Chapter 5

Dear Lord Lowell,

I must request an additional two hundred pounds to publish the article that you requested. If you do not respond, I believe Lady Allen would be amenable to a deal regarding your identity. I await your correspondence via the usual method.

Sincerely, Mr. Ainsley

Olivia sat inside the rocking carriage across from Constance and thanked God for her luck. The girl was bright, charming, and well-educated. Her family’s wealth alone would attract a horde of suitors. She need only to guide the girl through encounters with suitable men and let youthful passion take hold.

If only Constance’s father were so easy to manage.

Some of his actions had obvious intent, the smoldering looks, the gentle brush of his fingers along her back, the quirk of an eyebrow in response to a suggestive comment. She kept waiting for the bastard to pull her into a room and proposition her, but it never happened.

Perhaps that was for the best. Physical attraction aside, she doubted she could put aside her anger for long enough to appease whatever vile desires he possessed.

What she should have done was extract a promise that he would retract the statements in the articles when Constance was wed. But every time they were alone, she mooned over him like a girl in her first season. That could not continue. When she did not treat him as a threat, it was too easy to let down her guard and simply become Olivia.

Distractible, disastrous Olivia, who’d yearned for motherhood and had chosen a husband based on the fleeting whims of her heart rather than sense.

She wished she could go back and scream at that innocent girl to run as fast as she could.

The sound of the carriage rattling to a stop pulled her out of her thoughts.

Constance jerked her head around. “Have we arrived already?”

“Should I ask the driver to circle the block until you are ready?”

Constance flushed but was spared having to respond by their driver opening the door.

The thump of horse hooves on well-packed earth surrounded them, accompanied by the occasional whinny. Street urchins in brown caps darted through the crowd, offering newspapers for sale while slipping their small hands into the pockets of the unwary.

Olivia hustled her charge toward a windowless, brick building nestled between a milliner’s and a general shop. She opened the door, and they stepped into a room that was filled with bolts of colored fabric stacked in cubbies along the walls from floor to ceiling. Dress forms wearing half-completed gowns hung from the ceiling above long tables like ghosts.

Constance flitted around the shop, exclaiming her pleasure in soft gasps and sighs. Olivia waited for her to settle and then joined her beside a section of floral prints.

“This is so lovely,” Constance said, touching the frayed edge of a length of bronze muslin.

Olivia held it up. “What would you pair it with?”

“Cream or black,” Constance said. She walked over to another row and tapped a gray paisley silk. “This one for the overskirt, the other for the gown. Trimmed in black or silver lace.”

Olivia pictured the dress in her mind and nodded. “You have an excellent eye for fashion.”

Constance grinned. “Aunt Celina says that, too. I sometimes help her choose her attire for events. She is fond of gold chiffon and Chantilly lace.”

Olivia wondered what it must have been like growing up in a house full of love and life, where there was always a family member or caring servant to carry a sleepy child to bed and the dinner table was crowded with plates. Her early years had been desolate by comparison. There had been occasional events that had drawn them into the village, and a string of strict governesses, but otherwise, she’d occupied her childhood alone.

And most of her adulthood, for that matter.

The loneliest years of her life had been the ones she’d spent at her husband’s side. Only as she’d grown older had she realized the earl had not been afflicted with an overabundance of affection, but possession. Any attempts she’d made to grant herself a moment of peace had been met with reprimands and rambling lectures on the importance of loyalty to one’s husband.

What she would not give to strike the accursed man from her past.

She forcibly thrust her thoughts of her former husband away and flipped through a book of fashion plates as they waited for Madame Julian. That the modiste had left them on their own for so long was odd. The woman must have been busy. Still, the pounding in her chest increased with every passing minute.

She ran her finger over a sketch of a shepherdess costume. The square-cut bodice and full skirt were turquoise, with strips of white inlaid with pink roses. The three-quarter- length sleeves with double-layered cuffs were reminiscent of the French court gowns her grandmother had once owned. She coveted it immediately, although she had not attended a fancy-dress party in months. Perhaps she would commission it for herself, along with Constance’s new wardrobe.

Once the girl was wed, the articles stopped, and her reputation restored, she would host a grand ball. It would be the perfect end to the season, an event celebrating her jubilant return to matchmaking. She would have so many candidates thrust upon her by eager mamas that her schedule would be booked for months.

She closed the book as a door thudded and Madame Julian stepped out of the darkness. Her black hair was held back from her face by a complicated arrangement of braids, and her rouged lips were turned down in a frown. Unlike during the previous times Olivia had visited, the modiste did not greet her with an explosion of rapid French but dipped her sharp chin while sliding a long strip of paper between her fingers.

“Lady Allen,” the woman said, without meeting her gaze. “I apologize, but I cannot assist you. I am busy.”

“Busy?”

Madame Julian had never turned her away. Without Olivia’s patronage, she might never have left the unfashionable district where she had first set up shop.

Then Olivia spotted the newspaper laid out on the long table, beside a pile of fabric scraps.

“Madame, I cannot.” The woman’s large eyes watered. “My business. I cannot assist you. You must ask another.” She rushed off, leaving Olivia standing beside an open-mouthed Constance.

“What was that?” Constance asked.

At least there were no other patrons in the shop to see what had happened. There would be no firsthand accounts of her embarrassment.

“A minor complication,” Olivia said, forcing out each word. But as she drew Constance back to the waiting carriage, she could not help but wonder if Madame Julian would not help them, then who would?