Because of Miss Bridgerton

by Julia Quinn

  George regarded his mother with a slow dose of dread. “Settles what, exactly?”

  “Billie must go to London.”

  Chapter 18

  And so it was that less than one week later Billie found herself stripped down to her unmentionables with two seamstresses jabbering on in French while they jabbed her with pins and needles.

  “I could have used one of my gowns from home,” she told Lady Manston for what was probably the fifth time.

  Lady Manston did not even look up from the book of fashion plates she was perusing. “No, you couldn’t.”

  Billie sighed as she stared out at the richly brocaded fabrics that draped the walls of the fancy dress shop that had become her second home here in London. It was very exclusive, she’d been told; the discreet sign hanging above the door said merely Mme. Delacroix, tailoress, but Lady Manston referred to the petite French dynamo as Crossy, and Billie had been told to do the same.

  Normally, Lady Manston said, Crossy and her girls would come to them, but they hadn’t much time to get Billie properly fitted and kitted, and in this instance it seemed more efficient to visit the shop.

  Billie had tried to protest. She wasn’t coming to London for a Season. It wasn’t even the right time of year. Well, it would be soon, but it wasn’t yet. And they absolutely had not traveled to London to attend parties and balls. Truth be told, Billie wasn’t entirely certain why she was there. She had been utterly shocked when Lady Manston made her announcement, and it must have shown on her face.

  “You just said you wished to go,” Lady Manston had said, “and I will confess I am not being entirely unselfish. I wish to go, and I require a companion.”

  George had protested, which, under the circumstances, Billie had found sensible and insulting, but his mother was unstoppable.

  “I can’t bring Mary,” she said firmly. “She’s far too ill, and I doubt Felix would permit it in any case.” At that she had looked over to Billie. “He’s very protective.”

  “Quite so,” Billie had mumbled . . . rather stupidly, in her opinion. But she couldn’t think of anything else to say. Honestly, she never felt less sure of herself than in the face of an indomitable society matron, even one she’d known since birth. Most of the time Lady Manston was her beloved neighbor, but every now and then the Leader of Society shone through, issuing orders and directing people, and generally just being an expert on everything. Billie had no idea how to assert herself. It was the same way with her own mother.

  But then George had jettisoned sensible and gone completely over to insulting.

  “Forgive me, Billie,” he’d said (while looking at his mother), “but she would be a distraction.”

  “A welcome one,” Lady Manston said.

  “Not to me.”

  “George Rokesby!” His mother was instantly incensed. “You apologize this minute.”

  “She knows what I meant,” he said.

  At that, Billie could not keep her mouth shut. “I do?”

  George turned back to Billie with an expression of vague irritation. And clear condescension. “You don’t really want to go to London.”

  “Edward was my friend, too,” she said.

  “There is no ‘was’ about it,” George snapped.

  She wanted to smack him. He was deliberately misunderstanding her. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, George, you know what I meant.”

  “I do?” he mocked.

  “What on earth is going on here?” Lady Manston had exploded. “I know the two of you have never been close, but there is no call for this sort of behavior. Good God, one would think the both of you were three years old.”

  And that was that. Both Billie and George were shamed into silence, and Lady Manston went off to pen a note to Lady Bridgerton, explaining that Billie had graciously agreed to accompany her to town.

  Naturally, Lady Bridgerton had thought this a splendid idea.

  Billie had thought she’d spend her days taking in the sights, perhaps attending the theater, but the day after their arrival, Lady Manston had received an invitation to a ball being given by a dear, dear friend, and much to Billie’s surprise, she had decided to accept.

  “Are you certain you’re up to it?” Billie had asked. (At that point she had not thought that she was going to be roped in to attending as well, so it had to be said, her motives were purely altruistic.)

  “My son is not dead,” Lady Manston said, surprising Billie with her bluntness. “I am not going to act as if he is.”

  “Well, no, of course not, but—”

  “Besides,” Lady Manston said, giving no indication that she had heard Billie speak, “Ghislaine is a dear, dear friend, and it would be impolite to decline.”

