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Maggie’s cheeks flushed at the praise. “Thank you, miss.”

“And you even managed to insert a pocket for me.” Isla ran her right hand down the skirt’s side seam. The many layers of fabric hid the narrow opening where Maggie had attached a hidden but marvelously deep pocket.

“Ever so clever, it is. I’d never ’eard of such a thing afore, but I’m of ’alf a mind t’ put them into every skirt I make from now on.”

Isla smiled. “If you did, I believe you would win over every lady who was fortunate enough to wear something you made. Where I’m from, ladies are always wanting pockets in their clothing.”

There was a light knock on the door. Moments later, a manservant walked in. He bowed.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Crawford,” he said. “Lord Bancroft asked that I inform you that he has arrived.”

Isla’s pulse tripped. Her thoughts had turned to Simon more often than she cared to admit today. Martha had kept her busy from the moment she’d first emerged from her bedchamber, but without her morning ride and conversation with Simon, nothing about the day had seemed quite right.

Running her fingers down her skirt’s heavy fabric, she took one last look in the mirror. She, Martha, and Maggie had done all they could to prepare for this evening. She was dressed for the part. The time had come to act it.

Emulating Martha’s polite incline of the head, she acknowledged the servant with a small smile. “Please tell His Lordship that I will join him shortly.”

“Very good, miss.” The servant bowed a second time and slipped out of the room.

Maggie gathered up the few ribbons and pins remaining on the nearby table. “If you ’ave no further need o’ me, miss, I’d best see if there’s anything more I can do for ’Er Ladyship.”

“Yes, please do,” Isla said. “Thank you for all your help, Maggie. I’m very grateful.”

Martha’s lady’s maid bobbed a curtsy. “My pleasure, miss.”

Maggie exited the room, and Isla eyed the narrow doorway uneasily. Over the last few weeks, she had become used to wearing the farthingale Mrs. McQuivey had given her. The one she was now wearing, however, was significantly wider. It might have been wise to add practicing sitting and navigating doorways in excessively wide skirts to the many things Martha had reviewed today. Pressing down on the billowing fabric, Isla shimmied through the narrow opening. Her skirts brushed the doorframe, but the farthingale shifted to allow her through. Grateful to have that minor obstacle behind her, she hurried down the poorly lit passage to the stairs that led to the ground floor.

The wooden stairs creaked as she descended, but as far as Isla could tell, the sound forewarned no one of her arrival. The small entryway at the base of the stairs was empty. She paused, listening. Male voices reached her from the nearby parlor. She moved toward the half-open door, stopping when she was close enough to see inside. Simon was standing with his back to her, talking to Lord Maidstone. Both gentlemen were elegantly dressed, Simon in maroon with gold trim and Lord Maidstone in black with silver and red embellishments. Each wore a white ruff collar and hose.

“Did Monteagle give you any indication as to who else has been invited to this dinner party?” Simon asked.

“None,” Lord Maidstone said. “Miss Crawford was unable to recall any details regarding the size of the gathering, so even the numbers are unknown at this point.”

Isla winced. Truth be told, almost everything about this evening was unknown. Including whether or not she would need to orchestrate the delivery of her letter. Wishing she could roll some of the tension out of her shoulders but knowing that her stays and fitted bodice made such movement almost impossible, she gathered her courage and entered the room with a swish of her skirts.

“Good evening,” she said.

Simon swung around. His mouth opened, but whatever response he had intended to give appeared to die on his tongue. Snapping his mouth closed again, he stared at her.

“Miss Crawford.” Lord Maidstone inclined his head. “You look most elegant this evening.”

Lord Maidstone’s comment seemed to rouse Simon from his stupor. “Indeed.” He cleared his throat. “You are truly stunning, Isla.”

“Thank you.” His compliment brought an unexpected rush of pleasure. “Martha and Maggie deserve all the credit.”

“Nonsense.” Martha swept into the room behind her, a vision in lavender and lace. “I grant you that Maggie is a marvel with a needle, but I know of few young ladies who could model her creations so well.”

If the warmth in Isla’s face was any indication, over the last couple of seconds, she had gone from pleasantly pink to red as a beetroot. It was time to deflect everyone’s attention. Lowering her head, she fumbled for the hidden opening in her skirt. “Allow me to show you just how talented Maggie is,” she said. “I told her I needed a pocket large enough to contain a letter, and she sewed one into the seam.” Isla’s fingers found the opening, and she turned slightly so as to show the gentlemen. “You see? A protected fold of fabric in which I can hide the letter to Lord Monteagle, and no one will know it is there. Nothing in my hands and no purse at my waist.”

Simon stepped forward. “You call it a ‘pocket’?”

“Yes.” She tucked her hand inside. “Pockets hidden in garments are another wonder of future clothing.”

“Ah! This is the innovation I would have learned about had we taken a morning ride today.”

Isla smiled. “Yes.”

“Do you have the letter, Hugh?” Martha asked.