Chapter 2
“Conceal your dispositions, and you will be safe… from the machinations of the wisest brains.”
Mrs. Sweete always spotted a lie—an ability I found most inconvenient when she had been my governess, given my childhood penchant for stealing Father’s fencing swords to reenact famous battles.
But when I came of age, and Mrs. Sweete became my chaperone, her all-seeing eye shifted from me to the rest of society, making her the ultimate source of information.
However, as we rode together to the modiste, I didn’t want my chaperone to employ her talent. Father forbade me from telling her about our near-destitution, and it took all of my willpower to keep it secret.
“Did you sleep well last night, Miss Weston? You look pale,” Mrs. Sweete said, tugging at an embroidery thread.
She was a practical woman of thirty-six years, with brown hair tied back into a neat bun and a pair of spectacles.
She wore a plain, gray dress with sturdy boots, and she always carried an embroidery project with her.
Currently, she was stitching Galatians 5:22 and had used bold thread to emphasize the word longsuffering.
“I didn’t sleep much,” I answered honestly. If I gave even a hint of deception, Mrs. Sweete would sniff it out like a hound. She was already suspicious, considering last season’s gowns were sitting in trunks behind the carriage.
“Were you ill?” she asked. “More stomach troubles?”
“Just a bad dream.” That wasn’t entirely a lie. I did dream last night that Father held an auction to marry me off. He sold me for six shillings to a man with blackened teeth.
“Is Lord Highcliffe well?”
“Father is busy, as always.”
“Too busy to properly fund your wardrobe?”
My fingers tightened around my reticule. “I told you. I merely wish to alter my dresses this year.”
Mrs. Sweete narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”
Good gracious. This woman should have been a constable, not a chaperone.
I firmly met her gaze. “Quite sure.”
“And you wish to spend only fifty pounds?”
“Frugality is a virtue, and I prize virtue above all else.”
“Hmm.”
I stilled. She only hmm-ed when sensing a lie.
“Would this, by chance, have anything to do with the state of your father’s dwindling finances?”
The blood drained from my face. “How did you know?”
She shrugged. “The servants’ salaries were halved. There’s the sudden rise in taxes for your father’s tenants. Then, of course, you’re altering your dresses instead of buying new ones. Usually, I don’t guess without proof, but you just confirmed it.”
I should have been mortified, but a swell of relief washed over me instead. I could now share this burden with my most trusted ally—without breaking my promise to Father.
“You cannot speak a word of it to anyone, or Father will dismiss you,” I pleaded. “Remember, we must conceal our dispositions, and our condition will remain secret, which leads to victory.”
Mrs. Sweete placed her hand over mine. “You don’t have to quote The Art of War at me, Miss Weston.”
I smiled back at her. When I was fourteen, I’d grown bored of the moral tales Mrs. Sweete read to me, and I snuck into Father’s library with hopes to find something more stimulating.
I stumbled across Amiot’s translation of L’Art de la Guerre and was enthralled.
I spent the next year translating it into English for my own use.
When a maid found the stack of papers under my bed, Father insisted I burn all traces of my blasphemous self-education.
Thankfully, I’d already memorized every word.
“Your secrets are always safe with me,” Mrs. Sweete said.
I nodded, grateful. Although Mrs. Sweete had an eye for gossip, she hadn’t the tongue for it. When it came to matters of confidence, she was a vault.
“In that case, I’d like to relieve myself of another secret.”
Mrs. Sweete raised a conspiring brow.
“I made a deal with Father,” I began. Mrs. Sweete listened intently as I divulged every detail of my dire quest to secure a wealthy husband—someone willing to forgo a dowry and save our estate—within just two months.
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Sweete said as the carriage came to a stop. “With only fifty pounds at your disposal?”
I nodded.
“Well,” she sighed, “if Moses split the Red Sea…”
“The Red Sea is a trifle, Mrs. Sweete. We face far more treacherous waters.”
“And what’s that?”
I tossed a ringlet over my shoulder. “High society.”
The coachman offered me his hand, and I stepped down into the street, feeling rather like a soldier facing her first battle. Or, perhaps, a commander, leading my troops courageously into the fray.
Yes, I rather liked the idea of being a commander. They had better hats.
“Carry those trunks in through the backdoor, Stevens,” I commanded the coachman. “Make sure no one sees you.”
A delicate silver bell announced our entrance to the modiste’s shop, and I breathed in the familiar smell of lavender and beeswax.
