“Stop, Imogene, you cannot mean to strip me!”
Drew had six inches on Imogene, but the girl fought dirty, throwing elbows and stepping on feet, and there was no hope for it. The night rail covered Drew’s face in one moment and flew across the room in the next. Drew stood, naked except for her drawers, as Imogene retrieved the ivory silk shift from the bed.
“Arms up. Hurry!” the girl hissed.
“I cannot wear a—” But then the cool silk was sliding down her arms and over her shoulders and settling in a smooth, fluttery drape against her skin.
Drew looked down at the shimmery fabric clinging to her breasts and hips. She looked up at Imogene. The girl was assessing her with a critical eye.
“I don’t have a dressing gown,” whispered Drew. “This isn’t a proper night rail—”
“Whatever you do, do not tuck your hair away. Leave it down. The little comb can remain, but allow the length of it to fall over your shoulder like that. Yes. There you are.” She flipped a long curly hank of hair over Drew’s cheek and down her shoulder.
Drew’s heart beat like a flock of sparrows. She was terrified and excited and breathless.
She was also very glad to be Imogene’saunt, because this exchange would surely result in an immediate sacking if she’d been merely the girl’s stylist.
“Now, go to the window seat and wait,” instructed Imogene. She scooped up the green night rail and began backing away. “Call to him.”
“He might knock—”
Imogene closed her eyes and swore under her breath. “Meet him halfway, for God’s sake. Call to him the moment I’ve gone.”
“Imogene, I—” She stopped. She took a deep, shaky breath. “Thank you.”
“I want that duck,” Imogene replied, but she hurried to the door, taking the night rail with her. “Window seat. Call to him.Now.”
And then she was gone.
Chapter Nineteen
Ian entered the duchess’s suite to find it empty.
He hovered on the precipice, confused. “Hello?” he tried.
“I’m here, Your Grace.” At the sound of her voice, he gripped the doorknob, squeezing the worn brass in anticipation.
No guarantees, mate, he told himself.Keep calm. You’ve come to discuss logistical practicalities, nothing more.
Also, there wasn’ttimefor more.
Ian had business tonight on the docks of South London of all places. His estate manager Loring had sent a note after the wedding. Avenelle tenantswereattempting to embark on a smuggling venture to sell their lace abroad.
Loring had tracked their scheme to a smuggling crew who were, at this moment, provisioning and making repairs in Blackwall.
Before Ian approached the tenants, he wanted to know everything about what they had planned. They trusted him so little after the riots, he could hardly come to them with gossip and conjecture. He must know who, and when, how much, and why. Only then could he offer some alternative to dissuade them.
As loathe has Ian was to venture out on this of all nights, smugglers were not known to remain in port for long, andthey kept hidden in the light of day. Now was the time. Loring was set to meet him in Whitechapel in a matter of hours; they would ride to Blackwall and see for themselves.
It was highly unlikely that he’d spend “a matter of hours” with his new wife; but he could hardly go out without speaking to her at all. And so here he was, stepping around the door.
The room was dim, illuminated only by a low fire. His eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness. He craned his head, following the sound of her voice. He was just about to call out again, when he saw her.
She was perched in the window seat.Perched.Shoulders tight, feet drawn up, like a girl on a village wall. He blinked, struggling to make out the fine details. He took another step.
“Miss Trelayne?”
Outside the window, a cloud was tugged from the moon and white light flooded the alcove.
