“Loyal, are you?” the old lady said mockingly.
Emm gave her a direct look. “In all matters.”
There was a short silence. She sniffed. “So you refuse my advice?”
“In this case, yes. But thank you for thinking of us.”
Lady Salter gave her a narrow look. She took the card back, crossed Madame Vestée’s name off and wrotesomething else down. “That,” she said with aweful majesty, “is the name of my mantua maker, Hortense”—she pronounced it ’Ortense—“the foremost dressmaker in London. Show her my card when you order your gowns and she will give you special treatment. Of course it is ridiculously late to be ordering your gowns for the season—and bringing three girls out at once!” No one was left in doubt of her disapproval of that scheme. “But she will wish to oblige me and will do her best to fit you in.”
“Thank you so much. It’s very kind of you.” Emm took the card and tucked it in her reticule.
“And do it soon,” the old lady ordered. “The dresses you and the girls wore the other day were quite provincial.”
Emm stiffened. She loved those dresses, the first new, fashionable dresses she’d had in years. And the girls always looked lovely. She lifted her chin and said proudly, “They were made by Madame Floria, in Bath.”
Lady Salter was unimpressed. “As I said, provincial. Go to Salon Hortense. Give those other dresses to your maid. Or burn them.”
Burn her lovely wedding dress? Over her dead body. Emm gritted her teeth and tried to think of something polite to say. “Thank you for your advice and your recommendation, Aunt Agatha. The girls and I will certainly consider Salon Hortense.”
The old lady’s fine-plucked brows rose.“Consider?”Her voice was brittle ice.
“Yes, indeed we will consider her.”
The thin breast swelled. “You do understand that I am held to be one of the best-dressed ladies in London.”
“I can see that for myself,” Emm said pleasantly. She could see that Lady Salter didn’t think much of a compliment from a country nobody with, apparently, no dress sense. “But tastes differ, after all, and the girls are young and are bound to have ideas of their own.”
“Young people should have no opinions,” Lady Salter declared magisterially. “They should be guided by their elders.”
“Do you think so? I like hearing young people’s thoughtsand ideas—they’re often less rigid and hidebound than their elders, I find. As for finding the girls a suitable dressmaker, what suits an older lady—fashionable as she might be—is not necessarily flattering to a young one.”
Lady Salter had no difficulty detecting the barb in that one. She glared at Emm. “You should be grateful if Salon Hortense even gives you an appointment.”
“As I said, thank you for the recommendation. We will definitely consider her.” For all Emm knew, Hortense might be the perfect choice for her and the girls, but Emm was not going to be bullied.
All three girls were being launched at the same time; all were rich and titled. They’d make a splash on the London scene if Emm were any judge. Rose was a beauty. Dressmakers would be falling over themselves to outfit her for the season. George was tall, slender and very pretty and would wear any dress with grace—as long as she was prevented from wearing her breeches under it, a habit Emm had not yet broken her of.
Lily was not so simple. She was very pretty, but she needed the kind of dressmaker who would appreciate her curves and make the most of them, not try to drown them in frills and flounces, as she’d seen happen to some girls. Dressed properly, Lily could shine, and Emm was determined to find her a dressmaker who would appreciate her potential and make the most of it.
She very much doubted Hortense would be that person.
There was a short tense silence in the sitting room. With gratitude Emm heard male voices outside in the hall. Cal must be back. Thank goodness. He could deal with his aunt. She’d had enough. And the girls were looking restless as the scent of breakfast wafted in. They’d been very good.
Emm rose to her feet and said brightly, “We were about to go in for breakfast, Aunt Agatha. And judging by that delicious toast and bacon smell, it must be ready. Would you care to join us?”
“Thank you, no. I have broken my fast already.”
“Probably wasps on toast,” George muttered.
Emm pretended not to have heard. “Then you will notwish to stay any longer.” She rose. “Delightful as always to see you, Aunt Agatha.”
***
Over breakfast the girls related the conversation to Cal, with much laughter and joking. “At least she acknowledged George’s legitimacy this time,” Emm said.
George laughed. “Yes, today I was a Rutherford, though not one who met with her approval.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
