Gabby took a chair across the table from Lady Brockway and her daughter, Irene, and paged through the latest fashion plates, waiting until the modiste, Madame Bovine, was free. Gabby was there to pick up her new frock. It was a lovely shade of soft gold with ivory trim. The dress just required a few adjustments. She planned to wear it to the Faulks’ musicale. It was imperative to look her best in the event she had an unfortunate announcement to make.
“Are you all right, Lady Huntley?” The marchioness asked her. “You’re as fidgety as a wallflower at her debut at Almack’s.”
Gabby remembered those days, but she’d never been nervous. Almack’s had never been her idea of fun. Perhaps if Rebecca had been with her, but after their come-out ball, Rebecca had been furious with Gabby and had returned to the country immediately. Sebastian had been impatient for Gabby to marry, but he’d never forced her on anyone, save for Huntley. She’d been allowed to mark her own path, unlike many other debutantes. Others like Lady Brockway and her friend Maeve, Lady Harlowe, whose mother was one of those pushy sorts who’d forced Maeve into a marriage with a man thrice her age. The result, as one would expect, had left Maeve a young widow. Now, she was ensconced in a love match, with a viscount who rivaled Huntley in appeal, with several children.
She glanced at Irene who was a year or so under the age of ten. Gabby couldn’t exactly recall how old the girl was, but when one looked in her eyes, one didn’t see the mischief or frivolity of a child. No, Irene was serious and much too proper for one her age.
Irene returned her gaze, blinking once. No more, no less. Her gloves were pristine white, the satin bow on her soft muslin dress perfectly crafted. Irene stood and came around the table and placed her hand on Gabby’s arm. “Don’t fret, Lady Huntley, worry will give you frown lines.”
Gabby bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling at such sound advice. She didn’t dare meet Lady Brockway’s gaze. “I shall keep that in mind, Lady Irene. Thank you,” she said solemnly.
Irene returned to the seat beside her mother.
An antsy sensation surged Gabby’s blood. She jumped up and flittered about the shop, poking at ribbons and threads and buttons. Something beyond the windows nabbed her attention. She surveyed the street attempting to ascertain why. Several hacks and notable carriages were stationed about. She picked out the Ingleby brougham and Brockway’s, even her own. She started to turn away, but recognized another suspiciously familiar conveyance. One she’d seen that very day just outside her own home at Fitzroy Square. If she was not mistaken, it belonged to her husband’s man of affair, Mr. Herold.
What the devil was he doing there? As far as she recalled, he was unmarried, and had been meeting with Huntley when she’d departed.
Of course. There was a tobacco shop a couple of doors down, she remembered, her shoulders relaxing. There was no reason to worry. As Irene so succinctly put it, worry created frown lines, and if Gabby was one for mischief and orneriness, she was also self-admittedly vain. She blew out a pursed breath and resumed her perusal about the shop.
Bolts of fabric stacked on elongated tables in myriad colors from periwinkle to orchid to emerald to salmon drew her. She ran her fingers over black and burgundy bombazine, violet satin, and red silk, but nothing soothed the pressing iron of impending doom. It made little sense, this unease trickling through her. A bolt of lovely azure silk snagged her attention. She rearranged the pallets to reach the blue, carried it to the mirror, and held it up before her. The color was a perfect match for Huntley’s eyes. “Errrgh,” she breathed, frustrated. Now that her husband had introduced her to the passions between man and wife, was she to abandon all sense of herself?
She turned to toss it back on a low stack when Madame Bovine appeared from behind the changing curtain. “Ah, Lady Huntley, ’tis divine, no?”
Gabby smiled, reluctant to relinquish the bolt. Her shopping rivaled a man’s fierce need the gaming tables, she suspected. “It is.”
“You desire a new dress, Madam?”
It really was beautiful, but she didn't need a new dress, then let out a sigh at the inevitable. “I think I cannot resist.”
Voices from behind the curtain penetrated her muddled brain. “Men and their opera dancers. Their courtesans, their actors! It’s absolutely revolting.”
“Mother, please. Keep your voice down.” That sounded remarkably like Lady Harlowe, explaining the Ingleby’s carriage. Lady Ingleby was Maeve’s notoriously pushy mother.
“You mark my words, Maeve. You best keep an eye on that husband of yours. He's much too attractive to be trusted, my dear. Why, I heard just this morning at tea that Stanford, who's only been married for two years to a duke’s daughter no less, has a lady bird on the side. Your father and I spotted the man in Covent Garden just last week, disappearing down the Dark Walk. I recognized her, of course, from that show playing on Drury Lane.”
Gabby’s spine went ramrod straight, her stomach clenching. She met Madam Bovine’s sharp gaze in the mirror. The woman was the most exclusive modiste in London. Gabby had no doubt she knew exactly who Stanford was; who Rose was and to whom and how each person was related. Gabby could picture her perched on her pillows at night, reading spectacles on her long, thin nose, buried in the latest copy of Debrett’s.
The madam barely suppressed her cringe.
Disgust with outright fury coiled through Gabby. Maybe she should speak to Sebastian. If anyone could knock some sense into Rose’s apparently disreputable husband, it would be her brother. But then Gabby's own problems with Huntley just after their wedding pilfered through her mind, and she knew instinctively Sebastian would not say a word to their brother-in-law. He’d left her and Huntley to work out their differences and he would do the same for her sisters. No, it would be up to Gabby to set that libertine straight.
“Did you decide on a pattern for the blue silk, my lady?” Madam Bovine said with that French air of hers as if they hadn’t just heard the most insensitive thing that was likely tearing Rose apart inside out and would be all over London by night’s end.
“Um, yes,” Gabby murmured.
The curtains parted. Lady Ingleby and Maeve, Lady Harlowe, emerged.
Gabby boldly met Maeve's eyes. Bright red flags flared in her friend’s cheekbones. Lady Ingleby was oblivious, of course. The baroness had a reputation when it came to reckless words. Nothing and no one were off limits from her less than veiled criticisms. “Oh, good afternoon, Lady Huntley.”
Gabby inclined her head. “Lady Ingleby. Maeve.” She wondered if Rose had any notion of the talk sifting through the ton like a sieve. She turned away and pointed out the plate for the new frock she didn’t need and watched Maeve and her mother disappear through the door, the small bell tinkling their departure.
“My apologies for Lady Ingleby, Lady Huntley. The woman—she has no control, no?” Madam Bovine took the bolt of azure silk and set it on a counter and scratched out a note and set it atop.
“No, she doesn’t, and there is no need for you to apologize on the baroness’s behalf. I expect her daughter has her hands full with the task.”
A small smile cracked the modiste’s hard features. “Oui, I expect that is so. Now, are you ready for your fitting?”
“Yes, thank you.” Gabby cast a glance over her shoulder out the windows to the unembellished conveyance. Just as she started to turn, she saw Mr. Herold lean forward then back again. The hair at her neck stood on end. She hugged her reticule to her bosom where the missive to Bentick crinkled within. Mr. Herold was watching for her. But for the incorrigible stableboy in her youth, her instincts were spot on about these things. Why, was the question.
