How could a governess afford a modiste such as Devy’s, which was exclusive and expensive?
Spending her ill-gotten gains, perhaps?
Not a moment later, she stepped out and…turned right onto Grafton.
What the devil?
Nevertheless, he tore into Devy’s to encounter four shrieking ladies in petticoats and Madame Devy herself, who merely raised a brow in that distinctly Gallic manner.
“’Ow can I ’elp you, Monsieur Cadwalader?” she purred.
“Woman. Snuff-brown skirts. What did she want?”
The Frenchwoman shrugged. “To see if I ’ave any oldLa Belle Assemblefor a pupil she has. With prints of modern black dresses. And I ’ave one – with a supplement for widows:Guide to Best Blacks for Forlorn and Glum.”
Bugger.
He loathed it when his suppositions were wrong.
“And can I ’elp you in any other way, Monsieur?” she murmured, slinking a hand down her hip. “It ’as been some while since you sent a lady my way?”
“Er… Apologies for that,” he called over his shoulder and lunged for the door.
Once, he might have been scandalous and flirted with the petticoats but Miss Jones was getting away.
Snuff skirts and carpetbag strode down Albemarle Street, past the Royal Institution and Kings Head ale-house. His mouth watered, stomach grumbled, yet he paced on. Was she leading him on a gastronomic tour of bloody London?
No, she was persecuting him by leading him past Grillon’s Hotel, the patrons embarking upon early lunch.
Then Piccadilly.
Surely, she would rest here? Maybe pop to Hatchett’s Hotel for tea as that was a respectable haven for a governess – capital dinners too, although after his last visit, he’d itched for a sennight.
No such luck as she galloped past Fortnum & Mason with all the stamina of a winner at Ascot Races.
Surely his governess would indulge in a purchase soon, or perhaps in Hatchards next door? Didn’t every lady want to go there?
Yet she merely glanced in at their wares.
He pursued, past the bookseller’s black-framed windows and–
“Hey, Cadwalader,” called a pale-faced but pretty chap from the door, volume in hand. “Join me for a rum fuddle? I’m only here for the day to see my publishers.”
“No time, Shelley, my good poet. A woman to pursue.” And he winked over one shoulder.
“Still from hope to hope the bliss pursuing!”called Shelley, his laughter dogging Hugh’s footsteps as his elfin minx of a governess turned into…St James’ Church?
Ah ha. Was she to confess her sins?
Swinging her carpetbag, she perambulated the churchyard, inspecting headstones and admiring the flowers before ambling on down the side of the church.
He yanked off his hat and thrust a hand through his hair. “Oh, for bloody hell’s sake…” Swivelled at footfall. “Sorry, Vicar.”
Skulking on, Hugh followed her from the churchyard but she halted on the pavement.
As did he.
Kneeling to her carpetbag on the ground, she removed a paper bag and bit into a bun with an expression of pure hedonism.
