So was it fair that she lacked this key tool for success?
No. She had earned the right to be treated with the same dignity and respect as a man.
But did that mean that centuries of tradition should be overturned because one unusual female was out of the mold?
No. He couldn’t agree with that either.
Which meant that, as Fiona marched stubbornly forward, he followed behind, addle-brained—not entirely sure what the answer was. His sense of right and wrong had always been his guiding star and now it led him in opposite directions.
Fiona had paused at the end of Piccadilly Street and pulled out her map of London. She unfolded it, turned it, and folded it again.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“Stratford Place.”
“We keep walking straight,” he said.
She looked up at him, her earlier annoyance not assuaged by his help. “Aye. I ken.”
He held his hands up in surrender. “We could take my carriage. Swinton does know the way.” He gestured to the carriage bearing the ducal crest that had been following them since they left the club. What his driver thought of spending the past few days shadowing them as they walked, Edward didn’t want to know.
“No thank you,” she said with a clipped tone, her satchel swinging in large arcs. “I’m perfectly capable of getting there with my own two feet.”
Of course she was. At least this time she was wearing proper boots and not those mincing slippers, though he suspected her earlier blisters still rubbed. “As you wish. What’s on Stratford Place?”
“Bessie Bleufleur. She’s been seeing to my wardrobe since I arrived in London, and if I’m going to attend tomorrow’s Macklebury ball to talk with Lords Chester and Livingworth, I’ll need something to wear.”
Edward suppressed the eye roll he felt with his entire body. “I told you, I have a dressmaker on staff.”
Fiona stepped around two men walking in the opposite direction. “And I told you that I don’t need your help. Besides, I checked with Simmons. Your dressmaker doesn’t reside in the house. I don’t know about you, but I prefer to have as few people ken Fiona-is-Finley as possible. If she’s taking my measurements, there’s no way she can miss my breast bindings or the lack of, you know, in my pants.”
His cock twitched like a green boy’s at the thought of “in her pants.” “And this Bessie that we are going to knows about your ruse?”
“Not exactly, but she’s from Abingdale and I trust her to keep a secret.”
They arrived at the modiste’s, a discreet shop withMADAME ALLARDon the sign outside. The jinglejangle of bells sent a heavily painted woman bustling into the main room. She looked at Finley, and then she looked at Edward, her gaze traveling from his boots to the trim of his morning coat, to the jeweled stickpin in his cravat, and she gave him a deferential smile.
“Bonjour, my lord,” she said in an atrocious French accent. “I am honored to have you here.” She edged to the side and flicked what he assumed was supposed to be a subtle glance through the front windows, where his carriage and its crest could be easily seen. Her eyes widened and then sparkled with ambition.
“I’m here to see Miss Bleufleur,” Fiona said.
From out the back, a young girl walked into the room, her mouth full of pins, her eyes trained on the swatch of fabric in her hands. She looked up.
Edward saw the flash of recognition when she looked at him and she sank into a deep curtsey. Then she looked at Finley. In the moment that she recognized Fiona behind the wig and breeches, her mouth dropped and pins scattered across the floor.
“His Grace and companion are here to seeyou, Bessie,” Madame Allard said, jealousy creeping through her tone. “Comme c’est curieux.”
“We were neighbors,” Fiona said, “before Bessie left for London. She had quite a reputation for her speedy yet exceptional work, so she seemed like the obvious choice for an urgent job.”
Fiona’s heaping of praise on a junior seamstress was doing nothing to quell the store owner’s displeasure or the potential for gossip. He stepped in, keen to have their business resolved as quickly as possible. He might not agree with Fi’s decision to go to the Macklebury ball, but he wasn’t fool enough to think he could stop her.
“Mr. McTavish needs a set of evening attire altered and ready to wear tomorrow evening.”
“Tomorrow?” both women said in unison.
“Not from scratch,” Fiona added. “I’ll send over the clothes to be altered this afternoon.”
“Hmph.” Madame Allard pursed her lips for a brief second before plastering a smile on her face. “Well, Bessie should probably measure you up then.” The shop owner herded Finley and Edward ahead of her toward a side room, richly appointed with a cluster of soft chairs, a small dais, and a ring of mirrors that circled the room.
