A soft knock announced Tilly’s return with my tea and jam. “Here you are, my lady.”
“Thank you, Tilly. Is Lady Chrissie awake?”
“She hasn’t rung, my lady.”
“Then let us give her a little time,” I said.
After the light breakfast, I sat at the writing table and dashed off a note to Mme Delacroix requesting an appointment. While I waited for her response, I dressed for the day, moving with more urgency than care.
Her reply came before long. Eleven o’clock—barely an hour from now. Apparently, it was the only time she could spare amid the demands of her busy salon. I dashed off a quick note to Steele, informing him where I was going and what I hoped to learn.
And then I went in search of Chrissie, nearly colliding with her as she emerged from her bedchamber. Though her hair was only partially pinned, a few curls slipping loose around her temples, she was thankfully already dressed in a day gown. A slim volume of poetry was tucked beneath her arm. She was clearly bound for breakfast.
“Good,” I said. “You are up.”
Chrissie blinked, startled, then smoothed the fall of her skirts. “Yes. As I am every day, at precisely the same hour. I was just on my way down.”
“No time for that. We have an appointment with Mme Delacroix.”
“We do?” She tightened her grip on the book, brows lifting. “When?”
“Now. You said you needed a gown for Lady Stratham’s ball.”
“Well—yes, but—what about breakfast?” Her stomach answered for her with a faint, indignant growl. She pressed a hand to her waist, her cheeks warming.
“No time for that,” I said again.
Before she could protest further, I looped my arm through hers and steered her toward the staircase. Chrissie cast one last longing glance toward the dining room as we descended, dragging her feet just enough to register her displeasure.
“Come along,” I said firmly.
Just before eleven,our carriage rolled into the bustle of Bond Street. Shoppers streamed along the pavement in a wash of spring color. Shop windows gleamed with displays of gloves and parasols, and hats sprouting feathers that would have caused Claire to swoon with delight.
Our footman, Weston, sat stiffly opposite us, his hat resting on his knees, his gaze politely lowered. Even so, his presence eased the small, insistent corner of my conscience that sounded suspiciously like Steele’s voice.
As the carriage drew to a halt before Mme Delacroix’s shop, its window displayed a confection of pale blue silk arranged on a headless dress form. Ivory kid gloves were set neatly beside a spray of artificial lilacs.
After Weston helped us alight, I drew Chrissie into the cool, scented air of the shop, a mixture of starch and pressed linen. Bolts of silk fabric lined the walls, in shades of shimmering rose, cream, and soft green. The murmur of feminine voices replaced the masculine shouts and clattering carts outside.
Almost immediately, Mme Delacroix appeared from behind a curtain near the back. She wore dark silk and an expression of pleased recognition. “Lady Rosalynd. How charming to see you again. And Lady Chrysanthemum. The Season has treated you kindly, I hear.”
Chrissie glowed under the attention. “You are very good, madame.”
I did not wish to spend the moment on pleasantries. Time was ticking away. “My sister is in dire need of a gown. She has another ball to attend and fears the potted palms will overshadow her.”
Chrissie shot me a puzzled look. She had never said any such thing.
Still, Mme Delacroix laughed. “Then we must ensure they do not. Come, Lady Chrysanthemum. We shall find a color to make those palms weep from envy.”
She led Chrissie past a curtain toward the fitting room, calling softly for pins and a measuring tape. An assistant hurried to assist.
Following them, I strolled slowly along the fabric shelves. My fingers drifted over a bolt of pale peach silk that would suit Chrissie to perfection. All the while, my thoughts circled one name.
Alice Brent. The young woman who had worked at this establishment.
As Chrissie stood on the low dais with her arms slightly lifted, Mme Delacroix began to pin a length of celadon silk—that tender shade between seafoam and the palest willow-green—along her shoulder.
“Madame,” I said, keeping my tone light. “You must have a great many young women working for you to manage so many gowns.”
