“From my faint intelligence on the matter, he used to live near the Langfords when they did reside there, and was about the age of twelve or fourteen when he moved or was forcibly displaced. He used to go by the moniker ‘Ash’.”
Teller’s brows lowered a fraction of an inch—the totality of his reaction. “You need us to search for a young man with nothing but the estimated color of his hair and a pet name.”
“Yes,” Dorian replied with an exhale. “Archimedes discovered a way to calculate the mass of a golden crown by submerging it in water, and Galileo found planetary bodies using a rudimentary lens. I trust your intelligence to lead you to a similar revelation.”
Teller shook his head wryly. “You honor me, Your Grace.”
“You will see it through?”
“It will be the most challenging thing we have ever attempted,” Teller said.
“Good man,” Dorian reached for his hat as Teller rounded the table to flick a ledger open. “And take your time. There is no rush.”
“Pardon?” Teller asked, his brows lowered. “You do not need to know this immediately?”
“No,” Dorian replied as he planned his next move—the archbishop’s office. “Take your time, and send me word when you have something.”
The days oddly passed both slowly and too quickly for Evelina’s comfort. The nine days since her and Dorian’s negotiation about their marriage were the longest nine days of her life.
She’d explored every inch of the cabin—Dorian’s private room excluded, of course—and had even spent some afternoons in the gazebo outback with a book in hand.
Oddly, she’d discovered a love for cooking, and the recipes Dorian had left for her each morning were easy enough to make. Now, she dried her hands as she watched the rack of tarts she’djust baked cool. Warm pheasant stew was simmering in the pot, and the fresh baked brown bread was still rising in the oven.
“At least I have done something worthwhile,” she smiled.
A set of rapid knocks on the door had her turning—instantly, her pulse lurched. Was that Carrington? Had he found her again?
Jonathan Bennet stepped in and bowed. “Miss, there are two women here for you. They were sent by His Grace, and it is imperative that you see them.”
“Who are they?” Ellie asked as he opened the door wider.
“A modiste and her apprentice, Miss.”
When the door widened enough, a lady clad in grey with a severe bun and a younger woman walked in; the younger Miss held three wide, flat white boxes in her hand.
“Miss Frampton,” the modiste dipped her head. “I am Madame Laurier, and I have my protégé Amelie with me. We were sent by your husband-to-be, and he had ordered your wedding dress—” She looked around. “Is there a place we can dress you?”
Ellie felt as if she’d been pummeled with lemons. Dorian had ordered her a wedding dress? How? How had he known her measurements?
“Mademoiselle?”
Shaking her shock away, Ellie said, “This way.”
Her bedchamber was small, but it was private; the modiste angled her away near the windows. “Now, please, undress.”
Ellie’s cheeks burned fierce red as she proceeded to remove her layers and soon her day dress, petticoat, and lay on her bed. She hesitated on the chemise, but Madam Laurier gave her a succinct nod. Face aflame, she stripped the last barrier away, and, naked, she wrapped her hand around her middle.
“Ah,” the modiste inclined her head while she plucked something out of the box. “Your intrepid fiancé was very accurate in his measurements. Let’s get your undergarments on,s'il vous plaît.”
They fitted the corset to Ellie, “Take a deep breath, my dear…”
Her breath punched out of her chest as the dressmaker yanked the cords, and when her eyes opened again, she gazed at the most exquisite corset she had ever laid eyes on.
The cups looked like butterfly wings, the boning molded her figure into a sensuous shape, cinching her waist and pushing her breasts into the pleated cups. The lace overlay was handknitted, she was sure.
“Now, the stockings and the garters, my dear,” the modiste replied, handing her the slips of silks.
She sat on the edge of the bed and slid the stockings over her leg, then clipped the garters on.
