Mistress of Scandal (Greentree Sisters 3)

“I thought only Her Majesty uses ether, when she—”

“Why, anyone can use it,” Helen broke in, “not just women in childbirth.” She sat back in the carriage, fussing with her gloves. “Have you seen the latest fashions, Amy? I have a copy of the Ladies’ Gazette of Fashion you must look through. There is a style that would have looked splendid on me when I was a young girl.” Poor Helen looked momentarily woebegone, before shaking off the past. “I am too long in the tooth for that now, of course, but what I meant to say was that I am quite certain it will suit Francesca very well.”

Francesca’s heart sank down to her boots. She could just imagine herself in the sort of frilly, frothy, girlish outfits Helen would favor; all ribbons and flounces. “Under no circumstances,” she whispered to Amy, as Helen rambled on about an assembly she’d once attended at Almack’s and what she’d worn.

“Now, my dear,” Amy murm

ured in reply, “we all have to make sacrifices. Poor Helen needs cheering up and it’s our job to do it, even if it means buying an entire new wardrobe of pretty dresses.”

Regent Street, with its plate-glass windows, was the premier shopping street in London, but there was also Burlington Arcade, with small dressmakers’ shops and specialty shops. There was so much to see that despite herself, Francesca was tingling with excitement, but most of the time she was kept too busy listening to Amy and Helen chatter and trying to prevent them from getting lost among the splendors of fashion.

She wasn’t sure when she first noticed the man. He was leaning against the wall in one of the smaller arcades, and he had sandy hair and was wearing a brown jacket. Tall and gangly, he had the air of someone with time on his hands. There was nothing special about him, nothing that should have drawn her attention, except that when their eyes met, he immediately turned his back and pretended to peer into a window full of confectionary.

The next moment Helen was diving into a glove-maker’s, giggling like a girl, and when Francesca glanced around again for the man he was gone. For some reason she wasn’t relieved, and she began to take more notice of her surroundings.

Several shops later, she thought she saw him again on the other side of the street, but it was only his back in the brown jacket. You’re being ridiculous, she told herself. He’s probably waiting for his wife and spending his time ogling other women. You’re making something of nothing, and all because Sebastian frightened you with his tales of dangerous people.

Just then Helen fell into raptures yet again, this time over some millinery in the window of Swan and Edgar, calling for their opinion on one of the new straw bonnets with the rounded shape and horizontal crown. Suddenly Francesca was weary of the expedition. She quite liked the bonnets, but what was the use in giving her opinion, when neither Helen nor Amy listened to it anyway? She strolled farther down the street and stopped in front of a haberdasher’s.

A bolt of rose red satin seemed to jump out at her.

Francesca gave a groan of sheer feminine pleasure.

“Oh, how pretty!” Amy was at her side.

“Yes.” She glanced back toward the milliner’s. “Is Aunt Helen finished swooning over those bonnets?”

“Not quite. That color would suit you very well, you know,” Amy announced, tucking her hand into Francesca’s arm and leading her inside.

“Mama…” she protested, but her voice was weak from exhaustion and a sudden desire to own the rose silk. She could imagine the expression on Sebastian’s face, when he…if he saw her in a dress made up from it.

“The pale blue crepe, too,” Amy was directing an assistant who had coming hurrying to serve them. “And I think…yes, lace for an overskirt, and ribbons, and…”

It was pointless protesting. Amy was like a railway train, sweeping away all in her path. In no time Francesca found herself being bustled onto the premises of a supercilious-looking modiste, and Amy and Helen were engaged in a series of discussions on style and cut, and the short sleeves as opposed to those with a fall of lace to the elbow.

“She’s not petit,” the modiste announced, sharp eyes taking in every detail of Francesca’s figure.

Francesca opened her mouth to argue—My mother calls me petit chaton—and then realizing what she was going to say, closed it again.

“With such a striking figure, she needs to make something of herself. Her height, her waist and bosom and hips, are all to be put on show. No frills and clusters of ribbons. No fussy little prints. She would look ridiculous. Colors that complement her dark hair and eyes, and that flawless creamy skin. Necklines to show to best advantage her excellent bosom. Stiffened petticoats to hold out her skirts and accentuate her tiny waist.”

Francesca wanted to squirm, but at the same time she knew that the modiste was right. This was a woman of good sense, even if she did lack tact. Why pretend she was petite like Helen and Marietta? She was a statuesque woman, like Vivianna; one who would always stand out in a crowd. It was the truth and she should make the most of it.

“She will need gloves, bonnets, stockings, drawers, chemises, stays, petticoats, boots, shoes and evening slippers.” Helen began listing them off on her fingers, her eyes shining with excitement. “Oh dear, I haven’t had this much fun in ages!”

At that moment any last protests Francesca might have voiced died on her lips. How could she be churlish when Amy and Helen were having such a marvelous time? And what harm could it do? She might—she realized with a tremble of excitement—even enjoy herself. It would be a change to wear clothes that enhanced her best features, rather than hiding them. Mrs. Hall, the seamstress in the village, seemed to have only two dress sizes—big and bigger.

By the time they were finished, Francesca was dizzy from looking at so many patterns and standing still, or turning around, while she was poked and prodded, draped and pinned. Altogether she was to have six new dresses, and a rose red satin ball gown. Francesca, who had never had a ball gown, wasn’t quite certain what she was going to do with one now, but she had an uncomfortable feeling that Amy and Helen did.

She’d forgotten about the loose-limbed man with the sandy hair, but as they were leaving the modiste’s establishment, she saw him again. This time he was standing by a drinking fountain, and he was looking directly at her. There was no possible doubt about it.

Fear crept over her with spidery fingers.

Once again he looked away, pretending to be interested in a smart pair of horses pulling a barouche. But Francesca wasn’t deceived. All Sebastian’s warnings came back to her in a rush. She hadn’t listened to him, not really. She hadn’t believed him. Oh, why hadn’t she believed him?

She turned, looking about her, and saw that there were plenty of shoppers in the street. It was three o’clock in the afternoon and everyone was going about his tasks in an ordinary manner. She was safe; no one could hurt her in such a public place. Who had ever heard of a woman being kidnapped in Regent Street during the most fashionable hour for shopping?

The realization calmed her.