by Madeline Hunter, Caroline Linden, Megan Frampton, Myretta Robens
“A millinery shop, ma’am,” said Mr. Abbott. “It should require very little work to make it suitable for a modiste.”
“So it seems.” She turned down the narrow corridor, lined with shelves and drawers, perfect for storing supplies. “There is only one small room. Are there more upstairs suitable for fittings?”
“Indeed.” Abbott hurried forward to show them the way upstairs. The workroom was adequate, with plenty of cupboards and two stoves for heat, and three smaller rooms that would serve as offices or fitting rooms. When Mr. Abbot asked if she would like to see the lodgings above, Felicity nodded eagerly. Even though she told herself not to be too easily satisfied, she couldn’t see anything wrong with this shop.
The rooms upstairs were small, but included two bedrooms as well as a sitting room. She walked through them, inspecting every inch. When she came back into the sitting room overlooking Bond Street, the earl was alone; Mr. Abbott must have gone back downstairs.
“What do you think?” he asked. He looked very much at home, resting one elbow on the mantel as if posed for a formal portrait—except for the fond smile on his face.
She turned in a slow circle. “I think it might be perfect.”
He raised one brow. “Perfect?”
She lifted her hands and let them fall. “It’s right on Bond Street. It’s smaller than my current premises, but not much. The workroom is ideal, there are three rooms that could be used for fittings instead of two, as I have now, and the lodging is adequate.” She smiled in amazement. “I retract everything unkind I ever said about your desire to tear down Vine Street. You are a godsend! Can this really be only thirty pounds a year? I never would have discovered it on my own.”
Something flickered over his face. “With the increased prestige and ability to display directly on Bond Street, your revenue will surely increase.”
Felicity’s beaming smile dimmed. “I hope so, of course,” she said slowly. “It’s more than thirty pounds, isn’t it?”
He flicked one hand. “Not much.”
The warmth and goodwill she had been feeling drained away. She just looked at him, speechless with dismay.
He crossed the room to the window. “You’ll have a fine view from here. And is this another closet?” He opened a door, revealing a small storage room.
“Carmarthen.”
Warily he turned.
“How much is the rent?”
For a moment she didn’t think he would tell her. Then he raised one hand as if quell any protest. “The owner is asking ninety pounds, but everything is negotiable—”
“Ninety pounds!” Felicity was appalled. No wonder the shop was so perfect; it was far too expensive for her. “Have you any idea how much a seamstress earns in a year? Twenty pounds—twenty-five, if she’s talented and hardworking. Apprentices might not make thirteen. Ninety pounds! I didn’t want to pay more than thirty!”
“I know,” he said in the same soothing voice. “But hear me out: Let me speak to the owner on your behalf. I’ll deal with him entirely. This shop earns him nothing by standing empty and he may consider a lower figure.”
Felicity felt crushed by disappointment—not only that she wouldn’t be able to take this lovely, ideal shop, but because Carmarthen had lied to her. He brought her to this Bond Street shop that was everything she wanted, knowing it cost three times what she could afford. “And when he says no, a shop this lovely is worth ninety pounds?”
He let out his breath, as if holding back his temper. “You don’t know that he will.”
She did, though. Felicity hadn’t the earl’s status or wealth to intimidate everyone she dealt with. The shop owner would laugh in her face if she offered a third of his asking rent. “He would have to be a very big fool,” she said quietly. “Even bigger than I was, to think this might be affordable.” She looked sadly around the cozy, light-filled rooms. “I need to get back to my shop, sir.”
The earl didn’t move. “Thirty pounds won’t get you anywhere near Bond Street. I had to broaden the search.”
She headed for the door, and the stairs, and the street. He followed her, not saying anything until they reached the pavement outside. “I appreciate your efforts, my lord,” she said there, addressing the middle of his chest rather than meeting his sea-blue eyes. “I wish I could take this shop, but I cannot. I tried to be clear about what I could afford, so as not to waste my time or yours.”
