by Eloisa James
“I see nothing shallow about it,” Diana said. “Remember when I wore that polonaise so padded around the hips that it made me feel like the largest marrow at the village fair? I was miserable.”
“You were unable to sit down,” Lavinia said, nodding. “Most of your gowns were unfortunate in one respect or another, but that one was particularly criminal.”
They laughed all the way to the stay maker’s shop, debating the varieties of boning, kidskin edging, silk embroidery, and lacing.
Lavinia enjoyed herself every bit as much the next day, as they visited two more mercers and a linen draper, right up to the moment, that is, that Lady Knowe asked, “We will be visiting Parth’s lace factory, won’t we?”
Lavinia’s heart dipped. She had been successful—more or less—in pretending that Parth didn’t exist. Parth and that woman he was in love with . . . the one he was courting.
No, neither of them existed.
Her heart squeezed again, because a stubborn part of her was having trouble with the idea that Parth was in London, no matter how often she reminded herself that he had no interest in seeing her. Or speaking to her. Or . . .
Or marrying her, obviously.
“I’m afraid not,” she managed, arranging her features into a sweetly apologetic expression. “The very best lace comes from Brussels, Lady Knowe. Not from a factory in London. Parth’s lace is all very well, but English lace simply can’t compare, and a duchess-to-be must wear the very best.”
“Fiddle-faddle!” Lady Knowe barked. “Diana would never wear anything but Parth’s lace. He’s ours: our nephew, our lace.”
Diana, that traitor, was nodding enthusiastically. “I don’t care if my gown hasn’t any Brussels lace, Lavinia.”
I do, Lavinia wanted to cry.
I want lace that has nothing to do with Parth.
Common sense prevailed. Parth merely owned the factory; he didn’t work there. He probably hadn’t darkened its door since he’d bought it.
“He visits the factory every Thursday, in the late afternoon,” Lady Knowe said with satisfaction. “If we leave now, we will almost certainly find him there, and he can show us his lace.”
“Doesn’t he spend most of his time at his bank?” Diana asked.
“I suppose,” Lady Knowe said, shrugging. “But Sterling Lace was his first factory, you know. There was all that unpleasantness about the children working there.”
“He sent them to the country the moment he bought the factory and saw what was happening,” Lavinia said. She turned pink, meeting Lady Knowe’s eyes.
“So he did,” the lady agreed jovially. “My Parth is a man of honor, through and through.” No blood relative would have spoken more lovingly, but then Lady Knowe was Parth’s aunt, in all the ways that mattered.
“I had a note from him this morning,” Lady Knowe said. “I mean to write back and ask him to escort us to Vauxhall sometime soon. I haven’t been there in years.”
“I have never been,” Diana said. “My mother didn’t approve of the tightrope walkers.”
Lavinia and Lady Knowe both looked at her in surprise.
“We are all aware that your mother is remarkably old-fashioned,” Lady Knowe said, “but what on earth is there to dislike in a man who walks along a rope? It’s not a skill that I have any desire to emulate, but it strikes me as unobjectionable.”
“Apparently they wear very tight breeches,” Diana explained. She brightened. “I should probably visit the gardens, if only because my mother no longer dictates my actions.”
“That decides it,” Lady Knowe said. “We shall all go see the tightrope walkers. I’ll ask Parth to bring along his contessa; I’m most curious to learn how his courtship is going.”
Parth’s beloved was a noblewoman. Lavinia had forgotten that detail in the aftermath of her illness. The lady probably had a fortune too, a real one, not just the rumor of one.
“Well,” Lavinia said briskly, “I have an idea. Since we haven’t yet gone to Felton’s in Oxford Street—and John Felton is one of the very best purveyors of silk worsteds in London—I shall continue to his establishment, and the two of you will go to Sterling Lace.”
“Certainly not,” Lady Knowe squawked. “How would you go there, or return home? You can’t take a hackney by yourself!”
But Lavinia had Lady Knowe’s measure. If a person didn’t look out, she would find herself dancing to a tune piped by Her Ladyship, and Lavinia would not allow herself to become that person, no matter how well-meaning the lady might be.
