To All the Rakes I've Loved Before (A Honeycote Novella) (13 page)

Someone in their household had to be practical. That someone was Anabelle.

She wiped her sleeve across her damp brow and swept aside the muslin curtain that led to the workroom in the back of Mrs. Smallwood’s dress shop. Bolts of fabric stacked neatly upon shelves lining one long wall created a colorful patchwork that never failed to tickle Anabelle’s imagination. While some material would become serviceable underclothes for a spinster aunt, some might be destined for the train of a duchess’s gown, lovely enough to grace the Queen’s Presentation Chamber. Anabelle liked thinking such a leap in social standing—from modest workroom to St. James’s Palace—was possible. Not that she had grand ambitions, but being pinned to her current station in life like a butterfly to an entomologist’s collection rankled.

She glided past a large table laden with dress parts set out like the interlocking pieces of a puzzle. The disembodied sleeves, collars, and skirt panels lay lifeless, waiting for her to transform them into something vibrant—something more than the sum of its parts. After all, anyone could make a functional dress. The challenge was to create a garment that felt magical—the fabric texture, the gown’s lines, and the embellishments blending in perfect harmony.

Though occasionally, she mused—plucking a perfectly simple yet elegant white silk ball gown from the rack of her current projects—a dress required
less
rather than
more
. The creation she held, Miss Starling’s newest ball gown, was a fine example. Anabelle twirled it in front of her, checking for loose threads and lint. Satisfied, she walked briskly through the workroom and into the shop’s sitting area with the gown draped over her arm. When she held it up for Miss Starling to see, the young woman’s face lit with pleasure.

“Why, Miss… Honeycut, is it?”

“Honeycote.”

Miss Starling gave a smile that didn’t reach her emerald eyes. “How talented you are. This gown is magnificent. I must try it on.”

Anabelle nodded demurely and led the beautiful woman toward the dressing room located at the end of the shop away from the front door. Miss Starling’s mother hopped up from the chair where she’d been sipping tea and toddled behind, calling out over her daughter’s shoulder. “Is that the dress for the Hopewell ball? Gads. It looks awfully
plain
, darling. Money is no object. Have the girl add a few bows or some trim, for goodness’ sake.”

Anabelle opened her mouth to object but caught herself. If her clients wanted frippery, who was she to deny their wish? Mrs. Smallwood had taught her the importance of pleasing her clients, no matter how garish the outcome. At least she knew her employer valued her skill and dedication.

The problem was that even though Anabelle toiled at the shop day after day, she earned a meager ten shillings a week. If she only needed to pay for her own food and lodging at a boarding house, her salary would be enough. But Mama was too ill to move from the small rooms they let in Russell Square, and her medicine was dear.

It had been three months since Anabelle had last written an anonymous note demanding money in exchange for her silence. On that occasion, Lady Bonneville had paid thirty pounds to prevent the details of her torrid affair with her handsome butler—who was half her age—from appearing on the pages of London’s most widely circulated gossip rag.

The outspoken viscountess was one of her favorite customers, and Anabelle disliked having to threaten the woman; however, the money she’d paid had seen Anabelle’s family through the spring months. Mama’s cough even seemed a little less violent after she inhaled the medicated vapor Dr. Conwell prescribed. But their money had run out, and a stack of bills sat upon the table in their tiny parlor.

Yes, it was time to act again. Papa, God rest his soul, had been a gentleman, and her parents had raised her properly. Though her scheme was legally and morally wrong, she wasn’t entirely without scruples. She adhered to a code of conduct, embodied by her List of Nevers. She’d written the list before issuing her first demand note nearly three years ago:

1. Never request payment from someone who cannot afford it.
   
2. Never request an exorbitant amount—only what is necessary.
   
3. Never request payment from the same person on more than one occasion.
   
4. Never reveal the secrets of a paying customer.
   And finally, most importantly:
   
5. Never enter into any form of social interaction with a former customer.
   

This last rule was prudent in order to avoid detection but was also designed to prevent her from having to engage in hypocrisy, which she found unpalatable in the extreme.