He ran one hand through his hair, tousling the dark waves even more. “You’re despairing of it too easily.”
Suddenly she wanted to be away from him, from his air of wealth and confidence and most of all from the feeling that she had frustrated him yet again. The easy banter and potent attraction that had sizzled between them only half an hour ago seemed a distant memory. Perhaps he hadn’t meant to set her up for disappointment, but he’d known all along this shop cost too much and still he’d let her explore and exclaim over each feature and envision herself working and living there. How could he do that to her?
She had to clench her jaw to hide her feelings. She had no reason to feel betrayed or bereft; the Earl of Carmarthen was no more in her reach than this Bond Street shop. “Good day, my lord.”
“Where are you going?” he exclaimed as she turned to start for home.
“It’s only a short walk to Vine Street from here.” A short walk, across an ever-growing gulf between his world and hers.
“Let me drive you,” he said.
Felicity shook her head, unable to keep from looking at his offered arm with regret. Part of her wanted desperately to take it and listen to his promises. Another part of her, though, whispered it would only pave the way to greater heartbreak later. “I think I’ll walk.”
He stared. His arm fell to his side. “As you wish.” Stiffly he bowed. “Good day. I apologize for wasting your time today.”
It wasn’t a waste, she wanted to cry. It was wonderful—until the end. She swallowed the words. “Good day.”
She walked home feeling as if a dark cloud hovered over her. The elegance of Bond Street gave way to the bustle of Piccadilly, and she crossed the gleaming new Regent Street, at which point she could almost see the cloud close in around her and envelope everything. Two weeks ago she had thought Vine Street a little tired, decidedly old, but also quaint. Now she saw it as it was: paint peeling from doors, clogged drains letting water pool in the street, windows ominously dark and empty compared to the shops in the streets she’d just left. She went into Madame Follette’s and was struck by how dim it was after the shop in Bond Street. What a delight it would have been to receive clients in that bright, airy salon…
Alice popped out of the corridor leading to the fitting rooms. “Oh, you’re back, miss! It’s been quiet since you left. Only Lady Giles Woodville came for a fitting.”
Lady Giles Woodville was Selina’s client, and the sister-in-law of the Duke of Barrowmore—who was Selina’s lover. Felicity had seen the way Barrowmore looked at Selina, and thought it was only a matter of time before he married her. Then Selina would leave the shop and there was no certainty Lady Giles would continue patronizing Follette’s. Perhaps Selina would patronize her, when she was a duchess … assuming Felicity still had any seamstresses to sew the gowns, to say nothing of a shop for them to work in. Delyth had steady work with the Merrithew family, so steady they had requested she move into their Portman Square home for the Season. If she were left with only Alice and Sally to help her…
Felicity took a deep breath and looked around her salon. It wasn’t big or bright, but she still designed the best gowns in London. Somehow or other, with Lord Carmarthen’s help or in spite of him, with or without her seamstresses, she would make it through this, delivering every coronation gown on time and saving Follette’s.
She had to. No one else would do it for her.
Evan watched her go and said a dozen curses inside his head. He’d got so caught up in watching her face light up that he hadn’t prepared better for the question of the r
ent, and now it felt like he’d lost all the ground gained earlier in the day. The discovery that she was attracted to him—perhaps as attracted as he was to her—had gone to his head, like a bottle of wine drunk too quickly.
But he’d had to do it. Her requirements were unrealistic.
“Will that be all for today, my lord?” said a voice behind him.
He swung around to see Mr. Abbott standing on the steps. “Yes. I’ll inform you if I require anything else.”
“Of course.” The older man inclined his head slightly in the direction Miss Dawkins had gone. “I thought the lady found these premises highly satisfactory.”
Evan’s jaw tightened. “She did. It was the rent she found wanting.”
“Ah.” Mr. Abbott locked the door and put on his hat. “I am familiar with the gentleman who owns this property. I daresay he would be willing to negotiate if you, my lord, would provide a guarantee.”
“What sort of guarantee?” Evan frowned.
