She’d traveled all over—and not just to Brighton. She’d been to Paris, France…Rome and Venice in Italy…even Geneva with its beautiful lake.
So good life had been these last nine years, she’d even found time to come up with a little dream for herself.
She couldn’t sew a dress beyond darning or construct a hat from straw, but she did know what looked agreeable on a woman, from colors to fabrics to draping to hair to hats…everything. Isabel had told her she had a gift for it, but Tilly had never truly believed her…until Isabel started reading to her from the gossip rags about Lady Percival Bretagne’s impeccable style. Which was the true reason Tilly decided to learn to read—so she could take in that gossip for herself.
And it was true.
Through Isabel, Tilly was setting style for the haut ton.
Lawks.
And the idea had struck her as sure as a lightning bolt.
She could open a shop for women of all sorts to come and pick up some advice on how to look their best—proper ladies…lady’s maids…other women, too. Women who wanted to stand out and shine for their wedding day or a fancy party. Even women who wanted nothing more than to look their best just walking down the street.
Tilly could advise them all.
It didn’t have to be a mere dream.
In fact, she’d come up with a plan for opening that shop.
Fifteen years from now.
She would be forty then.
Which wasn’t so very long, when one thought about it.
After all, hadn’t she been in this life for nine years already?
She even had a dream location for the shop—Burlington Arcade.
Though she knew that one would have to stay up there in the realm of fantasy.
Lords didn’t lease those fancy shops to the likes of her.
So, she would be patient and continue creating relationships with shop owners and other lady’s maids…learning more about her craft and refining it…making sure every time Isabel stepped out of the house, she was the most beautiful and stylish lady in any room.
Tilly had set about straightening the dressing table when a glint of gold caught the edge of her eye. It was that fancy masquerade invitation in the rubbish bin. Incited the imagination, a masquerade ball did—mystery…glamour…champagne.
On a quick—and naughty—impulse, she lifted the invitation from the bin.
Lord and Lady Beresford
request the honor of
Lord and Lady Percival’s company
at our Saints and Sinners masqued ball
on the evening of
the fifth of November
at the
Royal Pavilion
Guests are to remain unrevealed until midnight
