Vine Street. Carmarthen simply didn’t understand. He called her vain—and a mere seamstress—while brushing aside mention of thirty pounds, which was a very handsome bit of coin to every seamstresses Felicity knew.
“What sort of neighborhood did you hope for?”
His voice made her start. She dared a glance at him, but he was serious. He met her gaze, and she sensed he was as disappointed in the morning’s outing as she was. For different reasons, no doubt, but somehow it took the edge off her irritation to know that he was honestly trying to satisfy her conditions.
“A dressmaker in Soho Square attracts a very different sort of client than a dressmaker near Bond Street,” she explained. “You may wrinkle your brow and declare that it makes no difference in the sort of clothes one can sew, but examine your own habits. Do you patronize a boot maker in Whitechapel? Do you venture to Holborn for your shirts?” He said nothing, but his jaw tightened. Encouraged, Felicity went on. “I have no objection to clothing the wives of merchants and bankers. Indeed, they are often wonderful clients! But the success of a modiste may fairly be judged by the elegance and status of the ladies she clothes. To have a gown worn to Court is a triumph; to be spoken of in the ballrooms of Mayfair puts your name, and your work, in front of women whose patronage can set the style and ensure a steady stream of other clients.”
“So you wish to be near Bond Street.”
“Yes,” she said, unable to keep the longing from her voice. Bond Street was a bounty of fashionable needs, from milliners and glovers to drapers and dressmakers, but also of bookshops, wine merchants, hairdressers, and jewelers. To be in Bond Street meant a merchant had reached the pinnacle of taste and desirability.
Unfortunately, the rents charged for shop frontage there reflected this fact. The next best thing was to be near Bond Street, and it had been solace to Felicity that Vine Street was only a short distance away, a few minutes’ walk down Piccadilly. But now Mr. Nash’s Quadrant and Regent Street sliced through the neighborhood, acting like a gleaming wall between the elegance of Mayfair on the west, and the slowly fading area to the east.
Carmarthen didn’t speak again until they reached Vine Street. When he stopped the curricle in front of Follette’s, he turned to her before getting down. “You never said you wished to be in Bond Street when you came to Mr. Grantham’s office.”
Felicity’s lips parted. Was he trying to blame her for this? “I don’t require premises in Bond Street,” she exclaimed. “I never said that. I was quite clear, however, that I do require a situation that would be more convenient for my clients and employees, not less. Soho Square would be a great deal less convenient, as they would all be required to cross the great swath of chaos that is Regent Street. You can see even this short drive has been filthy.” She pointedly brushed at some of the dust that had settled on her skirt. “If you were uncertain of what constituted convenience to me, you could have asked at any time.”
The door of the shop opened and Henry stepped out. He must have been watching for her return. Felicity beckoned to him, and he jumped forward to help her down from the earl’s elegant but high carriage. “Good day, my lord,” she said, giving him a curtsy. “Thank you for driving me home.” Carmarthen nodded once, but didn’t say anything. Feeling unexpectedly let down, she went into the shop.
Henry followed her. “It did not go well, I take it.”
Felicity hung up her bonnet and spencer. “He found a shop in Soho Square, and didn’t seem to understand why it was all wrong.”
Her brother cleared his throat. “Why was it all wrong?”
She sighed. This was why she was in charge and Henry was not. She loved her brother, and knew him to be intelligent and thoughtful, but the finer points of the fashion business weren’t important to him. Henry was meticulous at keeping the books and he excelled at dealing with vendors and bankers, but he felt as Lord Carmarthen obviously did: A gown was a gown, and where the sewing took place had no impact on the final product. “Because it would mark a decline in the shop’s status. Ladies like to aspire to their fashions, and to their modiste. It might suffice to be in Soho S
quare to start out, before moving up—which means moving west. To move eastward…” She gave a helpless shrug. “It would undo everything we’ve been working to achieve.”
“It really makes that great a difference where we’re located?”
“Sadly, it does.”
“You would understand ladies’ behavior better than I,” he said after a moment. “His Lordship was disappointed.”
Felicity tried not to think that the earl might decide their bargain was too much trouble, and not come back. Perhaps she should brace herself for more demands from the solicitor. “As was I.”
Chapter Five
Evan drove home, brooding over the morning’s outing. It is not acceptable, echoed her voice in his memory. And why not? he wanted to argue. Who was she, in decrepit Vine Street, to look down on a perfectly sound shop in Soho Square?
He crossed Regent Street, where traffic slowed to a crawl. He grimaced and waved one hand to clear away a cloud of dust billowing from a block where a new foundation was being dug. Construction had started near Carlton House and was slowly worming northward as Mr. Nash demolished, straightened, and rebuilt the street. And—as Miss Dawkins had said—it was filthy.
Perhaps she had a point. Evan couldn’t see his mother venturing through this mess in search of a new dressmaker, not when it was far easier and more comfortable to go to Bond Street. And if his mother, who was a very reasonable woman, wouldn’t go, it was a certainty that other, flightier, ladies wouldn’t go, either.
On the other hand, Bond Street rents were quite high. As part of the diligence on Vine Street, Grantham had drawn up a list of the rents that properties across London fetched, to see what would be reasonable in the new Vine Street. Bond Street properties had been near the top of the list, which hadn’t surprised Evan. He paid the bills his mother and sister accrued while shopping there. If Miss Dawkins wanted to be in Bond Street, she’d need to pay considerably more than thirty pounds per annum.
