Five minutes and sixpence later, the boy had informed Declan that, yes, the black-haired young lady was being fitted. She’d been installed in the middle dressing rooms, but the boy didn’t know with whom. Madame Layfette had apparently become very upset when the lady hadn’t made the proper show of delight over the color or style of a new garment. The modiste had fled to the basement with three seamstresses, determined to improve the design.
When the boy turned to go, Declan followed, slipping inside and pressing his ear to the middle door. Before he could detect any sound, Helena’s middle sister, Miss Camille Lark, emerged, straightening her hat. Declan froze half a beat, rolled off the door, and conjured his best servant’s expression.
“Shaw,” said Camille Lark.
“Miss,” said Declan, looking at the floor.
“Can Ihelpyou?” Her expression was intrigued amusement.
“I’ve a message. For Lady Helena.”
“Ah. One can only hope you can distinguish which one of us she is. I’m guessing that you can.”
“Miss.”
“Let me give the message to her,” Camille said.
More confusion, he tried to affect the expression of being torn. “I dunno, miss. I was told the message is private in nature. The young lady, a friend of her ladyship, bade me give it to her in person.”
“A friend?” challenged Camille. “Lady Helena hasn’t any friends. She doesn’t like the bother.”
Declan forced a blank expression. Her family knew her so very little.
He continued, “If you please, miss, I’ve been told she’s here. If you—”
He let the question trail off. There was a fine line between being in a strange place at the wrong time and purposefully breaking the rules.
“She is here,” affirmed Camille carefully. She pointed to a closed door. “Although I cannot say she is accustomed to visits from male staff whilst being fitted by a modiste.” She raised an eyebrow. A challenge.
Declan took a gamble.
Keeping his face neutral, he said, “Likely you are right, miss. Perhaps you could ask her?”
Camille stared at him a long moment and then said, “Perhaps I could.”
She moved to the door and slipped inside. When she emerged a half minute later, her expression was the slightest bit conspiratorial.
“Go on, then,” she said. “Be quick about it. Madame Layfette is in rare form, thanks to Helena. My sister specializes in giving people fits.”
Declan gave a curt nod and watched the younger woman walk away. When he was certain she’d gone, he edged to the crack in the door.
“My lady?” he whispered.
“Shaw? Come in!”
Declan slipped inside, shut the door, and turned the lock.
Pivoting a half circle, he scanned the room. Lady Helena was on the dais in the corner, her familiar black hair and cream skin a blur in his peripheral vision.
He moved on, seeing bolts of fabric, a trolley of sewing tools, a cat asleep on a cushion by the grate.
“She’s here,” he said, taking the long way to the window and positioning himself sideways to peer out. “I’m certain it’s her. Arrived not five minutes ago. Young. Blonde. Expensive looking. And believe or not, she’salone. I saw her go into—”
He stopped.
His attention was finally, unerringly, fixed on Helena.
She was half-dressed in loose, diaphanous greensilk. Her hair down and her feet bare. He saw the perfect outline of her body through the silk, every shade and texture, every dip and swell. She was a fantasy standing before him.
