Restraint was the secret.
So, one rationed out the beauty and held some in reserve. In doing so, a mystery was created that would capture the imagination.
In the haut ton every year, a new bevy of bright, young beauties debuted and took their chances in society. And every year—and even at the age of three-and-thirty—Isabel outclassed and outshone them all.
Tilly made sure of it every time Isabel stepped out of the house for those elegant suppers and soirées, those opulent musicales and balls, even a mundane afternoon of social calls and shopping.
“Besides,” said Isabel, as Tilly’s nimble fingers set to work, “with the general election resolved and the Whigs in charge, Percy wants to understand what this means for the electoral pact with Ireland. Lord Melbourne is rumored to be attending this supper, so I predict much blustering and many deep, whispered conferences.” She gave a near-imperceptible shrug of the shoulder. “Percy does like to keep a hand in England’s political stew—or a pinky, at least.”
Tilly picked up an ivory comb inlaid with mother-of-pearl tulips and considered the best angle for placement. “Your fellow ain’t the sort to give up on a bone once he’s got it between his teeth. Old Mr. Bunt had a terrier like that. He’d get a bone and bring it to you all docile like. Then when you’d try to take it, he’d near snap your hand off.”
“I’d say my fellow is much like that.” Isabel’s mouth turned down in a wry smile. “Except I’ve never seen him bite anyone—yet.”
To Tilly’s mind, the thing about Lord Percival—though Lady Percival was Isabel to her, Lord Percival would always be Lord Percival—was that he’d been a spy for over a decade.
And once a spy, always a spy.
No two ways about it that she could see.
So, he was probably keeping more than a pinky in.
If a person was good at their occupation and they liked it—and clearly Lord Percival was both of those things, but especially the former, as he was still amongst the living despite all that spying—then why would they ever stop?
Isabel reached for the thin stack of correspondence on the dressing table and began picking through. “Oh,” she said, her voice brightening, “a letter from Eva.”
Eva was Isabel’s sister who’d up and married a French marquis—twice.
“What’s the news from France?” Tilly angled the comb as she slid it into Isabel’s hair above the chignon.
“Let’s see,” said Isabel. “Lucien and the children are well.”
Little devilish angels were Eva’s sprigs.
Like their mother in no small way, come to think of it.
“They coming for a visit soon?”
Isabel nodded, distracted as she kept reading. “After the new year, once the crossing is calm… The Paris shop is doing so well, they can’t keep up with orders.”
No surprise there.
A decade ago, Isabel and Eva Galante had arrived in London with little more than a few quid in their pockets and some sewing needles. With no more than that and each other, they’d hung their sign and started sewing dresses. But as their pa had been none other than tailor to the King of Spain, that skill and spirit had been in their blood, hadn’t it? And now Galante: Dressmakers Extraordinaire had thriving shops in both London and Paris, with Isabel holding up the numbers side of it and Eva the artistic.
An inspiration, those sisters were.
So inspirational, they’d given Tilly an idea of her own, in fact.
Isabel held up a letter with the wax seal intact. “This one’s for you.”
Sure enough, it was addressed to Miss Tilly Birdwell. Tilly recognized the seal, too. The emblem of a needle pulling thread through fabric. This letter was from her bosom friend Nell, who not three years ago became no less a personage than the Duchess of Amherst.
Nell, who had once been a wet nurse.
Nell, who had once been a dressmaker.
Nell, to whom the Galante sisters had also held a hand out and said, “Come with me.”
Nell, a duchess.
