“It will look lovely in my collection.” She placed the key on the table and studied it, her face filled with fondness.
“Why do you like keys so?” It didn’t matter if Gwendolyn brought her something plain or fancy, Marianne lit up every time.
“Because they hide things. And keep things safe. They’re gifts.”
“Gifts?” Gwendolyn reached out and traced the curling leaves of the design at the head of the key. “To you and you alone, I think.”
“To everyone. We constantly decide who to give keys to. I gave one to my Mr. Thomas, bald of pate and fierce of heart. And you… you have given yours to no one yet.”
“Ah. Trying to teach me something. I should not be surprised.”
“Thatismy job, Lady—”
“Miss. And itwasyour job.”
“Hm.” Marianne sighed. “I suppose my job these days is to make lovely gowns for lovely ladies. Have you painted recently?”
Almost every night, when she could not sleep, turning her sketches for Lord Eaden’s scholarly use into fairy tales of gold and silver. “I have not had time.” Gwendolyn stood. “I’ll distract you no longer. Thank you.”
Marianne grinned, snapped the key up and slipped it into her pocket. Perhaps you should try giving a key to someone other than me,Miss Smith. Leave your past in the past,Miss Smith.”
“I have,” Gwendolyn hissed, pressing closer to the table. She’d left the past entirely behind her. Buried it deep but for her occasional visits to Marianne. She couldn’t abandon the woman who’d given up her reputation to stand by Gwendolyn’s side. It was only all of London that insisted she remember who she used to be.
Marianne tsked, leaned forward, spoke low enough no one could hear. “You’ve not put that bigamist arse behind you in the least. Nor his father.”
Gwendolyn’s gaze dissected the room. Had anyone heard? She shoved her chin in the air. Let them look. Let them whisper. Her skin had grown thick enough to withstand those arrows.
“That fellow you’ve been pining for,” Marianne said, “Do you mean to tell me your reasons for not having him have nothing to do with the biga—”
“Marianne.” She could not let her say the word aloud again. “I have my reasons, and yes, one of them is that to marry a man, I’d have to sign my own name. But I am not that woman anymore, so signing that name would be a lie.” She took a large step away from the table and managed a smile. “Thank you. I’ll visit soon.” A nod, a wave, and she reached the door before a hand caught her arm.
“Excuse me?” A small woman with bright eyes peered into Gwendolyn’s face. She dropped her wrist and stepped back but never let her gaze wander from Gwendolyn. “I’ve seen you here before, and I have often wondered… I hope you do not mind me asking, but are youthatlady?”
Gwendolyn narrowed her eyes. “I’ve no idea what lady you could mean.”
“I’ve often wondered,” the woman continued, “what happened to you. Are you still married? Do you hear from him often? At all?”
Gwendolyn ripped her arm from the woman’s hold. “I’m not whomever you think I am. The woman you speak of is dead.”
The woman did not follow, and Gwendolyn entered the crush on Bond Street and somehow found her breath once more, hidden in the steady flow of bodies. She arrived at the other modiste shop early and met the Cavendish sisters in silence. She should think of them as Viscountess Albee and Viscountess Woodfeld. They had both married within the last year and a half, leaving the names of their girlhoods behind. But they had the uncompromising courage of their father, so Gwendolyn could not think of them by any name other than Cavendish.
“Did you find what you were after?” Ada asked as they wove their way back down the street toward the waiting carriage. She had the look of her older sister, almost-black hair and eyes green as spring. They were both thriving, living things, gardens gone wild, and Gwendolyn tried not to envy them the state.
“I did. Thank you,” Gwendolyn said. And the thing she had been after sat like a hot coal in her reticule. How did it not burn right through, drop onto the pavement at her feet, and give her away entirely?
“Excellent,” Nora said. “I saw a silk the perfect shade of blue for you in Henrietta’s shop. I know you will not welcome it, but I’ve my eye on it anyway. For you.”
Gwendolyn’s head popped up, her gaze flying wide open and away from her reticule. “Thank you. But you musn’t.”
Nora handed her packages to a footman and lumbered up into the carriage. Ada and Gwendolyn followed, and they settled themselves—the Cavendish sisters on one side, Gwendolyn on the other.
Nora eyed her, tapping her chin. “I’m afraid Ada and I have been gossiping about you.
Ada thinks our cousin Jackson has a tendre for you.”
Devil take it. Could no one leave it alone? “I’ve no clue what you’re talking about.”
“It was not kind of us to speak about you,” Ada said, “But I was on a boat with the both of you. I’m fairly certain his heart is terribly involved. What I’d like to know, as a concerned cousin, is if his heart will also end up terribly maimed.”