“The owner is a man retired from the cloth trade himself; I believe this was his tailoring shop for many years, and he still has a fondness for shops dedicated to fashion.” Mr. Abbott cast a polite glance after Miss Dawkins. Her raspberry dress stood out in the crowd. “He would likely favor a talented young modiste over other tenants.”
“Then why would he want a guarantee?” asked Evan in irritation. Perhaps this fellow was the same as Ferrars, with less than noble intentions toward pretty young modistes.
“He is aware of what a tenuous existence fashion offers. A shop may soar to the heights of desirability one year, then fall from favor the next and leave the owner bankrupted. I have seen it many times,” he added at Evan’s frown. “The hatters, the glovers, the milliners, the tailors… Let one dandy or duchess set fashion on its ear, and people will abandon any tradesman who cannot adjust immediately. A modiste can be ruined by inventory.” Mr. Abbott spread his hands. “I don’t speak for the owner, of course, but if he were assured a shop would have capital to survive a few years at least…”
He could pay the excess rent. It could be called a loan, or an investment, or even extra compensation for her current shop. But he could mark it as an expense of the Vine Street project, where sixty pounds—even one hundred twenty, over two years—was hardly worth noting in the ledger. Evan’s mood lifted as he thought about it.
But would Felicity accept? He tried not to think of the most obvious implication, that he would have an enduring excuse to call on her for months to come. He would have to phrase it carefully, just as he would have to apologize for not telling her the true rent before she saw the place in Bond Street.
If Evan had let himself think about it, he would have been unsettled by how important it was to him that Felicity be pleased. He wanted to see that astonished delight on her face again, and he wanted to be the cause of it. Instead he focused on the fact that this would move her out of Vine Street and allow his other plans to proceed. She’d liked it very much, and therefore she should accept any plan that ended with her taking up residence here, for only thirty pounds a year.
“Thank you, Mr. Abbott,” he said. “Your advice has been most helpful. Would you be so kind as to let the owner know I expect to take this property, and he should not offer it to others?”
“Of course, my lord.” With a pleased expression, Abbott bowed. “Good day.”
Chapter Eight
In the uproar over the dressmaker’s shop in Vine Street, Evan forgot that he had promised to escort his mother and sister to a theater benefit. When he hesitated, his sister leapt to prevent him from wriggling out of it.
“We never see you,” she cried. “One might think old buildings are more important to you than we are.”
He had to laugh at that. “More important? Never—but they don’t require me to dance with them and their friends.”
Emily made a face at him. “There won’t be dancing tonight, so you’ve got to come.”
Truthfully he didn’t mind. Evan was pleased that they were in London again. With all his projects in town, he hadn’t gone back to Wales much in the past year, but his mother and sister preferred to spend the winter there. He had been busy lately, and a night at the theater would take his mind off vexing golden-haired seamstresses.
“My goodness,” said Emily in awe as they made their way through the crowded theater salon. “Mother, I see the most wonderful gown.”
“Oh? On whom?” His mother began rummaging in her reticule for her spectacles. Evan wasn’t sure why she didn’t just wear them all the time—she was quite short-sighted—but she reacted with horror whenever he suggested it. Vanity, he supposed fondly. His mother was still a handsome woman.
“The lady in green, near the stairs. I don’t know her.” Emily stood on tiptoe, trying to see over the crowd. “We should walk past her so Mother can see the gown, Evan.”
“As you wish.” He offered an arm to each of them and they headed toward the staircase. Lady Carmarthen had her spectacles on, and remarked admiringly on more than one lady’s gown as they made their way through the crowd.
“There, Mother,” Emily whispered, squeezing his arm in excitement. “Do look—have you ever seen such a striking bodice?”
Lady Carmarthen turned her head, and Evan obligingly angled his body so she could face the owner of the incredible gown without obviously staring—and, to his astonishment, beheld Felicity Dawkins, standing with her brother at the foot of the staircase.
