I have eyes to see and ears to hear. And I see your face is powder pale this morning and your eyes swollen and red as if you have spent the night weeping. And I heard him leaving the house before midnight.’
‘My eyes are a little irritated this morning, nothing more. And D—’ She stopped Dominic’s name on her tongue before it could escape. ‘And, yes, the gentleman had to leave early. There were others matters to which he had to attend.’
‘At midnight?’ her mother snorted. ‘He was barely here.’
‘If his visits are short, does it not suit us all the better?’
‘Some men can be inconsiderate in their haste to … to satisfy their own …’ Her mother’s cheeks blushed scarlet and she could not finish her words.
‘No,’ Arabella said hastily. ‘It was not like that.’
The sight of him. The scent of him. His fingers slowly tracing a line all the way along her collar bone, before meandering down to tease her nipples. The burn of her skin, the rush of her blood …
She winced with the shame of it.
‘Tell me the truth, Arabella.’ Mrs Tatton reached over and placed her hand on Arabella’s.
Her cheeks warmed, and she felt the gall of bitterness in her throat. ‘If you knew the truth, Mama, you would not believe it,’ she murmured.
‘Did he use you ill?’ Her mother’s face paled, the flash of fear in her eyes making Arabella feel a brute. She was supposed to be reassuring her mother, not worrying her all the more.
‘He did nothing, Mama.’ Even though she had offered herself to him like the harlot she had become. She was so angry at herself … and at him.
She was relieved that he had not taken her, so why did she feel so humiliated? It was a confusing hurtful mess.
‘Do not lie to me now, Arabella. If he has hurt you … Nothing is worth that. Better that we beg upon the streets than—’
She took her mother’s hand in her own and stroked the fragile veined skin. ‘Mama, he was gentle and demanded nothing of me. I wept only for what I am become.’
‘Oh, Arabella, we should leave this house.’ Arabella felt her mother’s hands twist within her own.
‘And return to Flower and Dean Street?’ Arabella raised her brows.
‘I could look for work. Between the two of us we could find a way.’
And the work would kill her mother. Arabella knew there was no other way. She shook her head. ‘It is too late, Mama.’
What was done, was done. She was a fallen woman. Besides, the past had caught up with Arabella. I cannot, his words seemed to whisper through the room and she thought of the haunted expression in his eyes.
‘Mama, we are staying here. I was foolish last night, that is all. Tonight will be different.’ She hoped. ‘You have nothing to worry over except to count the money and the days until we can return to the country.’
‘If you are sure about this, Arabella?’
‘I am quite certain.’
Her mother did not look happy, but she nodded and went back to eating her breakfast.
It was barely an hour later when the letter arrived. Again, written in Dominic’s familiar bold handwriting. Arabella’s heart began to trip as she broke the sealing wax and read the bold penned words within.
‘Well?’ Her mother glanced up from the chair on which she was sitting. The sunshine bathed the whole of the drawing room in its warm pale golden light.
‘He has arranged for a dressmaker to call tomorrow afternoon.’ Arabella folded the letter and slipped it into the pocket of her dress so that her mother would not see the crest embossed both upon the paper and impressed within the seal.
‘It is only to be expected,’ Mrs Tatton said and went back to pouring the tea.
‘I suppose you are right,’ Arabella murmured, and a vision of the scandalous silk black dress swam in her mind. She glanced down at her own grey gown and knew she would rather wear this every single day, old and shabby as it was, than anything Dominic would buy for her.
‘Archie and I will make ourselves scarce.’
Arabella nodded and glanced at her son, feeling a tug of guilt and worry. Hiding them away at night was not so very bad, for both her mother and son slept early. And although the room was near to the attic it was warm and cosy and nicely furnished, and better in every way than the one they had left in Flower and Dean Street. But to force them to stay quiet and hidden during the day while Dominic sat downstairs and chose a wardrobe of fast, provocative clothes in which to dress her sparked an angry resentment in Arabella.
Something of her feelings must have shown in her face for Mrs Tatton said, ‘It is only for one day, Arabella, and it will do us no harm. And as for the rest … well, the clothes are the least of it.’
There was no sign of Dominic by two o’clock the next day when the dressmaker called. Arabella smoothed her skirts for the umpteenth time and forced herself to at least pretend to be attending to her needlework, although she had the sudden thought, just as she heard the knock at the door, that perhaps mistresses did not spend their time in needlework. It was the first time that anyone would be seeing her as Dominic’s mistress and Arabella composed her face to conceal her humiliation.
When Gemmell showed the woman into the drawing room, Arabella’s heart sank to meet her shoes. Of all the dressmakers in London that Dominic could have chosen …
And she remembered those final dark days that had led her to Mrs Silver’s House of Rainbow Pleasures. It should not matter that it was Madame Boisseron waiting in the drawing room, for in her desperation Arabella had knocked on the door of every dressmaker, mantua maker and milliner, every corsetry house, tailor and seamstress, seeking work that was not to be found. Any one of London’s dressmakers coming here today would have recognised her. But somehow, the fact that it was the woman in whose shop she had met Mrs Silver just seemed to add to the humiliation for Arabella.
But if Madame Boisseron recognised Arabella the dressmaker was wise enough to make no sign of it. Arabella took a deep breath, swallowed down her embarrassment and knew that she had no choice but to deal with the situation as best she could.
Dominic had still not arrived when the little dark-eyed woman, whose accent was soft and French, brought out a book of dress designs. Arabella glanced at the clock, knowing she ought to wait for his arrival before they proceeded, but the thought that Dominic could dictate the clothes she wore, even right down to her underwear, made her feel so angry that she took the book from the modiste and began to flip through it.
Some of the designs were positively indecent, barely covering breasts, revealing nipples and leaving little to the imagination when it came to a woman’s figure. Not so very different from the black silk dress that she had been forced to wear within the brothel.
‘This one but with a higher neckline,’ she pointed to one of the sketches, ‘and a thicker material.’
Madame Boisseron glanced up