  Billie had frowned, looking down at the sizable stack of invitations that had mysteriously appeared in the delicately scalloped porcelain dish resting atop Lady Manston’s writing table. “How does she even know you’re here in London?”

  Lady Manston shrugged as she perused the rest of her invitations. “I expect she heard it from George.”

  Billie smiled tightly. George had reached London two days before the ladies. He’d ridden the whole way on horseback, lucky dog. Since her arrival, however, she’d seen him precisely three times. Once at supper, once at breakfast, and once in the drawing room when he came in for a brandy while she was reading a book.

  He’d been perfectly polite, if a little distant. She supposed this could be forgiven; as far as she could tell he was busy trying to obtain news of Edward, and she certainly did not want to distract him from his objective. Still she had not thought that “no consequences” would mean “Oh, I’m sorry, is that you on the sofa?”

  She didn’t think that he had been unaffected by their kiss. She didn’t have much—oh, very well, any—experience with men, but she knew George, and she knew that he had wanted her every bit as much as she wanted him.

  And she had. Oh, how she had.

  She still did.

  Every time she closed her eyes she saw his face, and the crazy thing was, it wasn’t the kiss she relived endlessly in her mind. It was the moment right before it, when her heart beat like a hummingbird and her breath ached to mingle with his. The kiss had been magical, but the moment before, the split second when she knew . . .

  She’d been transformed.

  He had awakened something inside of her she had not even known existed, something wild and selfish. And she wanted more.

  Problem was, she had no idea how to get it. If ever there were a time to develop feminine wiles, this was probably it. But she was entirely out of her element here in London. She knew how to act back in Kent. Maybe she wasn’t her mother’s ideal version of womanhood, but when she was at home, at Aubrey or Crake, she knew who she was. If she said something strange or did something out of the ordinary it didn’t matter, because she was Billie Bridgerton, and everyone knew what that meant.

  She knew what it meant.

  But here, in this formal town home, with its unfamiliar servants and pursed-lipped matrons coming to call, she was adrift. She second-guessed every word.

  And now Lady Manston wanted to attend a ball?

  “Ghislaine’s daughter is eighteen, I believe,” Lady Manston mused, flipping over the invitation and glancing at the back. “Maybe nineteen. Certainly of an age to marry.”

  Billie held her tongue.

  “A lovely girl. So pretty and genteel.” Lady Manston looked up with a wide, devious smile. “Shall I insist that George be my escort? It’s high time he started looking for a wife.”

  “I’m sure he will be delighted,” Billie said diplomatically. But in her head she was already painting Ghislaine’s beautiful daughter with horns and a pitchfork.

  “And you shall attend as well.”

  Billie looked up, alarmed. “Oh, I don’t think—”

  “We’ll have to get you a dress.”

  “It’s really not—”

  “And shoes, I would imagine.”

  “But Lady
Manston, I—”

  “I wonder if we can get away without a wig. They can be difficult to manage if you’re not used to wearing them.”

  “I really don’t like wearing wigs,” Billie said.

  “Then you won’t have to,” Lady Manston declared, and it was only then that Billie realized just how deftly she’d been manipulated.

  That had been two days earlier. Two days and five fittings. Six, counting this one.

  “Billie, hold your breath for a moment,” Lady Manston called out.

  Billie squinted over at her. “What?” It was bloody difficult to focus on anything other than the two seamstresses currently yanking her about. She’d heard that most dressmakers faked their French accents so as to seem more sophisticated, but these two seemed to be genuine. Billie couldn’t understand a word they were saying.

  “She doesn’t speak French,” Lady Manston said to Crossy. “I’m not sure what her mother was thinking.” She glanced back up at Billie. “Your breath, darling. They need to tighten your corset.”

  Billie looked at Crossy’s two assistants, waiting patiently behind her, corset laces in hand. “It requires two people?”

  “It’s a very good corset,” Lady Manston said.

  “Ze best,” Crossy confirmed.