For a moment he did stare. She looked stunning tonight, and not just for the vibrant peacock green silk that clung to every curve of her body. Her dark blond hair was a pile of curls, artlessly arranged on top of her head, exposing her pale neck. Her splendid bosom was on display, with an edge of lace peeking out that sent his mind straight to the thought of undergarments. Her undergarments. Delicate and lacy, yielding to his hands as he kissed her…
“Marvelous,” said his mother in delight. “We must ask her whom she patronizes. The color is perfect for her, and it takes a talented modiste indeed to cut a gown to flatter so well. There must be someone who can introduce us…”
Evan cleared his throat, then had to do it again. Felicity turned to look up at her brother, who was a big tall bloke, and the smile she gave him lit her face with impish good humor and delight. What wouldn’t he give to see that smile directed at him, and to have her hand on his arm…
“I know who made her gown,” he said gruffly. He steered his family away from her, not wanting his mother to notice his reaction to Miss Dawkins. “I’ll try to bring her to our box at intermission, if you desire a word with her.”
Emily gasped. “Do you know her, Evan? Oh, who is she?”
“Yes, who?” chimed in Lady Carmarthen.
“Let us hurry,” he urged, quickening his steps until his sister stopped gaping at him. “We’ll miss the opening act if we linger all night on the stairs.”
By the time they reached their box, Evan felt a little calmer. It was unsettling that his heart still jumped every time he saw Felicity, and he would really like to stop thinking of her undergarments, let alone kissing her senseless while she wore little else. He was confident Emily wouldn’t notice, but if he came face to face with Felicity, without time to prepare himself, his mother would recognize at once that there was something between them—
That thought stopped him short. There was nothing between them. They had made peace, but at best theirs was a friendship, not an affair. A little covert lust was nothing, after all; he couldn’t act on it without jeopardizing the Vine Street plan, and he was adamant that nothing could do that.
“Who is she?” Emily demanded as soon as the door was closed behind them. “How do you know her, Evan?”
“Yes, dear, who is she?”
He decided it was best to answer directly. “Miss Felicity Dawkins of Madame Follette’s dress shop. I met her because her shop is in Vine Street, my latest endeavor.”
His mother’s eyes rounded. “She is the seamstress? Good heavens.”<
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This was the trouble with benefits, Evan thought; one never knew who might attend. “I’ve no idea if she created the gown herself, but her mother owns the shop and she manages it at present.”
“Follette’s,” murmured Lady Carmarthen. “I didn’t know they were still here.”
“Do you know them, Mama?” asked Emily in surprise. “Why have we never gone there? I’m sure I’d recall a gown like that one. Oh Evan, can you persuade her to make one for me? I should adore a gown of that color!”
“Certainly not,” said her mother tartly. “Not until you’re older. And to answer your question, I thought they had gone out of business years ago. Once upon a time, a gown from Madame Follette was the pinnacle of fashion. She had a way with sarcenet and muslin… Unparalleled, I tell you. But judging from this … Miss Dawkins, did you call her? Miss Dawkins’s gown suggests they’ve refined their look.”
“You must bring her to be introduced, Evan!” declared Emily. “Please?”
Evan, who had been digesting his mother’s astonishing revelations about the dressmaker’s shop, started. “What? Why?”
“How wonderful it would be to discover Follette’s before anyone else in town,” Lady Carmarthen enthused. “Or rediscover, as the case may be, but they’ve been out of fashion so long it might as well be a new shop. I must say, the gowns we ordered from Madame de Louvier are perfectly acceptable, but there is something missing…” She paused, her brow knit. “Imagination,” she said, sounding a little surprised.
“I cannot wait to see if Miss Dawkins’s gown is as beautiful from near as it is from afar,” said Emily with longing. “Where is she sitting?”
Evan murmured something indistinct to hide the fact that his eyes had been searching the theater for her ever since they entered the box. She ought to be easy to spot—her brother was too big to miss—but he couldn’t. Almost frantically his eyes moved over every box within sight. She had to be somewhere…
