She walked past the front window of Madame Dupree’s, relieved to see that the modiste’s shop was nearly empty. Turning around the corner, Beatrice walked down the narrow alley behind the row of shops. A splendid carriage sat waiting near a nondescript back door. The carriage bore the coat of arms of the Duke of Granby.
The footman she’d set to watching Madame Dupree’s the past few days had been correct.
Taking a deep breath, Beatrice walked to the door and opened it a crack. Peering in, she ascertained no one was about, slipped through the door, and shut it behind her. The back rooms of Madame Dupree’s shop were dark and slightly treacherous given the maze of fabrics one must walk through. Bolts of silk, muslin, tulle, and lord knows what else were stacked haphazardly against the walls. The path between was no more than a sliver.
Beatrice darted quietly along a row of satins, pausing to run her fingers over the fabric.
A male rumble echoed down the hall, followed by the seductive laugh of a woman.
“Good grief,” Beatrice whispered to herself. “I hope I don’t interrupt them in a tryst. That will hardly endear me to either.” The sounds emanated from behind a door, partially ajar. A workroom, she guessed.
“Delicious little shrub.” The endearment, for that’s what Beatrice assumed it to be, came out in a masculine growl.
I suppose that’s better than being called a vile harpy.Marginally.
A feminine sigh followed, one of undisguised pleasure.
Beatrice didn’t move. If she ran back out now, she wouldn’t have to witness—but the opportunity would be missed. She’d been hoping to catch Andromeda alone at Madame Dupree’s without Granby, but she should have guessed he’d be here. Granby wasn’t the sort to allow Andromeda, burdened with her pins and sketches, to go about London without protection.
Very well.
Beatrice pushed the door open enough for her to step through. She couldn’t see Andromeda, only her hands, which were held by the wrist above her head. Granby’s massive form completely hid his wife from view. His dark head was bent over her, murmuring to Andromeda in a foreign tongue. Italian, probably.
If Beatrice were wise, she would pivot and go back the way she’d come. Maybe a note would suffice. A box of chocolates. Or a pastry. She could send a tart purchased from Lady Torrington, who everyone in London pretended wasn’t running a pastry shop by the name of Pennyfoil’s.
No. I must do this in person. If I survive, I’ll still buy the tart.
Beatrice cleared her throat hoping Granby didn’t charge at her like some immense bull for the untimely interruption. How Blythe remained such close friends with the stony duke was a source of mystery.
“David.” Andromeda’s muffled voice came from somewhere beneath all that mountainous duke. “Did you hear that?”
David?
Beatrice had never thought of Granby having a Christian name, but of course he must. Had she known it was David?
How bland.
“I apologize for interrupting,” she said to Granby’s back.
Granby spun, dropping Andromeda’s wrists. A blast of chilly air was leveled at Beatrice for her untimely interruption. He looked exactly as she remembered, big and monstrous. Like an iceberg wearing a tailored coat.
Andromeda leaned to one side, eyes widening at the sight of Beatrice. She patted the arm of her annoyed duke, pressing him to move away, and when he didn’t, she stepped around him. Motherhood and marriage agreed with Andromeda. She was a vision, with her lustrous dark hair and those blue eyes with their disarming circle of indigo.
Self-consciously, Beatrice’s fingers trailed down her neck.
“Madame is gone for the day,” Andromeda said. “She has given us leave to examine some of her fabric for a gown I’m considering. Claudine is up front, I believe. She can help you.”
Beatrice spared some annoyance for not being recognized before recalling the veil hiding her features. She flipped it over the brim of her hat. “I’m here to speak to you, Your Grace,” she said to Andromeda. “If you have a moment.”
Granby angled his body closer to his wife. Protectively. As if Beatrice were some viper threatening Andromeda. “Beatrice Howard.”
“I should like to speak to your duchess on a matter of some import.”
Granby’s lips thinned in disapproval. His chilly gaze flicked over Beatrice’s exposed cheek and missing earlobe.
“Please.” Beatrice lifted her chin.
Andromeda pushed at her giant of a husband. “Your Grace, she is unlikely to stab me with a pair of shears. Let us dispense with formal address. We are all well acquainted. Good afternoon, Beatrice.”