  Billie sighed.

  “No, in,” Lady Manston directed. “Breathe in.”

  Billie obeyed, sucking in her stomach so that the two seamstresses could do some sort of choreographed crossways yank that resulted in Billie’s spine curving in an entirely new manner. Her hips jutted forward, and her head seemed remarkably far back on her neck. She wasn’t quite certain how she was meant to walk like this.

  “This isn’t terribly comfortable,” she called out.

  “No.” Lady Manston sounded unconcerned. “It won’t be.”

  One of the ladies said something in French and then pushed Billie’s shoulders forward and her stomach back. “Meilleur?” she asked.

  Billie cocked her head to the side, then twisted her spine a bit each way. It was better. Yet another aspect of genteel femininity she’d had no idea how to navigate: corset wearing. Or rather, “good” corset wearing. Apparently the ones she’d been wearing were far too permissive.

  “Thank you,” she said to the seamstress, then cleared her throat. “Er, merci.”

  “For you, ze corset should not be too uncomfortable,” Crossy said, coming over to inspect her handiwork. “Your stomach is lovely and flat. The problem we have is your breasts.”

  Billie looked up in alarm. “My—”

  “Very little meat to them,” Crossy said, shaking her head sadly.

  It was embarrassing enough to have one’s breasts discussed like chicken wings, but then Crossy actually grabbed her. She looked over at Lady Manston. “We need to push them up more, don’t you think?”

  She then demonstrated. Billie wanted to die on the spot.

  “Hmmm?” Lady Manston’s face screwed up as she considered the placement of Billie’s breasts. “Oh yes, I think you’re right. They look much better up there.”

  “I’m sure it’s not necessary . . .” Billie began, but then she gave up. She had no power here.

  Crossy said something in rapid-fire French to her assistants, and before Billie knew what was happening, she’d been unlaced and relaced, and when she looked down, her bosom was most definitely not where it had been just a few moments earlier.

  “Much better,” Crossy declared.

  “Goodness,” Billie murmured. If she nodded she could actually touch her chin to her chest.

  “He won’t be able to resist you,” Crossy said, leaning in with a confidential wink.

  “Who?”

  “There’s always a who,” Crossy said with a chuckle.

  Billie tried not to think of George. But she wasn’t successful. Like it or not, he was her who.

  WHILE BILLIE WAS trying not to think of George, he was trying not to think of fish. Kippers to be precise.

  He’d spent the better part of the week at the War Office, trying to gain information about Edward. This had involved several meals with Lord Arbuthnot, who, before he had developed gout, had been a decorated general in His Majesty’s army. The gout was a bloody nuisance (was the first thing he’d said) but it did mean he was back on English soil, where a man could have a proper breakfast every day.

  Lord Arbuthnot was apparently still making up for his years of improper breakfasts, because when George joined him for supper, the table had been laid with what was normally morning fare. Eggs three ways, bacon, toast. And kippers. Lots and lots of kippers.

  All things considered, Lord Arbuthnot put away a lot of kippers.

  George had met the old soldier only once before, but Arbuthnot had attended Eton with George’s father, and George with Arbuthnot’s son, and if there was a more effective connection to press in the pursuit of truth, George couldn’t imagine what it was.

  “Well, I’ve been asking,” Arbuthnot said, slicing up a piece of ham with the vigor of a red-faced man who’d rather be outside, “and I can’t get much about your brother.”

  “Surely someone must know where he is.”

  “Connecticut Colony. That’s as precise as it gets.”

  George clenched his fingers into a fist beneath the table. “He’s not supposed to be in Connecticut Colony.”

  Arbuthnot chewed his food, then looked at George with a shrewd expression. “You’ve never been a soldier, have you?”

  “Much to my regret.”

  Arbuthnot nodded, George’s reply clearly meeting with his approval. “Soldiers are rarely where they’re supposed to be,” he said. “At least not ones like your brother.”

  George pressed his lips together, working to maintain an even expression. “I’m afraid I don’t catch your meaning.”

