Page 8

Livie’s father wrote her every day, as he had for as long as she could remember, which made the whole thing fantastically … mundane.

He had been assigned a spacious room in the Tower. His valet came and went, delivering excellent meals prepared by Lady Wharton’s cook. His first mate was in constant attendance. A tailor had been dispatched to the prison, ordered to create a magnificent uniform for the tribunal, with the best brass buttons down the front, gleaming epaulets on the shoulders, and Venetian lace at the throat.

When he wasn’t consulting with solicitors, her father had begun designing a better ship’s boat, combining a whaleboat and a jolly boat—whatever the latter was. He informed Livie that he found life tolerable, almost enjoyable.

Livie and Daisy rode daily in Hyde Park in the wee hours of the morning when paths were empty. Little by little, as the weeks passed, they started going farther afield, visiting bookstores and modistes.

Lady Wharton had been right: members of polite society acted extremely discourteously. Lord Devin was one of the few exceptions, always stopping to greet them and asking after their welfare.

One morning in early April, they ventured to a haberdashery after Lady Wharton declared their bonnets shamefully out of fashion. “It is our duty to look our best,” she had announced. “Any untidiness will be taken as an admission of guilt. Both of you must keep your curls under control.”

Once in the shop, Daisy tried on a small straw bonnet that tied under the chin with plaid ribbons, trimmed with three curled feathers. “Do you think this brim is too daring?” she asked. “I fear that Mama will say that it’s designed for the demimonde, not for an unmarried girl.”

Livie was trying to decide whether to try on an adorable bonnet with a rose over one ear. She hadn’t spent any of her pin money … but what if her father needed every penny to pay for solicitors? Yet Lady Wharton seemed to be so assured of her father’s release … Livie was admiring the silk rose when a sharp voice interrupted them.

“I can scarcely believe my eyes,” Lady Regina said. “Scarcely believe my eyes.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

A YOUNG TERMAGANT WITH IRRITATED NERVES

Livie was so startled by Lady Regina’s entrance into the shop that she just stared at her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Daisy raise an eyebrow.

“Are you shocked by this bonnet?” her cousin asked the lady. “The plumes are daring, but also darling, don’t you think?”

“Good morning, Lady Regina,” Livie said, curtsying. And turning to Regina’s friend, “Miss Massinger.”

“Actually, Miss Massinger is my older sister, Prudence. I am Miss Petunia,” the companion said, offering a vacuous smile. “We’re twins, but she arrived before me.”

“Do not curtsy to either of these women, for obvious reasons,” Regina snapped.

Petunia had already dropped into a curtsy, but she jerked upright like a puppet on a string.

“You’ve stopped curtsying, Lady Regina?” Daisy’s voice had a dangerous edge. “You are a maverick in society, aren’t you?”

Lady Regina picked up a straw bonnet and turned it over disdainfully, eyeing the hat Daisy wore. “Plaid ribbons are not in style. Moreover, La Belle Assemblée’s most recent issue depicted only pleated silk headpieces.”

“What a pity that flaxen hair goes so poorly with straw,” Livie said, her eyes drifting over Regina’s head. “A different bonnet that might suit you better—something black, perhaps.”

Next to her, Daisy made a sound, like a choked-off laugh.

Lady Regina swelled up like a turkey-cock and turned an alarming red. “I am not interested in bonnets from this establishment. Not now that I realize who their customers are. I do not parlay with the criminal classes.”

“Oh, so you mistook your way. Where were you meaning to shop?” Daisy inquired. “I hear one often gets lost as one grows older.”

Miss Petunia coughed, which might have disguised a chuckle.

“You!” Lady Regina called to the store clerk. “Fetch the owner of this establishment, if you please.”

The girl dashed into the rear.

Daisy reached over and picked up a petty bonnet. “You must try this on, Miss Petunia. The rose is just right for a girl in the bloom of youth. Your dark hair will suit it so.”

“Yes, I think I will try that bonnet,” Petunia replied, pulling out the hatpins that anchored her headpiece.

Daisy smilingly handed the bonnet to her.

A stout woman swathed in a white apron bustled out of the back of the store. “My name is Mrs. Mogbetty, and I am the milliner. What can I help you with?” she asked. “Ah, I see you’re trying on my newest Parisian bonnet,” she said to Daisy.