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“A good, practical woman. I like that,” said Caleb.

No he didn’t. He liked them flighty and flirty. It was even better if they were recently married, widowed, or divorced and therefore unavailable or unsuitable for marriage.

“It will be a little cramped for the Fosters’ visit because Moira Sullivan will be coming in for her last fitting,” she continued, talking through the logistics of her customer visits not because Caleb was particularly interested, but because it helped her work out the flow of the day. “I’ll put her in the crimson room.”

He started laughing. “You can’t put Mrs. Sullivan in the crimson room. It’s nothing more than a cupboard, and she’s the doyenne of Edinburgh.”

“She’s a friend as well as a customer. She won’t care which room she’s in. Besides, you don’t even like Moira,” she said.

He snorted. “That’s because she swept into Edinburgh fifteen years ago and set herself up as a meddling matchmaker who flaunts her late husband’s wealth.”

“You really are the most horrible snob, Caleb, but you wouldn’t turn down an invitation to dine with her if she ever thought to extend you one.”

Her brother grunted.

“It’ll be much easier to manage the Fosters if they’re all together in the blue, green, and purple rooms,” she said. “They’re all next to one another, and if Mrs. Foster is in the green room in the center she can pop back and forth between her daughters’ rooms to check on their progress. It’s the only reasonable solution.”

Her brother rolled his eyes. “Well, it’s your shop.”

“It is. I also have a new client, one of Lady Barrett’s friends who wishes to consult with me about a gown for the Prince of Wales’s ball. She’s left it rather late, but I gather there was a misunderstanding with her London dressmaker.” Lavinia sucked in a breath and braced herself as she continued, “And I sent Mrs. Wark word that her cashmere walking dress was ready for her fitting, so she’ll want me to come to the house in the next few days.”

“Green like always?” her brother asked.

“The woman has a signature color.”

“And what of her son?”

She grimaced, regretting having let him know a few months ago that Wark had been sniffing around her. “He’s my landlord.”

“If he’s ever too forward, you’ll let me know,” said Caleb.

Her expression softened. Caleb was a good man in his own way. True, he was unreliable, a spendthrift, and far too fond of chasing skirts, but he was still her brother, willing to protect her however he could.

“I’ll come running to you the moment he is,” she said.

“I’m serious, Lavinia.”

She patted his hand. “And I appreciate that you’d fight a duel to protect my honor.”

“I’m good with a dueling pistol,” he said, puffing his chest up a bit.

He wasn’t at all familiar with the antiquated weapon, she knew, but there would be no duels fought over her honor, because there would be no need. She could handle Wark, even if she hated doing it.

“If he offered to marry you, that would be quite another matter,” Caleb said.

It was her turn to snort. “One husband was quite enough for me.”

“As you say, Livy,” said Caleb, standing and stretching. “Now I’m off for work, ready to be tied to a desk.”

“I’m trying to find an ounce of sympathy, but I’m afraid I’m struggling,” she said.

“Shrew.”

“Cad,” she responded with affection.

He rounded the desk to kiss her on the cheek and then plucked at the lace on the collar of her lavender dress. “You could wear some color.”

She pointed to herself. “Widow, remember?”