Just running through the List in her mind calmed her. As usual, she’d listen intently this morning for any gossip that might be useful.

The most fertile ground in the shop was the dressing room, which was really just a large section of the shop’s front room partitioned off by folding screens draped with fabric, providing clients ample privacy. The centerpiece of the dressing area was a round dais which had been cleverly painted to resemble a cake with pink icing. Anabelle’s mouth always watered at the sight of the wretched thing, and since she’d had nothing more than a piece of toast for breakfast, today was no exception. A large, rectangular ottoman in one corner provided a perch for mothers, sisters, friends, companions, and the like. Miss Starling’s mother made a beeline for it, and Anabelle helped the younger woman remove her fashionable walking gown and wriggle into the new dress.

The small puffs of sleeves barely skimmed the debutante’s shoulders, showing the lovely line of her neck to advantage, just as Anabelle had hoped. Some adjustments to the hem were necessary, but she could manage them in an hour or so. Miss Starling stepped onto the platform and smoothed the skirt down her waist and over her hips.

The rapturous expression on Mrs. Starling’s face told Anabelle she’d changed her mind about the need for embellishments. The matron slapped a gloved hand to her chest and gave a little cry. “Huntford will find you irresistible.”

Miss Starling huffed as though vexed by the utter obviousness of the observation.

Anabelle’s face heated at the mention of the Duke of Huntford. He’d been in the shop once, last year, with his mistress. His dark hair, heavy-lidded green eyes, and athletic physique had flustered the unflappable Mrs. Smallwood, causing her to make an error when tallying his bill.

He was the sort of man who could make a girl forget to carry her tens.

“The duke will be mine before the end of the Season, Mama.”

Anabelle knelt behind Miss Starling, reached for her basket, and began pinning up the hem. As she glanced at her client’s reflection in the dressing room mirror, she avoided her own, knowing her appearance wouldn’t hold up well in comparison.

Miss Starling’s blond locks had been coaxed into a fetching Grecian knot at the nape of her neck, and her eyes sparkled with satisfaction. The white gown was beautiful enough for Aphrodite.

Anabelle pushed her spectacles, which were forever sliding down her nose, back into position. Kneeling in the shadow of the Season’s incomparable beauty, Anabelle was all but invisible—highly depressing, but for the best.

Mrs. Starling was nodding vigorously. “When we passed Huntford earlier, he couldn’t take his eyes off of you. There is not a miss on the marriage mart who rivals your beauty or grace, two virtues sorely lacking in his household, I might add. It was very charitable of you to befriend his sisters—and clever, too. An excellent excuse to visit and show him what a fine influence you’d be as a sister-in-law.” Mrs. Starling fanned herself and rambled on. “The sisters are quite homely, are they not? Gads, the one with the freakishly enormous forehead—”

“Lady Olivia,” Miss Starling offered helpfully.

“—bounded out of the bookstore like a disobedient puppy. And the younger girl with the wild, orange hair—”

“Lady Rose.”

“—is so meek I don’t believe I’ve ever heard her string two words together. Don’t ask that one about the weather unless you’ve a pair of forceps to pull a reply out of her. What a shame! Especially since the duke is the model of graciousness and propriety.”

The last comment made Anabelle stab her index finger with a pin. The devilishly attractive duke a paragon of good behavior? She’d seen the lacy undergarments he’d purchased for his mistress. They weren’t the sort of things one wore beneath church clothes.

Anabelle sat back on her heels to better gauge the evenness of the silk flounced hem. It was perfect. Since the conversation was growing interesting, however, she clucked her tongue and fiddled with the flounce a bit more.

Miss Starling smiled smugly. “Huntford needs a wife who will help him ease his awkward sisters into polite society, and he shouldn’t dither. When I went riding with Lady Olivia last week, she all but confided that she’s developed a tendre for the duke’s stable master.”

