“Lady Huntley?”
The modiste’s voice startled Gabby back to her surroundings. “Yes. Yes, of course.” She slipped behind the curtain, her brain working furiously as Madam Bovine’s assistant, Vella, went about the process of unlacing, unbuttoning, untying, and thus, releasing Gabby from the confines of her complicated day dress. Bentick lived within walking distance of the dress shop. Unfortunately, Gabby was highly recognizable. She didn’t even have Lady Macbeth with her for use as a diversion.
“Lift your arms, milady.”
Gabby absently did as instructed and soft champagne muslin of the highest quality slid over her head, falling perfectly into place.
“Oh, milady, ’tis absolute perfection,” the assistant breathed.
Gabby glanced up at her reflection, distracted by the effect of shimmering beige on her skin, as minor tucks were pinned in place. “It is,” she echoed in the same awed tone as the girl. Breathtaking. That was the only word that came to mind. No one in all of London had a gown so beautiful. On its bolt, the hue was barely a better shade between taupe or gold, and ivory. But against her skin, Huntley… would what? What would her unpredictable husband say? Or… do? Her body tingled at the erotic images unfolding in her head. Perspiration dampened her nape.
“Milady?”
“Oh, pardon.” Gabby pulled herself to the present and watched her work quickly, expertly, with pins between her lips. “How old are you, Vella?”
“Nineteen, milady.”
“Are you married?”
Vella worked diligently, not meeting Gabby’s eyes in the mirror, her cheeks paling. “No, milady.”
Gabby touched her shoulder. “Did I say something wrong?”
“N-no, milady.” Her fingers moved quickly and efficiently over the inside seams, then down the back of the frock, tucking and pinning.
Every question lodged in Gabby’s chest was stifled by the low murmuring coming from beyond the curtain. Her proclivity for peril honed her senses into razor-edged sharpness. She clamped her lips together and said nothing further, but her mind worked furiously, a plan taking shape.
The curtain whipped aside and the modiste appeared. “Ah, exquisite, Lady Huntley. You shall be the talk of the Season.”
“Thank you, Madam.” Gabby smoothed her hands down the fine muslin and grinned. “I concur completely.”
“Vella, she does excellent work, oui?”
“Yes. Yes, she does,” Gabby agreed softly.
A blush flooded the girl’s cheeks. She was clearly pleased. “I am almost finished, Madame.”
“Excellent.” Madam Bovine whipped the curtain shut, and again, and Gabby heard her move off across the room, speaking. “Lady Bentick, how nice to see you…”
Gabby flinched. It was imperative she stay focused on her current task. “Vella,” she said quietly. “How do you feel about earning an extra few shillings?”
Vella’s hands froze in the process of loosening the frock. It fell from Gabby’s shoulders. The girl glanced over her shoulder to the closed curtain then, turning back, met Gabby’s gaze in the mirror. She’d expected the question she saw in the girl’s eyes, but not the haunt and the hope. “I don’t understand, milady.”
“What time do you finish work?”
“’Tis the height of the Season. The hours are long.”
Gabby bit her lip. “Oh, yes. I see what you mean.” She took Vella’s proffered hand to step out of the champagne-colored dress. “We must meet. Somewhere we won’t be overheard.”
Vella frowned, her brows meeting over her nose, her expression one of intense consideration. “I won’t be a part of something illegal, milady.”
Gabby grinned. “It’s nothing illegal, dear.” Not entirely.
“I suppose it won’t hurt to listen,” she said slowly. “But I don’t know where we could meet. I live with my father.” Her voice faltered.
“Do you think you can meet me at the Fitzroy Garden fountain. I shall have to take Lady Macbeth out—”
“Lady Macbeth?” she parroted, her face warring between somewhat dazed and outright horror.
