don’t know who’ll be invited,” she said. “But when Lady Clara spoke of her, I got the idea for a way to manage this.”
They’d reached the corner of Bennet Street. He paused to check for carriages and riders turning off St. James’s Street.
When the way seemed clear, he took her elbow and hurried her across. As soon as they reached the pavement on the opposite side, he let go of her. He still felt the warmth of her arm under his palm, and the warmth raced straight to his groin so suddenly that it made him dizzy.
The rear entrance to the shop was through a narrow court off Bennet Street. She waited until they’d turned into the court. Then she said, “Lady Clara says your mother will go to Dowdy’s early in the week to order a dress for the wedding. Leonie can spare me from the shop most easily on Friday morning. Would you take me then?”
After the bustle of St. James’s Street, the tiny court seemed eerily quiet. He was aware of a scent, vaguely familiar, drifting about him. He drew a fraction closer and stared at the discreet door, pretending to think hard while he drank in the scent. Woman, of course, and … lavender … and what else?
He realized his head was sinking toward her neck. He straightened. “Bullies,” he said. “In a dressmaking shop.”
“Two great brutes,” she said. “To deal with the drunks and thieves. Or so Dowdy claims. Personally, I believe she’s hired the men to intimidate the seamstresses. You know, the way they keep them in brothels to—”
“That sounds like fun,” he said. “And you’ll be in disguise, of course.”
“Yes.”
“As a serving maid, I suppose.”
“Certainly not,” she said. “What would a serving maid be doing buying expensive dresses? I’m going to be your cousin Gladys.”
Lord Adderley wasted no time in putting the notice of his engagement in the papers, but the news traveled through London in a matter of hours—faster even than the Spectacle could get it into print. By Monday his tailor, boot maker, hatter, vintner, tobacconist, and others who provided for his comfort and entertainment had once again opened their account books and allowed him credit.
He’d had a narrow escape.
Another week and he would have had to flee abroad. While peers could not be arrested for debt, they weren’t immune to other unpleasantness, like having their credit shut off. All of his creditors seemed to have joined a cabal, because every single one, including all the shopkeepers, cut him off at the same time, two days before Lady Igby’s ball.
The forthcoming nuptials put everybody in a more forgiving frame of mind.
He celebrated on Monday night with Mr. Meffat and Sir Roger Theaker in a private dining parlor of the Brunswick Hotel. They toasted one another throughout the meal. By the time the table had been cleared, wine had loosened their tongues—no matter, since there was nobody nearby to hear.
“A close-run thing it was,” said Sir Roger.
“Perilously close,” said Lord Adderley.
“Wasn’t sure you’d manage it,” said Mr. Meffat. “Watching like hawks, they were.”
Lord Adderley shrugged. “As soon as I saw Lady Bartham settle in to gossip with the mama, I knew there wouldn’t be trouble from that quarter for a while.”
“It was Longmore who worried me,” said Mr. Meffat.
Adderley resisted the urge to feel his bruised jaw. He’d had more reason than anybody to worry. He’d broken into a sweat, which he’d explained away to Lady Clara as excitement, to be so close to her, to hold her in her arms—all the usual rubbish, in other words.
He said, “I only needed a few minutes, and he was on the other side of the room. Still, it was your quick acting that saved the day.”
It was Meffat’s and Theaker’s job to attract attention to the terrace without attracting too much attention. Not the most difficult job in the world. One only had to say, “Wonder what Adderley’s about on the terrace? Who’s the female with him?”
One didn’t have to say it to too many people. One or two would do. The drift terrace-wards would begin, and some others would notice, and follow, curious to see what was attracting attention.
Clara had been easiest of all to manage. Though no schoolroom miss—she was one and twenty, older than Adderley would have preferred—she was as ignorant about lovemaking as a child. All he had to do was keep her wineglass filled and whirl her about the floor until she was dizzy and whisper poetry in her ear. Still, one had to be careful. Too much wine and too much spinning and she’d be sick—on his last good coat.
“At least you got yourself a beauty,” Theaker said. “Mostly, when their pa sets a big dowry on them, it’s on account of being squinty or spotty or bowlegged.”
“What he means is, mostly, they’re dogs,” Meffat said.
“I’m fortunate,” Adderley said. “I know that. I might have done so much worse.”
She was a beauty, and that would make the bedding and getting of heirs more agreeable. Still, she wasn’t to his taste, a great cow of a girl. He liked daintier women, and he would have preferred a brunette.
But her dowry was enormous, she’d been vulnerable, and beggars couldn’t be choosers.
“Bless her innocence,” said Theaker. “She went just like a lamb.”
“There’s one won’t give you any trouble,” said Meffat.
* * *
Warford House
Wednesday 3 June
Clara kept her composure until she’d closed her bedroom door behind her.
She swallowed, walked quickly across the room, and sat at her dressing table.
“My lady?” said her maid, Davis.
A sob escaped Clara. And another.
“Oh, my lady,” said Davis.
“I don’t know what to do!” Clara buried her face in her hands.
“Now, now, my lady. I’ll make you a good, hot cup of tea and whatever it is, you’ll feel better.”
“I need more than tea,” Clara said. She looked up to meet Davis’s gaze in the mirror.
“I’ll put a drop of brandy in it,” said Davis.
“More than a drop,” Clara said.
“Yes, my lady.”
Davis hurried out.
Clara took out the note Lord Adderley had sent her.
A love note, filled with beautiful words, the kinds of words sure to melt the heart of a romantic girl.