“No!” Mrs. Starling sucked in a breath, and her ample bosom rose to within inches of her chin. “What did she say?”

Miss Starling pressed her lips together as though she meant to barricade the secret. Anabelle tried to make herself smaller, more insignificant, if that were possible. Finally, Miss Starling’s words whooshed out. “Well, Olivia said she’d met with him on several occasions…
unchaperoned
.”

“The devil you say!”

“And she said she finds him quite handsome—”

“But, but… he’s a servant.” Mrs. Starling’s face was screwed up like she’d sucked a lemon wedge.

“
And
Olivia said she thought it a terrible shame that the sister of a duke shouldn’t be able to marry someone like him.”

The matron’s mouth opened and closed like a trout’s before she actually spoke. “That is
beyond
scandalous.”

Scandalous, indeed. And just what Anabelle needed. She sent up a silent prayer of gratitude, even though the irony of thanking God for providing fodder for her extortion scheme was not entirely lost on her.

The duke was an excellent candidate. He had plenty in his coffers and probably spent more in one night at the gaming tables than Anabelle had spent on rent all of last year. She wouldn’t demand more than she needed to pay Mama’s medical bills and their basic living expenses for a couple of months, of course. Considering how damaging the information about Lady Olivia could be, the duke really was getting an excellent bargain. Better that he learn about the indiscretion now,
before
Miss Starling managed to disseminate it to every county.

Keeping her face impassive, Anabelle stood and loosened the discreet laces at the side of the ball gown. After Miss Starling stepped out of it, Anabelle hung it on a hook, taking extra care with the delicate sleeves. As she helped her client slip back into her walking dress, she asked, “Will there be anything else today, ma’am?”

“Hmm? No, that’s all. I’ll just linger for a moment and freshen up. I’ll need the gown by tomorrow.”

Anabelle inclined her head. “It will be delivered this afternoon.” She was whisking the gown into the workroom, thinking how fortunate it was that the shop was not very busy that morning, when a bell on the front door jangled, signaling the arrival of a customer.

Three, actually.

Mrs. Smallwood’s shrill voice carried throughout the shop. “Good morning, Your Grace! What a pleasure to see you and your lovely sisters.”

Anabelle’s fingers went numb, just like the time Papa had caught her in his study taking an experimental puff on his pipe. There was no way the duke could know what she planned. Swallowing hard, she tried to remember what she’d been doing before he arrived. It suddenly seemed important that she appear very busy, even though she was out of sight.

The duke’s voice, smooth and rich, seeped under her skin. She couldn’t make out what he was saying, but the deep tone warmed her, so much so, she felt the need to fan herself with her apron. Perhaps Mrs. Smallwood would realize she was working on a pressing project and spare her from having to—

“Miss Honeycote!”

Or, perhaps not.

With the same eagerness that one might walk the plank, Anabelle hung the ball gown on a vacant hook and pushed her spectacles up her nose before returning to the front room. It seemed to have shrunk now that the Duke of Huntford occupied it.

Before, the two elegant wingback chairs and piecrust table had seemed to be the correct scale; now, they looked like children’s furniture. The duke’s broad shoulders blocked much of the morning light that streamed through the shop’s window, casting a shadow that reached all the way from his Hessians to Anabelle’s half boots. His thick head of black hair and green eyes made him appear more gypsy than aristocrat, and he had the wiry strength of a boxer. He wore buckskin breeches and an expertly tailored moss-green jacket, which she could fully appreciate, as a seamstress
and
a woman.

Belatedly, she remembered to curtsey.

Mrs. Smallwood shot Anabelle a curious look. “Lady Olivia and Lady Rose each require a new dress. I assured His Grace that you would work with them to design gowns that are tasteful and befitting their station.”

“Of course.” The sister whom Anabelle deduced must be Olivia had wandered to the far side of the shop and was fingering samples of fabric and lace. She appeared to be a couple of years younger than Anabelle, perhaps nineteen. Rose was obviously the younger sister; she played with the button on the wrist of her glove, eyes downcast.