It was bad enough that Parth might escort them to Vauxhall, with or without his contessa; visiting him in his factory was too much.
Calmly, but with an intensity that came from her conviction that she’d prefer never to see Parth Sterling again, she managed to convince Diana and Lady Knowe that she was entirely serious.
Felton’s Emporium was a well-lit place, with a high ceiling and walls lined with pigeonholes housing rolls of various fabrics. Groups of ladies bent over counters examining silks and satins, or peered up at bolts of fabric, searching for the color they had in mind.
Mr. Felton himself was a jovial man with a large mustache and twinkling brown eyes. Taking Lavinia into his private office, he showed her samples of paduasoy silk and told her all about the new, more efficient loom invented in France, which he had shipped in pieces to his factory in Northumberland.
After he called for a pot of tea, Lavinia told him of Diana’s trousseau, of Lady Knowe’s wish for new gowns, of the duchess’s request of a gown for the wedding as well as a costume for the All Hallows’ Eve masquerade ball that would follow the wedding.
“What will you wear to the wedding?” Mr. Felton asked. “I have a damask satin in front that would make you look like an angel. Pale blue, shot with violet.”
She fiddled with a biscuit that he’d brought out with tea. “May I tell you something in confidence, Mr. Felton?”
He nodded. “Most certainly, Miss Gray.”
“I haven’t the money to buy your damask,” she said, all in a rush. “Everyone believes I’m an heiress, although I’m not. But I have gowns, many gowns, that my mother and I had made in Paris last year. I intend to remake them, so I have no need to buy new fabric.”
Mr. Felton showed no particular shock. “You’d be surprised how many ladies can’t afford the clothing on their backs.”
“Really?” Putting this revelation together with images of ladies sipping laudanum, Lavinia felt as if she had had no understanding of the workings of polite society. “I can assure you that the Duke of Lindow and his son, Lord Roland, can afford Diana’s trousseau.”
“Oh, I know that. Wilde money is held in Sterling Bank,” Mr. Felton said.
Lavinia flinched. “I see.”
“Indeed, I moved all my money there. Now, I have a proposal for you, young lady.”
“If you are offering to give me that damask at a discount, Mr. Felton, I still can’t afford it. But I am deeply grateful.”
“You don’t need my damask,” he said. “Remake your French dresses. Do you know that there are thousands of silk looms in Lyon? I imagine you have some splendid fabrics there. No, Miss Gray, I am offering you a commission.”
“A what?” she asked, startled.
“You are clearly a young lady who possesses a true sens de la mode.” His piercing brown eyes fixed on her. “The modistes condescend to me because I don’t speak French. They go to other establishments, although I offer the best silks and the best wools. I and I alone have the best lace!”
“Better than Sterling lace?” she asked, unable to stop herself.
He snorted. “My lace comes from Holland.” He turned around and caught up a length of lace as light as gossamer, knotted into a beautiful floral design. “People talk about lace from France, but in my opinion, Holland lace is more artistic.”
Lavinia instantly imagined the lace edging a nightdress that Diana could wear on her wedding night. Sterling lace would embellish Diana�
��s wedding dress, but there was a great deal more to a trousseau than just the wedding dress.
She reached out and touched the lace with the reverence it deserved. “I could imagine this in a champagne color.”
Mr. Felton pursed his lips. “A bold idea. Most people feel that fine lace is too dear to risk dyeing.”
“I don’t see how a gentle dye, in tea for example, would be harmful. Beetroot might lend this a rosy glow without being harmful to the threads.”
“If the future duchess acquires this lace for her trousseau, I myself will dye it with tea to a pale gold,” Mr. Felton said. “And I will pay you twenty percent of the cost, Miss Gray. The same will be true of any of my fabric that is purchased through a modiste, any modiste, by your direction.”
Lavinia gasped. “Is that what you mean by a commission?”
He nodded. “You and I, young lady, understand how luxurious clothing is meant to be worn. I have had no success making these infernal modistes pay attention to me and my fabrics. They prefer to charge their clients a fortune and save money on inferior materials.”
