Tilly and the Unreformed Rake (Shadows and Silk #8)

Chapter 1

To someone from the outside looking at her life, Tilly might not have given the appearance of a person who had come up in the world.

She was a lady’s maid, and there were folk who looked down their snooty noses at lesser personages than themselves.

Lesser personages.

A phrase she’d picked up over these last nine years.

Not from her employer, Lady Percival, of course.

Naw, Isabel was the best of the best.

Isabel didn’t see Tilly as a lesser personage.

Now, other personages out in the world—the East End world Tilly had sprung from—would’ve taken the opposite point of view.

They would say she’d come up.

They might even say she’d acquired some airs about her along the way, too.

And they’d be right—on the first count, anyway.

As far as the second opinion went, some folk never liked other folk getting above themselves.

Tilly didn’t pay a lick of mind to those folk.

If she’d not gotten above herself and stayed where she’d come from, she would still be face down in the muck, now wouldn’t she?

The minute Isabel had taken her hand nine years ago and said, “Is this the life you want?” and when she’d said further, “Come with me,” Tilly had—and she’d never looked back.

Not even once.

“Is it a supper party you’re attending tonight?” Tilly had Isabel’s long sable hair in hand, and she needed to know before she began styling it. “A little early in the day for a supper party, ain’t it?”

Isabel’s striking green eyes met hers in the mirror. “Sí. A dear old friend of the duke’s invited us to view his gardens before the other guests arrive.” A little smile curved her mouth. “We dare not miss.”

By the duke, Isabel meant the Duke of Arundel.

Her husband Lord Percival’s pa.

That was how much Tilly had come up in the world—lady’s maid to a duke’s daughter-in-law.

As for Isabel’s hair, Tilly knew exactly how Isabel liked it styled for a supper party—severely parted in the middle, smoothed back, and arranged in a chignon at the nape of her neck.

Most ladies couldn’t carry off that hairstyle.

But Isabel could.

It was those cheekbones and luminous green eyes of hers.

Isabel made this hairstyle sing.

The first never-fail trick of her trade that Tilly had picked up was this: always pick one feature to accentuate.

One couldn’t go accenting the eyes and the hair and the décolletage and the lips and everything all the time.

Restraint was the secret.

So, one rationed out the beauty and held some in reserve. In doing so, a mystery was created that would capture the imagination.

In the haut ton every year, a new bevy of bright, young beauties debuted and took their chances in society. And every year—and even at the age of three-and-thirty—Isabel outclassed and outshone them all.

Tilly made sure of it every time Isabel stepped out of the house for those elegant suppers and soirées, those opulent musicales and balls, even a mundane afternoon of social calls and shopping.

“Besides,” said Isabel, as Tilly’s nimble fingers set to work, “with the general election resolved and the Whigs in charge, Percy wants to understand what this means for the electoral pact with Ireland. Lord Melbourne is rumored to be attending this supper, so I predict much blustering and many deep, whispered conferences.” She gave a near-imperceptible shrug of the shoulder.

“Percy does like to keep a hand in England’s political stew—or a pinky, at least.”

Tilly picked up an ivory comb inlaid with mother-of-pearl tulips and considered the best angle for placement.

“Your fellow ain’t the sort to give up on a bone once he’s got it between his teeth.

Old Mr. Bunt had a terrier like that. He’d get a bone and bring it to you all docile like.

Then when you’d try to take it, he’d near snap your hand off. ”

“I’d say my fellow is much like that.” Isabel’s mouth turned down in a wry smile. “Except I’ve never seen him bite anyone—yet.”

To Tilly’s mind, the thing about Lord Percival—though Lady Percival was Isabel to her, Lord Percival would always be Lord Percival—was that he’d been a spy for over a decade.

And once a spy, always a spy.

No two ways about it that she could see.

So, he was probably keeping more than a pinky in.

If a person was good at their occupation and they liked it—and clearly Lord Percival was both of those things, but especially the former, as he was still amongst the living despite all that spying—then why would they ever stop?

Isabel reached for the thin stack of correspondence on the dressing table and began picking through. “Oh,” she said, her voice brightening, “a letter from Eva.”

