“I’m here, Margarite,” Helen said, waving. “I walked down the street a bit. It’s such a lovely day, don’t you agree?”
Margarite inclined her head, looking up at the clouding sky. “If you say so, Miss Cosgrove,” she said, ushering Helen inside. “Lady Cerise requests your opinion on her new gown for the Sopwitch ball.”
“She did?” Helen said, surprised. Cerise rarely asked her opinion on anything. “I mean, yes, of course.”
A smile tilted the girl’s lips. “This way, Miss Cosgrove.”
*
Fletcher curled deeperinto the recesses of the alley beside the tobacconist’s shop, pulling his hat lower to hide his features. Just as he hadn’t intentionally sought out Miss Cosgrove in Hyde Park, he hadn’t today either. But fate kept bringing her into his orbit all the same.
Strolling out of The Dancing Swan, he had announced, somewhat loudly so that Ripps might hear, that he was going to meet a tavern, then mumbled the name. He did indeed stop at the Crown and Cock, paid for a room laughing that his ladybird would be by, and slipped out the back.
Best way to avoid one of Lark’s boys who was following him.
Dangerous to leave The Devil’s Acre, with Mrs. Bean so ill and Ripps poking about, but Fletcher needed to pay a call on his solicitor who had an office off Bond Street and while Lark and his minions were unlikely to follow him this far, he didn’t want to take the risk.
Ah, but then his unwanted obsession appeared.
Heart thudding duly in his chest, Fletcher caught sight of Miss Cosgove’s small form, dutifully following that cabbage-headed twit into the dressmakers, after leaving the solicitor. And though he’d vowed to stay away from Miss Cosgrove, watching her through a window didn’t count.
Until she saw him and came running outside.
Fletcher shouldn’t have stayed, but he did. He’d hidden in the shadows of the closed tobacconist’s shop. Miss Cosgrove came to him, trembling with her cheeks flushed, pleased to see him and not wanting to show it. Spouting nonsense about the duke and his new duchess, until Fletcher had wanted to scream he wasn’t Roxboro.
Miss Cosgrove was unlikely to find the alternative more pleasing.
She had strong moral fiber, his little gnat. A firm sense of right and wrong which was why she so reluctantly succumbed to Roxboro. He liked that about her. A woman who stood her ground. Unfortunately, that didn’t bode well for the future of their relationship.
Miss Cosgrove longed not only for him, or rather, Roxboro, but for a life of her own choosing not dictated by circumstance. Just as Fletcher did. Which would have made them an excellent match save for the small problem of him being a bit of a killer and a thief.
A few fancy gents paused when they noticed Fletcher, his coat and scuffed boots marking him far beneath their snooty noses. At least with the clothing and his hat pulled low, no one mistook him for Roxboro.
“A shame because I like being a duke.” One toff eyed Fletcher as if he were apple peelings someone left to rot.
Quickening his pace, he tried not to think of Miss Cosgrove, how she smelled of sunshine and tasted of sin. How much he wanted the promise of her, though he shouldn’t. Not as Roxboro and certainly not as Fletcher Bean.
His heart, however, felt differently. Which was inconvenient.
Skirting around a wagon carrying a stack of crates, he started whistling and headed back to The Devil’s Acre, wondering ifMiss Cosgrove would mind living in a broken-down manor house in St. Osyth.
Chapter Thirteen
Cerise couldn’t possiblywant my opinion.
The request was unusual. Odd, in fact. But the Sopwitch ball was rather important, Helen reasoned, since it was highly likely Lowell would make his intentions known there to everyone in London. He’d then offer for Cerise and Helen would follow the betrothed couple about until their wedding.
Helen would be free to have her cottage. And a cat.
Stepping inside the modiste shop, Helen allowed the mantle of lady’s companion to wipe away the intoxication of Roxboro.
Margarite led her through the shop and down a short hall to a small, curtained-off room where fittings were conducted. Cerise stood atop a block, turning back and forth before a large, oval mirror, so she could see the stunning gown draped over her slender form from every angle.
“Oh.” Helen had never seen a gown quite so beautiful.
“It is rather magnificent, isn’t it?” Cerise looked over her shoulder.
“Spectacular, my lady,” she answered.