“I don’t want to take money from my friends,” Lavinia began.
But he cut her off. “I’d be giving you twenty percent from my cost. It’s worth it to lower my profit per bolt, because you and your friends will bring other people to me. A future duchess who marries in my silk? That is invaluable.”
A pragmatic side of Lavinia was calculating percentages. Mr. Felton had the best fabrics she’d seen in the city. If they used his silks for Diana’s gown and trousseau, she could begin to repay her mother’s debts.
Then there were Lady Knowe’s gowns, and the duchess’s. What if another lady asked for Lavinia’s help creating a trousseau after seeing Diana’s wedding gown?
In time, perhaps she could pay off her mother’s debts—the stolen jewels, and the merchants’ bills charged to Willa’s estate—by herself.
Not by marriage . . . by herself.
It was an intoxicating thought.
Chapter Nine
The Duke of Lindow’s townhouse
Mayfair
Later that evening
The ground floor of the ducal townhouse comprised, among other chambers, two adjoining drawing rooms. Tonight the doors between two chambers had been closed, creating a more intimate space. Lady Knowe and Diana were nestled on a ruby-colored sofa, and as Lavinia entered the room, they burst into laughter.
“You are as amusing as a litter of baby pigs,” Lady Knowe told Diana, as Lavinia walked up to them.
“I’m not certain that’s a compliment,” Diana replied, as they came to their feet and bade Lavinia good evening.
“Adorable, chubby, pink . . . Your hair is looking very red this evening,” Lavinia said, sitting down.
“I am not chubby,” Diana said. She glanced down at herself. “Well, if I am, North likes me just so.”
“I had a splendid time at Mr. Felton’s emporium this afternoon,” Lavinia said.
“I’ve forgiven you for your beastly independent streak,” Lady Knowe cried, waving her glass so vigorously that she almost spilled its contents. “For your information, we too had a fine time with Parth, whom we did indeed find at his factory.”
Lavinia took a deep breath and gathered her courage. While returning to Belgravia from Mr. Felton’s, she had decided that if she accepted commissions from him, she had to reveal the truth about her mother’s thefts to Lady Knowe, and then explain her plan to repay them.
Lady Knowe proved as kind as she was unsurprised. “Erratic behavior caused by laudanum can certainly include theft. I’ve heard worse stories. Accepting commissions is a brilliant solution.”
“I don’t agree,” Diana objected. “Look how much trouble I got into by taking a position in the nursery. Just imagine if the news were to come to light that Lavinia is earning money.”
Lady Knowe’s eyebrows waggled. “You are beginning to plan ahead, aren’t you?”
“I’m trying to be less impulsive,” Diana admitted.
“I fully understand that my reputation will be lost,” Lavinia said. She reached out and took Diana’s hand in hers. “As long as you will remain my friend, I don’t care. My mother is a thief. My reputation is already shattered, no matter how one looks at it.”
“A lost reputation has never stopped a determined man,” Lady Knowe said. “Just look at Diana. She and I managed to ruin North’s reputation—and her own, in the bargain—and still he fought to win her hand.”
“Gentlemen will always fall in love with you, Lavinia,” Diana said encouragingly.
“I shall make a point of inviting any number of eligible men to the wedding festivities,” Lady Knowe chimed in. “One look at you, Lavinia, and they’ll forget the whole question of reputation. After you’ve regained some weight.”
Lavinia managed a smile. “I am trying.”
“Now, to return to the important subject,” Lady Knowe said. “My brother has more money than he knows what to do with, and he will be paying for Diana’s clothing. May I suggest, Diana, that you order the most luxurious trousseau that London has ever seen? Naturally, you shall insist that Mr. Felton supply the fabrics. Moreover, I have many friends who would be much better dressed if they took advice from Lavinia, and I shall make certain that they do so.”
“I shall buy so much fabric from Mr. Felton that you will be able to afford several emerald necklaces,” Diana announced.
“Emeralds are essentially green glass,” Lady Knowe said dismissively, waving her hand. “Diana must look like a future duchess walking down that aisle, and never mind whether North renounces the title in the future, or not.”