Eva was Isabel’s sister who’d up and married a French marquis—twice.

“What’s the news from France?” Tilly angled the comb as she slid it into Isabel’s hair above the chignon.

“Let’s see,” said Isabel. “Lucien and the children are well.”

Little devilish angels were Eva’s sprigs.

Like their mother in no small way, come to think of it.

“They coming for a visit soon?”

Isabel nodded, distracted as she kept reading. “After the new year, once the crossing is calm… The Paris shop is doing so well, they can’t keep up with orders.”

No surprise there.

A decade ago, Isabel and Eva Galante had arrived in London with little more than a few quid in their pockets and some sewing needles.

With no more than that and each other, they’d hung their sign and started sewing dresses.

But as their pa had been none other than tailor to the King of Spain, that skill and spirit had been in their blood, hadn’t it?

And now Galante: Dressmakers Extraordinaire had thriving shops in both London and Paris, with Isabel holding up the numbers side of it and Eva the artistic.

An inspiration, those sisters were.

So inspirational, they’d given Tilly an idea of her own, in fact.

Isabel held up a letter with the wax seal intact. “This one’s for you.”

Sure enough, it was addressed to Miss Tilly Birdwell. Tilly recognized the seal, too. The emblem of a needle pulling thread through fabric. This letter was from her bosom friend Nell, who not three years ago became no less a personage than the Duchess of Amherst.

Nell, who had once been a wet nurse.

Nell, who had once been a dressmaker.

Nell, to whom the Galante sisters had also held a hand out and said, “Come with me.”

Nell, a duchess.

Tilly tucked the letter into the waistband of her skirt. She would read it over a hot cup of tea later.

Read.

The reading of a letter was a notion that had once stood outside the realm of possibility for an East End gel like Tilly Birdwell. Then a few years ago, Nell had encouraged and taught her her letters.

Tilly had definitely gotten above herself with that leap.

She took a step back and tipped her head this way, then that, making sure the back of Isabel’s coiffure was symmetrical and smooth, before she noticed another letter in Isabel’s hand. A letter with swirly, gold-embossed print. Tilly whistled. “That’s a fancy one, ain’t it?”

Even in her elevated life, the occasional ain’t slipped out.

All right, more than the occasional.

It was just that most of the time when she said isn’t, it really did feel like she was putting on airs.

Isabel gave a dismissive shrug. “An invitation to a masquerade ball.”

“You ain’t going?” Tilly asked, but she already knew the answer.

Isabel dropped the invitation into the silver rubbish bin beneath the dressing table. “I never was one for a masquerade.”

Tilly lifted a saucy eyebrow. “You and Lord Percival could have a little wild night.”

Isabel met Tilly’s gaze in the mirror. “And who’s to say Lord Percival and I don’t enjoy a little wild night on occasion?”

With great difficulty, Tilly suppressed the giggle that wanted out.

“In private,” said Isabel with a waggle of her own saucy eyebrow.

Now, the giggle was out, and Isabel was laughing along, too, as she came to her feet. “I can practically hear the impatient tap of Percy’s foot from here. Am I made up to your satisfaction, carina?”

Tilly stepped back and viewed Isabel from every angle. She picked up a small pot of lanolin she’d subtly tinted and dabbed Isabel’s lips and cheekbones. “Now, there you are. The most beautiful lady in Brighton.”

Isabel shook her head, smiling. “Oh, Tilly, I’m no rival to you.”

Tilly took her meaning. She was one of those gels that men liked with her blonde curls, blue eyes, and—well, there was no other way of putting it—voluptuousness.

She wasn’t one of those classical beauties she so admired.

Those ladies who were beautiful in paintings and poetry…

ladies to be respected and revered from afar.

Tilly’s beauty was the sort men liked to put into practice.

She’d left that behind nine years ago, too.

She engaged in flirtation, but naught else when it came to the male sex.

Tilly settled an ivory lace shawl on Isabel’s shoulders.

With a smile of farewell, Isabel departed, and Tilly set about her nightly duties—folding and putting clothes away; turning down the sheets and fluffing pillows; laying a night chemise on top of the coverlet.

