A Lover's Kiss. Margaret Moore
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to run amok after the war, isn’t it? Still, you’d think a relative of a baronet’d be out of harm’s way and not be robbed on the highway and left with only one dress to her name!”
Polly, busy straightening the bed, didn’t see Juliette’s sharp glance.
Sir Douglas and Lord Bromwell must have concocted this story of a robbery to explain why she had arrived with no baggage. Thank goodness she had a new chemise, or what would this maid be thinking? “Yes, it was most unfortunate.”
“And to have your own maid desert you just before you sailed from France! I would have been too frightened to board, I would.”
Clearly they had realized they would have to explain her lack of companion or chaperone, too.
“I had no other choice. I had no lodgings and my cousin was expecting me,” Juliette lied as she bit into the scone now spread with strawberry jam. It was so good, she closed her eyes in ecstasy.
“And a generous cousin he is, too, I must say! It looks like the Arabian nights in the morning room.”
Juliette opened her eyes. “Arabian nights?”
“Lord, yes! There’s all sorts of fabrics and caps and shoes and ribbons. Sir Douglas went out early this morning and came back with a modiste to make you some new dresses, and a linen-draper and a silk mercer, too.”
A modiste? Mon Dieu, not…!
“Madame de Malanche dresses all the finest ladies, including the Lady Patronesses of Almack’s. And Lady Abramarle, and Lady Sarah Chelton, who was the belle of the Season six years ago. I remember Lord Bromwell’s mother thinking she was a bit forward. And Viscountess Adderly, another good friend of Lord Bromwell’s.
“She writes novels,” Polly finished in a scandalized whisper. “The kind with half-ruined castles and mysterious noblemen running around abducting women.”
Relieved that Madame de Pomplona wasn’t below, and not really paying attention to what else Polly said, Juliette swallowed the last of the scone. She hadn’t expected Sir Douglas to buy new clothes for her, but if she was to be Sir Douglas’s cousin, she supposed she must dress the part. And if so, who else but Sir Douglas should pay, since she was in danger because of him?
“There’s a shoemaker and a milliner, too,” Polly continued as she made the bed. “It’s as if he brought half of Bond Street back with him. I do wish I had a rich cousin like him, miss. Such fabrics and feathers and I don’t know what all!”
Perhaps there really was an abundance of such items, Juliette mused, or perhaps the young maid was exaggerating in her excitement. After all, Sir Douglas would hardly spend a fortune on her.
Polly finished the bed and looked at the tray. “All finished? You haven’t had a drop of tea.”
“I do not drink tea.”
Polly looked a little nonplussed. “Coffee then? Or hot chocolate? You’re to have whatever you like.”
“No, thank you.” Juliette replied. She’d never had either beverage and was afraid she wouldn’t like them. That would be difficult to explain if she’d requested one or the other.
“In that case, I’ll fetch your new dress.”
“I can get it,” Juliette said, rising and heading toward the armoire, where she assumed her new muslin dress, likewise purchased with Lord Bromwell’s money, must be hanging. It was no longer on the foot of the bed where she’d laid it last night.
“I don’t know what they do in France these days, miss,” Polly cried in horrified shock, “but you can’t go wandering the house in your chemise!”
“What do you mean?” Juliette asked, confused, as she pulled open the armoire doors.
It was empty. “Where is my new dress?”
“Downstairs, miss.”
They must have taken it to wash. “Is it dry already?”
Polly looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “No, miss. There’s a new gown for you. Madame de Melanche brought it. She made it for another customer, but when Sir Douglas told her about your troubles and that you had only an old traveling gown, she brought it along. I’ll just run and fetch it—and tell Sir Douglas you’re awake.”
As the maid bustled out of the room, Juliette returned to the comfortable chair and sat heavily. Sir Douglas had described her new dress as an “old traveling gown”? It might not be of the best fabric, but it was well-made, by her own hands, and pretty and new.
She suddenly felt as she had when she’d first arrived in Calais, an ignorant country bumpkin. Except that she was not. Not anymore. And although she was poor, Sir Douglas had no right to insult her.
The door opened and Polly returned with a day gown of the prettiest sprigged muslin Juliette had ever seen. Delicate kid slippers dangled from her hand, and a pair of white silk stockings hung over her wrist.
These were all for her?
Juliette’s dismay at Sir Douglas’s description of her dress was quickly overcome by the beauty of the new one in Polly’s arms. She let the maid help her into it, and the shoes and stockings, too. When she was finished, she went to study her reflection in the cheval glass.
She hardly recognized herself in the fashionable dress with short capped sleeves and high waist, the skirt full and flowing. “I feel like a princess,” she murmured in French.
“It is pretty, isn’t it?” Polly said, understanding the sentiment if not the words. “And you look like a picture, miss, although your hair’s a little old-fashioned. Here.”
She reached up and pulled a few wispy curls from the braid, so that they rested on Juliette’s brow and cheeks. “Isn’t that better?”
Juliette nodded in agreement. Perhaps she could pass as the cousin of a barrister, at least until Sir Douglas’s enemies were captured.
Then she would go back to her old life—something she must remember. This was a dream, and dreams died with the morning.
“If you’re finished eating, Sir Douglas said to tell you he’s waiting for you in the morning room. I wouldn’t keep him waiting much longer if you can help it, Miss Bergerine. He’s, um, getting a bit impatient.”
Sitting in Buggy’s mother’s morning room, surrounded by bolts of fabric brought by an anxious linen-draper with a droopy eye and an obsequious silk mercer whose waistcoat was so bright it almost hurt the eyes to look at it, Drury wasn’t a bit impatient. He had already lost what patience he possessed, and if Miss Bergerine didn’t come down in the next few moments, he’d simply order some dresses, a couple of bonnets and send these people away.
It wasn’t just the men keen to sell fabric who were driving him to Boodle’s for a stiff drink and some peace. In the north corner of the room decorated in the height of feminine taste, a shoemaker busily finished another pair of slippers, using one of Miss Bergerine’s boots for size, the tapping of his hammer like the constant drip of water. A haberdasher kept bringing out more stockings for Drury’s approval, and a milliner persisted in trying to cajole him into selecting feathers and laces and trim, bonnets and caps—when she could get a word in between the exuberant declarations of the modiste, who was dressed in the latest vogue, with frills and lace and ribbons galore, and more rouge on her cheeks than an actress on the stage.
Even the most riotous trial in the Old Bailey seemed as orderly as a lending library compared to this carnival. The commotion also roused memories better forgotten, of his mother’s extravagance and endless demands, and the quarrels between his parents if his father was at home.
“Now take this taffeta,” the linen-draper said, unrolling a length from a bolt as he tried to balance it on his skinny knee, quite obviously mistaking Drury’s silence for permission to continue. “The very best quality, this is.”
“Taffeta,”