John Coachman swung the carriage door open.
Gilbourne stepped down from the coach, then turned and held his gloved hand up to Matilda. “Get out.”
She scrambled up from the seat and hurried to place her hand in his.
“Fight to win,” he reminded her.
“Is this a battlefield?”
“An armory. If Marrywell was a skirmish, London is the war. The strategic advantage is that here, the combatants must follow certain rules—and I know every one.”
“An armory?” she repeated in wonder. “Where are we?”
“Across the street from the most sought-after modiste in London. Madame Theroux’s waitlist is two seasons long.”
Matilda’s mouth dropped open in excitement. “And we’re on it?”
“No.”
Her excitement fell and she frowned up at him with confusion. “We haven’t two years to wait. We must find someone else.”
“No one else will do. My ward shall have the best.”
“But… you just said there’s no possibility of her helping us.”
“There’s always a way.” He dropped her hand and strode across the street, trusting that she would keep up.
There was no chance on earth Matilda would allow herself to be left behind. She all but glued herself to his side, matching each swift stride in perfect synchronicity.
A woman stood outside one of the many shops, locking a large wooden door between two enormous mullioned windows. Her other hand held a lantern. As they neared, Matilda could see extravagant gowns hung on display in each window.
Or perhaps these were ordinary walking gowns in London. The Earl of Gilbourne might know all the rules, but Matilda had never worn the uniform.
“Madame Theroux,” came the earl’s calm, authoritative voice. “I trust you have a moment to spare?”
The modiste turned around, her eyes widening upon sight of the earl’s face. “Lord… Gilbourne?”
He inclined his head. “And my ward, Miss Dodd.”
Matilda gave a little wave.
The modiste stared at her in open dismay, as if her chimney-sweep turned out more elegantly than Matilda currently presented.
Perhaps it was true.
“Lord Gilbourne,” Madame Theroux said firmly, shaking her head. “With all due respect, your ward—”
“—needs an entirely new wardrobe,” Gilbourne finished. “Yes. We’re aware. That’s why we’ve come to you. You’re the best of the best, and the best is what we require.”
“I haven’t time for a project of this nature, my lord. My calendar is so full, I couldn’t spare a moment to cut her a fresh ribbon for… Mon dieu, she’s not even wearing a bonnet. Where on earth is her bonnet?”
“We need everything. Head to toe. The latest fashions.”
“Milord, as I’ve just said—”
“Any price.”
“Even if I charged you three times what I earn in an entire season—”
