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“They must have loved each other very much.”

“I am fond of Mr. Briggs,” the housekeeper said with magisterial emphasis. “I assure you that his passing will not affect my housekeeping.”

At luncheon, the dowager greeted them cheerfully. Apparently, Harold had shelved his plans for a laughing gas salon and moved into a suite in Germain’s Hotel. “I have kept myself busy planning my next event, which is designed to please not merely a small list of invitees but all of our neighbors.”

“Oh?” Silvester asked. “I find myself exhausted by our journey and shall need to retire to my bedchamber after luncheon.”

Luckily, his mother didn’t see his wicked twinkle or the fact his hand crept onto Stella’s knee.

“I plan to have Italian acrobats capering on the townhouse roof at night.”

“Who will see them?”

“That’s just it: I discovered that they regularly juggle lighted torches at Vauxhall!”

Silvester’s hand abruptly disappeared. “We’ll be treated to the spectacle of our house burning down.”

“I plan to pay a visit to Quimby’s Emporium tomorrow afternoon,” Stella said hastily.

The dowager’s eyes lit up. “Is there a costume ball in the offing?”

“Not that I know of,” Stella replied. “I plan to order a new wardrobe fit for a duchess. I know that modistes generally visit duchesses’ houses, but my understanding is that Mrs. Quimby operates from her emporium.”

She had made up her mind to order an unfashionable wardrobe that would flatter her figure. If a duchess truly could set a style, as her aunt believed, then she meant to do it. And if she didn’t set a style, c’est la vie.

The dowager duchess clapped. “No more ruffs. A duchess shouldn’t look like John the Baptist on a platter.”

“My wife has no resemblance to any historical male, John or Holofernes,” Silvester said, his gaze slanting over Stella’s breasts. “I might agree to Cleopatra. I could imagine Stella on a chaise longue, being fed grapes by a devoted servant.”

Which is just what he had done the evening before at The Swan. Stella couldn’t stop herself from smiling at him.

“Egyptians wore gowns that looked remarkably like chemises,” he added helpfully. Under the table, his knee bumped hers, although his expression was blamelessly thoughtful.

“Since Cleopatra did not wear a ruff, I have no argument with ancient Egypt,” his mother announced. “I shall join you. Clearly, Mrs. Thyme had all too much influence over your sartorial choices, Stella. I advise a dash of originality.”

The dowager’s current costume, which appeared to have been designed for a military man, was certainly original, and it didn’t have a ruff. Stella had formed a dislike for the word, let alone the embellishment.

Quimby’s Costume Emporium was a prosperous-looking establishment with a striped awning proudly declaring that they were Purveyors to Drury Lane Theatre & More.

The dowager halted on the sidewalk, staring at a window displaying a blue silk gown with a low bodice. Soft pleated material wrapped the dress form, creating a natural waist marked by a pearl-embellished belt.

“Look at that,” Her Grace exclaimed, catching Stella’s arm. “That gown is for you!”

“The ensemble is designed for a masquerade ball,” Stella objected. “See the crimson cloak trimmed in ermine? I suspect it is the costume for a princess.”

“Humph.” The dowager stumped up the steps to the Emporium.

They walked into a large antechamber furnished by a low box before a mirror and a cluster of sofas to one side. Three seamstresses were seated there, sewing tin stars on a red gown.

The two curtained enclosures to the other side presumably allowed ladies to change their clothing. When Stella had visited the Emporium to order a toga, there had been no question of undressing. The toga was designed to be worn over a morning gown, so measurements were taken over her clothing, and the garment delivered to the house the next day.

Presumably, now that she was ordering gowns, she would need to be measured in a chemise, which suggested she would have to unclothe herself in one of those enclosures. Mrs. Thyme would faint at the mere prospect. A male customer might stroll through the door at any moment, with nothing more than a curtain to protect the lady’s chastity.

Mrs. Quimby herself came to greet them. She had the confident swagger of a woman who owned her business. “Your Graces!” Mrs. Quimby exclaimed, dropping into a curtsy. “It is a true honor. May I offer my sincere congratulations on your recent nuptials, Your Grace?”

“Thank you very much,” Stella said. “The white horse at my wedding was a charming surprise. My husband credited you with the design.” She held out her hand.

“He asked for a fairy tale, and I gave it to him,” Mrs. Quimby said, chuckling. She took Stella’s hand. “A few years ago, I would have shook all over at the very idea of shaking a duchess’s hand.”