She straightened her spine. “Ladies do not have butlers as escorts. A debutante most certainly does not. Please, take no offense, Mr. Cockfield. I-It’s just that—” Not one of them was nodding and agreeing with her. Did her aunt and cousin not comprehend how inappropriate it was for a male servant to chaperone to a lady?
“Greystone has a prior engagement, and Mr. Cockfield will provide excellent protection.” Aunt Iris lifted a jeweled monocle to her eye and stared hard at Posy. “For both of you.” She turned to Violet. “And you will order some new gowns. I insist.”
Posy was obviously disappointed at the change to her plans for the day. Greystone turned to Violet, looking perplexed.
“Surely, with both of you present, there will be no appearance of impropriety,” he said.
Posy frowned. “Mr. Cockfield can take me to the bookstore afterward. Aunt Violet needn’t be inconvenienced.”
If Violet clenched her teeth any more tightly, they would shatter into a thousand pieces. When had it become acceptable for a butler to consort with his employer’s impressionable young ward?
“I have nothing else planned.” If Posy was going to be gallivanting around London with Mr. Cockfield, then Violet would most definitely be going along as well. “I’m always happy to shop for books.”
“That reminds me. Lady Chaswick has invited us for dinner this week. Purchase something new, Vi—something with a little lace and color. You’re falling behind in your fashion,” Greystone teased.
Simon did not give in to the pleading look Lady Posy sent him. Nor did he express even an ounce of dismay that Miss Faraday would be joining them. Because he was not—dismayed, that was. And although he had hoped to tend to a few other matters while out, needling Miss Faraday for a few hours promised to be amusing.
Lady Posy was simply going to have to undertake her mission another time—the minx.
“Our appointment with Madam Chantal is at two. We can go to your bookstore afterward.” Disapproval dripped off Miss Faraday’s tongue. She directed her comment to Lady Posy, quite intentionally ignoring Simon.
He suspected she did that to remind herself that he was a servant more than anything else, because she obviously sensed that all was not as it ought to be.
He cocked a brow at Greystone. It didn’t feel fair, keeping Miss Faraday in the dark like this, but the circumstances were beyond his control. If Simon were to tell her who he really was, he’d forfeit the bet, the same if Greystone chose to do so.
Simon exited the room, other concerns already crowding in. He’d tell one of the footmen they could clear away the morning meal, and then he needed to speak with an investigator over another matter. After that, he ought to have enough time to go over the household accounts with Greystone’s housekeeper, Mrs. Hambletone, and read through his own steward’s reports before ordering a carriage in which to escort the ladies to Madam Chantal’s.
Or perhaps he’d order up the barouche—if the rain held off.
Every last member of her family was pushing Miss Faraday to improve her wardrobe, and most of her gowns were, in fact, out of fashion and somewhat matronly. And yet Simon doubted she would.
The woman was far too restrained for her own good. It was as though she wanted to be invisible. And that… was a travesty.
Making a quick decision, in addition to tasking himself with eliciting smiles from the lady, he’d find some way to show her how to have fun.
The fact that he considered it nigh impossible made him even more determined to accomplish it.
Fashion… and Other Sense
“Now, don’t be mad at me.” Posy tugged Violet toward the tall brick building, which, contrary to what most people expected a French woman’s dress shop to look like, was surprisingly discreet.
“Please don’t tell me you’ve turned down another offer to go driving?” Violet braced herself for bad news as they entered the hushed interior of the dress shop, Mr. Cockfield right behind them.
“No. Nothing like that, you goose. I’ve changed my appointment.” Posy smiled. “Tell her, Mr. Cockfield. Tell her she needs new gowns.”
“Posy! Don’t be ridiculous.” Violet gasped.
But the butler was already inspecting her person, causing Violet’s blood to run cold and then hot. A woman’s wardrobe was a very personal matter. It was not something one discussed with strange gentlemen.
Violet sent him what ought to have been a withering glare, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
Impertinent man.
But before Violet could reprimand either of her companions, the dressmaker herself, a short, curvy French woman with curly red hair, bustled into the room from behind an evergreen velvet curtain. “Good afternoon, my lady.” The stout woman addressed Posy before turning to inspect Violet. “But we are to dress you today, non? It is Miss Faraday who requires many beautiful gowns for the remainder of the Season?”
“Oh, no!” Violet held out a hand.
“She most certainly does, Madam,” Mr. Cockfield interrupted, speaking from behind a newspaper. “The Marquess of Greystone insists she be fitted with no less than five ball gowns and seven day dresses.” The dratted butler spoke with such conviction that Violet doubted any person within one hundred miles would be willing to step up and challenge him.