  Arbuthnot sat back, tapping his steepled fingers as he regarded George with a thoughtful, eye-narrowed gaze. “Your brother is hardly an enlisted man, Lord Kennard.”

  “Surely a captain must still follow orders.”

  “And go where he’s told?” Arbuthnot said. “Of course. But that doesn’t mean he ends up where he’s ‘supposed’ to be.”

  George took a moment to absorb this, then said incredulously, “Are you trying to tell me that Edward is a spy?”

  It was unfathomable. Espionage was a dirty business. Men like Edward wore their red coats with pride.

  Arbuthnot shook his head. “No. At least I don’t think so. Damned unsavory, spying is. Your brother wouldn’t have to do it.”

  He wouldn’t do it, George thought. Period.

  “It’d make no sense, at any rate,” Arbuthnot said briskly. “Do you really think your brother could pass himself off as anything but a proper English gentleman? I hardly think a rebel is going to believe that the son of an earl is going to sympathize with their cause.”

  Arbuthnot wiped his mouth with his napkin and reached for the kippers. “I think your brother is a scout.”

  “A scout,” George repeated.

  Arbuthnot nodded, then offered the dish. “More?”

  George shook his head and tried not to grimace. “No, thank you.”

  Arbuthnot gave a little grunt and slid the rest of the fish onto his plate. “God, I love kippers,” he sighed. “You can’t get them in the Caribbean. Not like this.”

  “A scout,” George said again, trying to get the conversation back on topic. “Why do you think this?”

  “Well, no one has told me as much, and to be quite frank, I don’t know that anyone here has the entire story, but putting together the bits and pieces . . . it seems to fit.” Arbuthnot popped a kipper in his mouth and chewed. “I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d say that your brother had been sent afield to get the lay of the land. There hasn’t been much action in Connecticut, not since that thing with Whatshisname Arnold in Ridgefield back in seventy-seven.”

  George was not familiar with Whatshisname Arnold, nor did he have a clue where Ridgefield was.

>   There are some damned good ports on that coast,” Arbuthnot continued, getting back to the serious business of cutting his meat. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the rebels were putting them to use. And I wouldn’t be surprised if Captain Rokesby had been sent out to investigate.” He looked up, his bushy brows dipping toward his eyes as his forehead wrinkled. “Does your brother have any mapmaking skills?”

  “Not that I’m aware.”

  Arbuthnot shrugged. “Doesn’t mean anything if he doesn’t, I suppose. They might not be looking for anything so precise.”

  “But then what happened?” George pressed.

  The old general shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t know, m’dear boy. And I’d be lying if I said I’d found anyone who did.”

  George hadn’t expected answers, not really, but still, it was disappointing.

  “It’s a damned long way to the Colonies, son,” Lord Arbuthnot said in a surprisingly gentle voice. “News is never as swift as we’d like.”

  George accepted this with a slow nod. He was going to have to pursue some other avenue of investigation, although for the life of him, he did not know what that might be.

  “By the way,” Arbuthnot added, almost too casually, “you wouldn’t happen to be planning to attend Lady Wintour’s ball tomorrow night, would you?”

  “I am,” George confirmed. He didn’t want to, but his mother had spun some convoluted story that had ended in his absolutely having to attend. And frankly, he hadn’t the heart to disappoint her. Not while she was so worried about Edward.

  And then there was Billie. She’d been roped into attending as well. He’d seen the look of panic on her face when his mother had dragged her from her breakfast to visit the modiste. A London ball was quite possibly Billie Bridgerton’s personal hell, and there was no way he could abandon her when she needed him most.

  “Are you acquainted with Robert Tallywhite?” Lord Arbuthnot inquired.

  “A bit.” Tallywhite was a couple of years ahead of him at Eton. Quiet fellow, George recalled. Sandy hair and a high forehead. Bookish.

  “He is Lady Wintour’s nephew and will most certainly be in attendance. You would be doing a great service to this office if you would pass along a message.”