Chapter 17
As promised, he called at ten exactly.
“A very handsome carriage,” she said as he helped her into the glossy curricle. “Is it new?”
He jumped into the seat beside her. “How did you know?” He clicked his tongue, and the horses moved forward without the slightest hesitation.
“It looks it.” She ran one hand over the polished wood beside her. To her surprise a panel popped open under her touch, and when she edged it open and peeked inside, she caught the gleam of polished steel. “Richard, have you got a pistol in there?” she asked in amazement.
He looked mildly surprised. “Of course. I always have a pair.” He glanced at her expression and asked, “Why? Does that alarm you?”
She didn’t know. With one more lingering glance at the weapons, she closed the panel. “It’s unusual.”
“Ah.” He grinned. “I’m afraid it is a habit with me. To be without something to defend yourself is very foolish, in many parts of the world. So, I keep them close at hand.”
Remembering some of the tales he had told her, she shook her head. “You are very unlikely to be threatened by Cossacks in Bond Street, or fall prey to an attack with spears in Piccadilly.”
“No doubt,” he said in good humor. “As I said, it is merely a habit. Think nothing of it.”
It was a beautiful day, and he drove briskly but confidently.
When she complimented him, he laughed and said it was far easier to drive trained horses than yaks, as he’d had to learn from the Mongols.
But as they drew nearer to London proper, Evangeline felt a tension creep into her shoulders, and she had to consciously relax when he helped her down at the White Horse Cellar stable, where he was leaving the equipage.
“I thought we might walk,” he said with a charming smile, offering his arm. “It is a fine day, and the traffic can be troublesome.”
Green Park stretched to their left, verdant and quiet.
Ahead and to the right lay the finest shopping London had to offer.
It had been years since Evangeline had walked here regularly—not since Court had still been alive, and she’d lived in the Courtenay house in Portman Square.
In her mind these streets were still tinged with the virulent unhappiness of those years, but she had enjoyed the shops, the tea rooms, the museums and theaters.
Spirits rising, telling herself not to be a goose, she tucked her arm around Richard’s, and they set off into Piccadilly.
She expected Richard to turn into Dover Street, where Mr. Manton’s shooting gallery was, but he didn’t even glance that way.
Court had spent hours there, exhibiting his skill at shooting the wafers.
She’d heard he was quite good. Perhaps if he’d kept a pistol on him at all times, as Richard did, he wouldn’t have been caught so unprepared by Lord Ambrose.
Then again, given what he’d been doing with Lady Ambrose when her husband had walked in, perhaps not.
“What would you like to see, my dear?” asked Richard. “I only know a few places still.”
She summoned a smile. “I can never refuse a visit to Wedgwood’s, nor the booksellers.
If I were alone, I would spend hours buying everything in sight at Harding and Howell’s and send myself right up the River Tick!
” He nodded, listening closely. She pressed his arm.
“But what do you wish to do? This outing was your suggestion.”
He looked at her, his hair glinting fair in the sunlight, his skin still tanned from the Indian sun.
His blue eyes twinkled at her, and that elusive dimple flashed for a second as he smiled at her.
He was so handsome, so fit and virile, it made her stomach leap with excitement that he, this marvelous man, wanted to be with her.
“My primary errand is to stop in at my tailor’s, to order new waistcoats.
” He glanced down at himself with a comically dismayed expression.
“My sister tells me I am hopelessly out of fashion, but my tailor is a genius and will soon put me to rights.”
“I daresay it’s not so hopeless then, but let us do that first,” she said with a laugh.
“Very good,” he said with a grateful glance. “And then, ices and sweets.”
They strolled along, studying the wares in windows they passed until they reached a shop in St James’s Street.
Richard swept open the door, and they went into the shop, where Evangeline looked around with interest. She’d never been in a gentlemen’s tailoring shop.
It was less formal than a modiste’s shop, but still similar.
Bolts of fabric lined one cabinet, and cutting patterns hung at the rear.