Silks and muslins of every color decorated the shelves, along with buttons and ribbons.
The modiste, a petite woman who bustled around with a measuring tape slung over her shoulder, hurried over with a beaming smile.
“What an honor to have you in my shop again, Miss Weston!” she said.
“I was worried you had taken up with another modiste in town. Here, I took the liberty to reserve the most exquisite French taffeta for you. The cream will go beautifully with your raven hair and porcelain skin. Perhaps with a blue ribbon to match your eyes?”
She pulled out a length of fabric which was, indeed, exquisite. I barely restrained myself from running my fingers along the smooth folds.
“Thank you, but I have a separate errand.” I handed my portfolio to the modiste. “I sketched a few designs to rejuvenate last year’s dresses.”
The modiste flipped through my watercolor sketches, her lips pinching tighter with each page turn. “I don’t understand, miss. You wish to alter your dresses? In addition to a new wardrobe?”
“In place of.”
She blinked but recovered quickly. “If that is your wish, then I shall attend to it with the utmost care.”
“And discretion.”
The modiste placed the portfolio on the counter. “Of course.”
“Wonderful.” I opened my reticule. “If we could discuss the cost—”
The bell chimed, and two blonde women in matching yellow dresses entered the shop. My stomach plummeted, and I promptly covered my portfolio with the cream taffeta.
“The Pratts,” I muttered. “How wonderful to see them here.”
“Hmm.” Mrs. Sweete pulled out her needlework and found a quiet chair in the corner.
Mrs. Pratt turned around and gave me a reptilian smile. She had the sort of eyes that never blinked, and whether seated or standing, she somehow always looked down on me, despite the fact I was taller.
She tapped her daughter’s shoulder. “Sybella, your dearest friend is here!”
“Hel!” Sybella gasped. “What a surprise!”
“It’s Helena,” I corrected. Despite the fact that the Pratts had been family friends for as long as I could remember, Sybella never used my full name. Childhood habits were difficult to overcome, I supposed. Though Sybella certainly had no difficulty overcoming the habit of good manners.
Sybella and I weren’t really friends, though she seemed oddly insistent on pretending otherwise.
We had been friendly as children, but our relationship had always been tinged with competition.
Every game we played was a contest: who could run faster, who could sing higher, who could eat the most chocolate biscuits.
But something shifted between us last season.
Sybella’s smiles grew tight, her compliments barbed.
She’d forget to introduce me to her new friends, and she’d tell embarrassing childhood stories about me at parties.
It wasn’t open warfare, but it wasn’t like the old games we used to play either. I had no idea what had changed.
Sybella’s eyes narrowed on my reticule. “Oh, Hel, don’t tell me you’re only now arranging your fittings. The season’s nearly upon us!” She patted my arm. “You could always borrow my dresses. After I wear them, of course.”
I forced a smile. “I’m just here to peruse the ribbons.”
The modiste frowned at my lie. But, thankfully, the bell on the door chimed again, and she left to greet the new customer.
“Can you believe the pitiful fabrics this year?” Sybella pouted.
“I swear, that greedy woman is keeping the best materials for herself—oh.” Sybella spotted the cream taffeta on the counter.
“Now this is exactly what I wanted.” She yanked the fabric, causing my portfolio to tumble to the floor with a thud.
I quickly stepped on it, hiding the folder with my skirt.
“What was that sound?” Sybella asked, looking around.
My faithful lieutenant appeared just in time. “Miss Weston, I saw a pair of matching cream gloves next door that would look just lovely on you. Shall we go look?”
“Cream gloves?” Sybella pushed out her bottom lip. “Oh, Hel. I’m in far more need of gloves than you. Would you mind terribly if I borrowed your chaperone so she can show them to me?”
“I suppose I can spare her this once.” I gave Mrs. Sweete a subtle nod in thanks.
Sybella turned to her mother. “Oh, Mama, can we get them?”
“Of course, darling.” Mrs. Pratt turned to me, and her unsettling smile spread even wider. “It never hurts to have an abundance, does it, Miss Weston?”
It was all I could do to nod politely.
“Come along.” Mrs. Sweete guided the Pratts out the door. “I believe there’s a matching shawl…”
As soon as they left, I hurried to the counter to finish my transaction. Unfortunately, it was not the modiste who was reaching down to pick up my portfolio, but a man.
And not just any man. It was him.
The recoiler.