Tilly wouldn’t see Isabel again until morning.

It was Lord Percival who performed the bedtime duty of unlacing his wife.

And Tilly got an uninterrupted night’s sleep.

It was no exaggeration to say these last nine years of her life were better than the sixteen years that had preceded them. The list went on…

She had security.

She even had savings.

She could read.

She could almost talk like a nob.

She’d traveled all over—and not just to Brighton. She’d been to Paris, France…Rome and Venice in Italy…even Geneva with its beautiful lake.

So good life had been these last nine years, she’d even found time to come up with a little dream for herself.

She couldn’t sew a dress beyond darning or construct a hat from straw, but she did know what looked agreeable on a woman, from colors to fabrics to draping to hair to hats…

everything. Isabel had told her she had a gift for it, but Tilly had never truly believed her…

until Isabel started reading to her from the gossip rags about Lady Percival Bretagne’s impeccable style.

Which was the true reason Tilly decided to learn to read—so she could take in that gossip for herself.

And it was true.

Through Isabel, Tilly was setting style for the haut ton.

Lawks.

And the idea had struck her as sure as a lightning bolt.

She could open a shop for women of all sorts to come and pick up some advice on how to look their best—proper ladies…

lady’s maids…other women, too. Women who wanted to stand out and shine for their wedding day or a fancy party.

Even women who wanted nothing more than to look their best just walking down the street.

Tilly could advise them all.

It didn’t have to be a mere dream.

In fact, she’d come up with a plan for opening that shop.

Fifteen years from now.

She would be forty then.

Which wasn’t so very long, when one thought about it.

After all, hadn’t she been in this life for nine years already?

She even had a dream location for the shop—Burlington Arcade.

Though she knew that one would have to stay up there in the realm of fantasy.

Lords didn’t lease those fancy shops to the likes of her.

So, she would be patient and continue creating relationships with shop owners and other lady’s maids…learning more about her craft and refining it…making sure every time Isabel stepped out of the house, she was the most beautiful and stylish lady in any room.

Tilly had set about straightening the dressing table when a glint of gold caught the edge of her eye. It was that fancy masquerade invitation in the rubbish bin. Incited the imagination, a masquerade ball did—mystery…glamour…champagne.

On a quick—and naughty—impulse, she lifted the invitation from the bin.

Lord and Lady Beresford

request the honor of

Lord and Lady Percival’s company

at our Saints and Sinners masqued ball

on the evening of

the fifth of November

at the

Royal Pavilion

Guests are to remain unrevealed until midnight

A glittery shiver tingled up her spine.

The fifth of November…

Tonight.

An idea both sparked and formed in the same instant.

She had time.

She could attend this masquerade ball.

This year for her birthday, Eva had presented her with a black velvet dress trimmed with gold lace from her atelier in Paris. The gift had stolen the breath from Tilly’s lungs. That was how exquisite it was.

When she’d thanked Eva, the other woman had smiled in that intense way of hers—no one could match Eva for intensity—and said, “Every woman should have such a dress in her wardrobe. But Tilly?”

“Aye?”

“You must promise to wear it.”

Tilly had nodded her agreement.

And she’d kept her promise—though it had only been in the privacy of her room.

Still, she brought it with her when she traveled with Isabel, in case an opportunity ever arose for her to wear it.

Never had that opportunity arisen until…now.

Nervy anticipation skittered through her veins and had her all lit up on the inside.

If she legged it this minute, she just had time before the shops closed.

Her mind began ticking off a list of necessities for such an evening—hooded cloak…

silk mask…satin slippers of the sort worn by ladies for their fancy evenings out.

These last nine years, she’d only worn sturdy leather boots.

For here was the reason her plan was unimpeachable—a word Lord Percival liked to use—as long as she left the ball before the unmasking at midnight, no one would ever know.

Then a few days later, she would leave Brighton with Lord Percival and Isabel and return to London with no one the wiser.

No one except her, of course.

And the memory of her first—and last—masquerade ball she would forever carry with her and treasure.

She could dance and drink champagne and have herself a little wild night.

How much trouble could she get into, anyway?