“We’ll inform every single person in London that Miss Lavinia Gray arranged for my trousseau,” Diana added.
“But your wedding is a secret!” Lavinia pointed out.
Diana leaned forward, her eyes fierce. “No longer. I shall allow the stationers to publish as many prints of me as they wish, under the condition that the prints note that you are helping with my trousseau.”
“Are you certain?” Lavinia asked. Hope was swirling in her heart. “That would be wonderful, but for you—”
“Pooh,” Diana said. “I’ve already been portrayed as Cinderella, and North has been depicted as a Shakespearean villain . . . what more can the printers do? Other than make my beloved cousin justly renowned for her excellent taste?”
Lady Knowe was tapping her chin with her fan. “I agree that it would be better to announce Lavinia’s role in the trousseau ourselves, rather than allow it to be discovered by a reporter.”
At that moment the door opened and Simpson, the duke’s London butler, entered. “Mr. Sterling.”
“Oh, good!” Lady Knowe cried. “I asked Parth to join us for dinner, but he wasn’t certain he would be free.”
Lavinia sucked in her breath. She fixed her eyes on Lady Knowe with a look that she’d perfected over the years, one that stopped even lascivious Frenchmen from pressing their advances. “You may not tell him about my mother. I don’t mind if you share the truth with His Grace, but not with Parth.”
“She won’t say a word about Lady Gray and my emeralds,” Diana murmured, springing up as Parth entered the room. “Will you, Aunt Knowe?”
“Parth could be so useful, my dears. He—”
“No,” Lavinia stated, her voice low but insistent.
The lady groaned.
“Parth!” Diana cried, stepping forward and kissing the gentleman on the cheek.
Lavinia didn’t take her eyes from Lady Knowe, until the lady reluctantly nodded.
“Good evening,” Parth said, stepping forward and bowing. “Aunt—”
“Oh, tush, these young ladies are driving me mad,” she said, cutting him off. “Give me a hug.”
Lavinia blinked as Parth’s serious demeanor eased and he wrapped his arms around his aunt.
“You give the best hugs in the world,” Lady Knowe said, kissing his cheek and stepping back. She looked at Dian
a and Lavinia. “He entered the family at the age of five, the sweetest boy you ever did see. Never too busy to hug me.”
“Miss Gray,” Parth said, bowing.
“Mr. Sterling,” she replied, dropping a curtsy. It was too late to escape dinner. She’d have to listen to all the details about his beloved contessa.
“You don’t appear well,” he said flatly.
Lavinia felt her eyes widen, and her hands went to her hips without conscious volition. “I beg your pardon. Did you really say what I just heard you say?”
“Yes, I did,” he stated. Irritatingly, she could feel the weight of his gaze, faintly disapproving and surprised, as if she had been rude rather than he.
“Dearest, you know better than to mention a lady’s appearance if you haven’t anything flattering to say,” Lady Knowe advised him.
“I am merely pointing out that Miss Gray appears to be wasting away,” he said, voice even, as if he were discussing the weather. He turned to Lady Knowe. “I presume you have noticed this?”
“I assure you that I am not wasting away,” Lavinia retorted, heat flooding her cheeks. She was so infuriated that her mind went white-hot along with her cheeks. No one—no one—put her in a rage the way he did. “I would prefer that you did not make remarks of a personal nature, Mr. Sterling.” She dragged her eyes down his body. “I’m sure we would all be more comfortable if I didn’t embark on a description of your figure.”
“Go right ahead,” Lady Knowe invited. “I’ve always maintained that what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.”
Diana dissolved into giggles at this, which was hardly sympathetic.
“I merely observed, Miss Gray, that you appear to have lost a significant proportion of your body weight,” Parth said, his voice dry. “I fail to see why your response need be so emotional, but if it would make you feel better to describe me, by all means, do so.”
Lavinia could feel exasperation getting the better of her. She was, by nature, a sunny person. A cheerful person. Not one who ground her teeth and stared with open hostility at an acquaintance.