Two tailor’s apprentices were hard at work at a table near the window.
A man with long, wavy dark hair and olive skin came forward, arms open in welcome. “Signor Campion! Buongiorno.” He clasped his hands and gave a little bow.
“Good day to you, sir.” He turned toward Evangeline. “Lady Courtenay, may I present Mr. Federico Salvatore.”
Evangeline dipped her head with a smile. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Salvatore.”
“An unspeakable delight, madam,” he returned, beaming. He turned back to Richard. “How may I help you today, sir?”
“Some new waistcoats . . .” The men moved toward the long table at the back, where Mr. Salvatore began taking down bolts of cloth and laying them out for Richard’s inspection.
A plump woman about Evangeline’s own age bustled through the drapes shielding the back room. “Won’t you sit down, m’lady?” she asked in a broad Essex accent. She indicated a pair of armchairs tucked away in the window beside the door. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”
“Thank you, that would be lovely.”
The woman nodded. “Shall I take your pelisse? A bit warm in here, with all these windows and the sun today.”
Evangeline unbuttoned her pelisse and the woman hung it up, then disappeared into the back again, emerging several minutes later with a small tray holding a cup of steaming tea. She set it down in front of Evangeline.
“Thank you, Mrs . . . ?”
“Oh! Mrs. Hutchins, madam, Henrietta Hutchins. I run the shop for Mr. Salvatore.” Evangeline’s surprise must have shown on her face, for the woman pulled a good-natured grimace. “Right brilliant he is, with cloth and scissors, not so much with the bookkeeping. I help him.”
“Very good of you,” said Evangeline in surprise.
The woman waved a hand. “Me husband were a tailor himself, and I learned how a shop ought to run. When Sal—Mr. Salvatore took this place, he had a spot of difficulty, what with being a foreigner, you know. He didn’t know how London folk do things, and there I was, a new widow in search of something to occupy myself.
So, I stepped in, and I’ve been here ever since.
” She nodded over her shoulder toward one of the young apprentices cutting pattern pieces. “My son Joseph,” she said with pride.
“It appears he shall be learning from the best,” said Evangeline warmly. “Sir Richard waxes almost rhapsodic about Mr. Salvatore’s work.”
Mrs. Hutchins beamed. “Right you are, madam!”
She excused herself and went to Mr. Salvatore.
It appeared Richard had chosen his fabrics and Mrs. Hutchins made notes while Mr. Salvatore spoke at some length, his hands moving as if he were sculpting the garments in the air before him.
Evangeline drank her tea and watched, entertained by this domestic view of Richard.
After nearly half an hour, the three nodded and came to her. “Thank you for waiting, my dear,” said Richard ruefully. “I have delayed this visit, but I should not have kept you so long.”
Mr. Salvatore waved his hands again. “Apologies, signora!”
Evangeline got to her feet. “I expect to be dazzled, sir,” she said with a smile.
“Of course, of course, I—” The man stopped short, his gaze sliding down Evangeline’s dress, growing more horrified the lower it went.
“Sal,” said Mrs. Hutchins in warning.
“What is it?” asked Evangeline, knowing the answer but feeling reckless nonetheless.
She had seen that expression on Fanny’s face, more than once.
It merely irked her when Fanny criticized her gowns, but here was a professional—and one who appeared ready to give a blunt assessment. “Is there a fault with my dress?”
“Sal,” said Mrs. Hutchins more stridently.
The man pressed his lips together as if to hold back a flood of words. “The work is fine,” he said after a moment.
Richard’s brows went up. Mrs. Hutchins closed her eyes, looking pained. Evangeline burst out laughing, that all he could compliment was the stitching.
“Yes,” she finally allowed, “that is the best I can say for it as well. Alas!” She smoothed one gloved hand down the Devonshire brown carriage dress with knotted gold floss fringe.
It was eminently respectable and appropriate for a woman of her age and rank, and Fanny would shake her head in pity over it. “It’s from a very fashionable shop.”
