“That looks nice,”Fatima said, stepping away from the modiste’s pedestal, where Nell stood. Mirrors surrounded her, and the woman with the fake French accent—one could tell by the way she pronounced the wordthorough.Native French speakers struggled with the beginning of the word, and then with theosounds on either side of ther. But when speaking quickly, the modiste was perfectly capable of the softthsound and theo.Really, the woman was outrageous, and Nell couldn’t believe she was the only one who noticed.
The dress was a deep-red color, which, the false modiste insisted in her ridiculous accent, was acceptable because Nell was a widow. Nell did not care. There was gold trim on the cuffs and the skirts, the bodice fit her waist, while the skirts flared out almost like a bell. The undergarments of the dress were a tangle of structural reinforcements, buttons, and hooks. She hated the fuss of it all, but if other people liked it, she would wear it.
No, that wasn’t true. If Beckett liked it, she would wear it, and both Fatima and the false modiste insisted he would. Nell preferred a different color. Green, for instance, which is what Chastity would have chosen, had Nell asked her to help. Or blue, which was a color Nell preferred. And she named all the shades of both hues, which Fatima counseled against once this wine-colored gown was brought in. It had been a dress made for a duchess, who had unexpectedly refused the garment, for reasons that were the woman’s own. Fortunately, the duchess and Nell were of similar sizes, and with tricks of panels and nips, the gown fitted Nell without issue.
The modiste turned out to be better at her craft than her accent. The dress would be ready that afternoon, and Nell was given a deep discount for taking the ready-made gown. The underpinnings, however, made Nell clench as she forked over her entire larder budget for the month. She hoped Beckett wouldmake good and help her pay for things; otherwise, she could not feed herself or her staff.
But Beckett had not seemed himself that morning or the day before. After a heady day of his waving her note about and ending with soft, light kisses that left her head spinning, and promises that had her heart reeling, Nell had made her mental list of whether or not she should agree to be his wife. A countess. What a strange thing.
And she thought about the bad parts of becoming his wife—the expectations she would feel compelled to excel at, the public appearances, the lack of anonymity. But then she thought of the good parts, which was mostly just Beckett. Stability with more money, yes helpful, but not necessary. But Beckett? He had gone from a standing appointment that she anticipated with good will toward a person she wanted to tell things to even when he wasn’t about.
She stored up topics she wished to discuss with him, questions she had that only he could answer, and even imagining nightly dinners together where they could discuss politics (for she had many ideas), culture, and economics. They could have a private box for the opera, which she would enjoy. And while she had not seen Beckett’s London residence, it might have grounds upon which they could walk every morning, as they did now in Hyde Park.
But then, yesterday morning, she had hoped to tell Beckett of her feelings, of her decision, and he did not appear to feel warmly towards her. Certainly, one day of grumpy reticence could be construed as a digestive issue, Nell decided. But this morning he had the same clouded demeanor. Surely, two mornings of Beckett’s intractable and bitter silence was more than a malfunctioning intestine. She didn’t understand it, which was fine, but she also couldn’t parse it out, which was not fine.A problem was ultimately solvable, even if the solution was something one didn’t like.
Fatima clapped her hands, startling Nell out of her thoughts. They were already back at her house, Jacobs behind them, carrying the boxes. “I said, how will you dress your hair?”
Nell looked at her through the fog of her confusion. Hair had not occurred to her. Nor had she any fine jewels to adorn her ears or throat or wrists. “However Sabine chooses.”
Fatima rolled her eyes. “I will bring over some fashion plates tomorrow to show her some styles. We can pick something together.”
“Why?” Nell asked, before thinking that it might be rude to ask a friend why they would help.
Fatima sighed and walked into the sitting room ahead of Nell, a signal of how comfortable her friend was in her home. “Many reasons, darling. Number one, you are my friend, and I want you, of all people, to know how it feels to be beautiful. Perhaps you don’t view that as being worthy, but it is a heady joy to be admired in that way.”
Nell shuddered. Beauty was dangerous and attracted attention. Everyone knew that.
“And number two, you asked for help. I want to help you. You keep to yourself in your tidy spider hole, and rarely do you peek out. I am honored that you came to me for assistance.”
That made Nell smile. She didn’t like asking for help. It made her feel unworthy and incapable. But she was happy to make Fatima feel wanted. It was nice to feel wanted and helpful, so it was a good thing that Nell had asked, after all.
“Now, why don’t you thank me by brewing up some of that lovely Assam? I’ve been dreaming of it all week.”
His secretary arrivedmid-morning and they worked through bill proposals sent to him by other members of the House of Lords. Or rather, their secretaries. Did the public know how much of English law was written by young men who were hired for having the right pedigree and good penmanship?
His man, Mr. David Bingham, was a bright-eyed lad somewhere north of twenty-five. Beckett didn’t know nor did he care. They all looked like infants to him. But he had excellent penmanship, kept matters organized, and didn’t let Beckett be late to anything. He also took Beckett’s moratoriums on never attending social events and not letting frivolous complaints through to him. Which meant that Bingham had seen all the Cornelius Smalls mail, even if Beckett had not.
Halfway through Bingham’s daily report of the overall picture of their work, Beckett interrupted. “When was the last time I received a letter from a Mr. Cornelius Smalls?”
Bingham’s mouth still gaped open from his speech. He closed it, blinked a few times, as if shuffling through mental files. He licked his lips once, as if this helped him speak on a different topic. “I believe it has been almost a year?”
“Is that a question?” Beckett countered.
“No?” Bingham cleared his throat, then answered more firmly. “I believe the last letter came before Easter Sunday.”
Beckett murmured an accolade, as he would for a performing child. Nearly a year since he’d received a missive, while Timothy had weekly updates. An emotion flared that he did not like. Oh, sod it all, he was jealous.
“May I go back to the report, sir?”
Beckett waved his hand in permission but couldn’t manage to listen. He interrupted his secretary again. “If you knew a man who was enamored with a woman—hypothetically speaking.” He looked at Bingham to make sure the man understood thatthis was not about Beckett himself. This was purely a fantasy situation, obviously.
Bingham nodded, still flustered, but at least had his mouth shut.
“And the woman engaged in a letter writing campaign with a male nom-de-plume with a number of prominent men, is she being unfaithful to the man who is enamored with her?”
Bingham bent forward, as if trying to parse the information. “The woman who is writing letters as a man, what is the content?”
“Politics. Chess. That sort of thing.”
