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It was only when she’d disappeared completely from view that Andrew realized that they’d been looking at one another for the entire second half of the conversation. Hardly clandestine at all.

Chapter Seven

HOUSE CALLS HAD never been Lavinia’s favorite part of the business, but they were a necessary evil—and a lucrative one at that. For a fee, she would bring all of her materials with her and attend a lady in the comfort of her own boudoir, sitting room, or drawing room. Some women appreciated not having to leave their homes, while others relished the chance to be waited on like royalty. Whatever their motivations, this personal element of the business was one way Lavinia distinguished herself from other Edinburgh dressmakers.

That was why, despite the pain in her back and a stiff knee, late on Friday morning she found herself crouched next to the makeshift pedestal formed by a low table, pinning up the hem of Mrs. Wark’s new green cashmere walking dress. Normally she took Kelsie or Fiona with her to jot down measurements and act as a buffer against Wark’s inevitable interruptions, but this time she had an entirely new set of motivations. This time she wanted the overstuffed man to come charging into the room, trying to sneak a look down the front of her dress as he so often did during these fittings.

Disgust swirled in her stomach at the thought of so much as pressing an encouraging hand to Wark’s forearm, but she was just going to have to cope. Still, she wished that Andrew had agreed that she should arm herself. Now all she had to defend herself were quick wits, a good memory, and a great deal of persistence.

“There.” She placed the last pin in the hem of Mrs. Wark’s dress and straightened, acutely aware of the pop and crack of her joints. “That should do it.”

She watched Mrs. Wark turn to the mirror that had been set up in the drawing room and examine the wool gown with its hobble skirt and high-necked jacket punctuated by tiny black buttons running down the front of it. Whippet thin and straight-backed, Mrs. Wark was able to carry off this design—unlike Lavinia, who thought the long bodices now in fashion made her look even shorter than she actually was.

“A beautiful dress,” Mrs. Wark announced.

“It suits you perfectly, madam,” said Lavinia, letting out a tiny sigh of relief. Sharp-eyed and exacting in her demands, the lady sometimes remained unsatisfied until three or four fittings in—each of them delaying the date when Lavinia would be paid for her efforts.

“I think perhaps another in pistachio would do as well, but with a kilting effect in the front and back. I have an illustration from Le Beau Monde,” said Mrs. Wark, stepping off the platform and going to a sideboard where the fashion magazine lay open.

“As you wish,” said Lavinia, doing her best to hide her reluctance. She had talent, style, and flair, all of which could be better employed creating new gowns rather than copying designs out from a fashion plate.

“There,” said Mrs. Wark, jabbing a long, bony finger at the page. “That should suit. Maybe with a slight swag over the skirt to soften the effect.”

Lavinia frowned. “I would caution against adding additional embellishment to a dress such as this. You might find that you lose the line of the silhouette.”

The drawing room door opened. Lavinia braced herself for Wark, but instead an older man walked through the door. He was dashing, with stone-gray hair that swept back from his forehead, but something about the way his eyes searched Lavinia’s face as though he could read into her very soul set her on edge.

“Mr. Douglas,” said Mrs. Wark with a girlish laugh, “didn’t anyone ever tell you that it’s impolite to burst in on a lady during a fitting?”

“You are, as always, the very picture of elegance, Mrs. Wark,” said Douglas, bowing low over the woman’s outstretched hand and planting a lingering kiss on the back of it.

Lavinia fought to keep her brows from shooting up. This was a new development. It had been six weeks or so since she’d been in the Wark household for a fitting, and she hadn’t encountered this Mr. Douglas before.

“You’re too kind. My dressmaker and I were just finishing,” said Mrs. Wark with a wave toward Lavinia.

He snapped his chin in a little bow. “Daniel Douglas, at your service, Mrs. . . . ?”

“Parkem, sir,” said Lavinia. At least this Douglas had the courtesy to introduce himself. It was never a guarantee given that, in the eyes of most of her clients and their friends, she was little more than the hired help.

“A pleasure to meet the mastermind behind the beautiful creations that this beautiful creature wears,” said Douglas.

The fall of heavy steps on the carpet just outside the drawing room signaled Wark’s arrival. As he strode in, he asked, “Spending my money again, Mother?”

“Harold, Mr. Douglas has come calling,” his mother said, the hint of warning in her tone unmistakable.

Wark’s gaze cut over to Douglas, and his mouth turned down at the corners. “I thought you were off visiting one of your factories.”

“I just arrived back yesterday evening, and nothing could keep me from calling on your enchanting mother,” said Douglas.

Wark’s eyes narrowed. “And when will you be leaving again?”

“Harold,” Mrs. Wark admonished her son while Douglas laughed.

“Not until after the prince’s visit,” Douglas said.

Lavinia thought she heard Wark mutter, “Shame,” under his breath, but no one else seemed to notice.

“Harold was just named to the committee organizing the prince’s visit,” said his mother.