“Bah.” Mr. Salvatore threw up one hand as if to shove the dress away. “Any one of my boys could do better!”
“But it’s not your place to say so, Sal,” put in Mrs. Hutchins firmly. “You don’t make lady’s garments.”
“I could do better than this,” he said to her. “You know it!”
“Of course,” she agreed, to Evangeline’s further amusement. “But the lady didn’t ask you to make a dress for her, did she?”
He turned to Evangeline. “I could do it,” he insisted. “I will show you.” Without another word, he turned on one heel and strode into the back, flinging aside the curtain with a certain drama.
Mrs. Hutchins lowered her voice. “Never mind him, my lady. A bit hot-tempered, he can be.”
“Is this dress so dreadful?” Evangeline asked.
The woman pressed her lips together, just as Mr. Salvatore had done. “It could be more flattering to your coloring and figure, is all. It’s very staid for a woman of your looks—don’t you think, Sir Richard?”
Richard, who had been watching with interest, started. “To my eyes, Lady Courtenay is a vision of beauty in anything she wears.”
She gave him an appraising look. “Then you’ve never seen her in something better, have you?”
Richard blinked and said nothing.
Mrs. Hutchins waved her hands. “Never mind! None of my business, is it? Here’s your pelisse, madam. Good day to you!”
When they reached the pavement, Richard paused. “Have I committed a grievous sin?”
Evangeline looked at him in surprise. “Such a guilty question!”
He glanced over his shoulder as they strolled away from the shop. “When I answered her question.” He looked at her. “You are beautiful to me no matter what you wear—or do not wear.”
She blushed in spite of herself. They were walking down a public street, for heaven’s sake.
He shouldn’t say things like that, things that made her want to throw her arms around him and kiss him.
She pressed his arm in both warning and gratitude.
“Oh, no. Not in my opinion.” She heaved a sigh.
“I have accepted that I am not favored by fashions of the moment.” She tipped her head to one side.
“Would that I had been born in a Tudor century! I believe I would have looked quite splendid in a farthingale.”
Richard laughed. “And a ruff? Is that the correct era?”
“With high-heeled shoes and codpieces.” She put up one hand artfully beside her head. “And the false hair. Especially the false hair!”
“In that case, I am vastly relieved that we were both born in this era, for all its fashion shortcomings. I am very fond of your hair.” They paused to wait for a sweep to guide them across Piccadilly.
“What kind of gown could he make, do you think?” she asked suddenly, unable to stop thinking about it.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Richard warily. “I only buy coats and waistcoats from him.”
“Hmm.” She gave a quick laugh and waved one hand. “What a lark! I suppose he’s never made a woman’s garment in his life.”
She was still thinking about it several days later when Solly brought a letter out to her in the garden.
She opened it to see a sketch of a dress.
For several minutes she stared at it. It was not fashionable.
There were no ruffles, fringe, or rosettes.
The woman in the sketch was lushly curved, like her, and the gown emphasized every curve, clinging boldly where fashion expected a discreet drape of fabric. The colors were bold and surprising.
“Solly,” she said, holding it out. “What do you think?”
Solly inspected the sketched gown, tinted green, with a skirt that cut away in front at a rakish angle to reveal a yellow underskirt. The bodice was formed of elaborate folds turned back, almost like a man’s jacket, edged with silk ribbons to frame the neck and bosom.
“Blue would be a better color for it,” was all she said.
Evangeline took the sketch back. “Do you think so? This shade of green is very bold, so bright—”
“Blue,” said Solly firmly.
Evangeline gave it up. She liked blue. And before she could stop herself, she wrote a reply to the brief note from Mrs. Hutchins, enclosed with the sketch, expressing her approval. She gave it to Solly and asked her to include measurements, knowing her companion would also mention the color.
And her eagerness certainly wasn’t due at all to the thought of what Richard might think of her in a truly flattering gown.