“Arthur is the verylastperson I would wish to have discover the truth.” Margaret made a face. “He is a man of many exceptional qualities when it comes to investments and such, but I fear that he takes his role as head of the family far too seriously. His grandfather’s influence, no doubt.”
Elenora thought about the fierce self-control she had perceived in the earl’s enigmatic eyes. “Yes, I can see that there is a certain sternness in his nature.”
“Not to put too fine a point on it, Arthur can be inflexible, autocratic and downright dictatorial. Furthermore, he does not approve of the current fashion for novel reading, and I shudder to think of how he would respond if he discovered that I actually wrote such books. At the very least, he would never have asked me to come to London to chaperone you. Promise me that you will not reveal my secret.”
“I promise.”
“Thank you. Now then, as I was about to explain, I have been having trouble with several parts of my latest manuscript. They all involve scenes at fashionable parties and meetings with high-flyers in Society. But I cannot write those bits with any conviction because I know almost nothing about life in Polite Circles.”
“I thought you said you had a Season?”
“It lasted less than a fortnight because Harold made his offer almost immediately after he met me. In any event, that was fourteen years ago, so I am very much out of touch.”
“I think I begin to understand your dilemma.”
Margaret sat forward. “When Arthur asked me to help him with his scheme I thought it would be the perfect opportunity to come to London to observe and record details of the Social World. So naturally I told him that I would be delighted.” She threw up her hands in despair. “But that was before I realized that he also expected me to deal with the gowns and all of the rest of what it takes to go into Society.”
“Ah.”
“I am very sorry, Elenora, but I do not have any notion of how to go about locating the most fashionable dressmaker or milliner or glove maker. I feel I should confess to Arthur, but if I do he will surely send me home and find someone else to act as your chaperone.”
“Hmm.”
Margaret gave her an expectant look. “What are you thinking?”
Elenora smiled. “I am thinking that there is no reason to bother Arthur with these pesky problems. I’m sure we can handle them without too much trouble.” She thought about the pile of cards she’d spotted heaped on the tarnished salver on the hall table. “Arthur’s title and position will ensure that we have any number of invitations. All we really need is the name of a skilled dressmaker. She will be able to guide us to all the most fashionable shops.”
“How do you propose to find the right dressmaker?”
Elenora chuckled. “My former employer was somewhat unusual when it came to her taste in clothing. She preferred to wear only garments made of purple fabric.”
“How odd.”
“Perhaps. But Mrs. Egan is nothing if not a lady of fashion. I can assure you that every single one of her purple gowns was created by a most exclusive dressmaker, one with whom I am well acquainted because I accompanied my employer on several trips to her shop.”
“But she will surely recognize you.”
“I do not think that need concern us,” Elenora said. “During my time with Mrs. Egan I learned that good dressmakers rise to the heights of their profession not just through skill but also because they have a talent for discretion when it comes to the affairs of their most important clients.”
Margaret’s eyes sparkled. “And as the future bride of the Earl of St. Merryn, you certainly qualify as a very important client.”
7
Ibbitts stood in the darkness of the linen closet and considered closely the conversation he had overheard earlier.
It was quite by accident that he had discovered the small hole in the hidden wall panel that made it possible for someone inside the closet to eavesdrop on conversations in the library. He suspected that the secret opening had been cut many years before, by a clever servant who’d had the good sense to keep track of his employers’ business.
One thing was certain, Ibbitts thought. He had been right about Miss Lodge. He had known from that very first moment when he had caught her examining the dusty table in the hall that there was something strange about her. True, she had smiled at him, the way women always did, but he had not detected the telltale flash of lust in her eyes. Not even a glimmer of sensual interest.
She had admired him the way one might admire an attractive painting or work of art; with appreciation but nothing more.
It was most unusual and somewhat disturbing. His face was his fortune, as his mother had predicted, and people, especially women, always responded to his fine looks.
He had been aware straight from the cradle that his handsome features were a great asset. Even as a young boy, he’d understood that people regarded him in a way that was markedly different than the manner in which they viewed his brothers and sisters and the other children in his village.
His face had made it easy for him to obtain that first, fateful post in the household of the fat, aging baron who had lived just outside of the village. The old man had recently married a lady several decades younger than himself. It transpired that his lordship’s new bride was very pretty and very bored. She had been delighted with Ibbitts; dressing him in handsome livery and insisting that he wait upon her at every meal.
The first night that she had invited him into her bed he had quickly understood that he possessed another great asset in addition to his face. In that moment when he had knelt behind her plump, soft buttocks, burrowing deep into her snug heat, he had glimpsed a vision of the bright, successful future that awaited him.
