Eloise stood, smoothing her skirt and looping her reticule over her wrist. Some people might have thought it impertinent for the modiste to demand such a thing of an earl’s daughter, but Eloise and Adrienne had been friends for many years. Their friendship was both casual and close. “I would not sayfriends. It’s a long, boring tale, involving fathers who are cousins, governesses who were sisters, and mothers who can’t be bothered. A typical family drama of the aristocracy, with little originality and a lot of egos. After all, what would Society be without its share of witches and wags?”
Adrienne grinned. “Your wit is the reason you are still a spinster.”
Eloise touched her lace cap. “So my sisters tell me. But any man I can intimidate with my words would be miserable as my husband.”
“And playing coy does not become you.”
“I’m not sure I would if I could.”
“So you play chaperone to—such as her.”
“The Duchess of Makendon is simply thrilled she is not required to do it. In her words—four daughters were enough. My long association with Lady Rose Timmons and her network of informers ensures that any man of ill repute would be singled out for destruction. My age makes me incapable of being wooed or distracted. And since Lydia and Judith are the same age and attend so many of the same events...”
“Two birds with one stone.”
Eloise grinned. “Indeed. I am, in essence, the perfect chaperone.” She let her own tone drop as they heard Lydia scolding her maid. “Are we still good for tonight?”
Adrienne nodded. “Eight.”
“Yes. Oh, and Adrienne?”
“What?”
“Have her dress finished by this afternoon.”
The modiste scowled. “Why?”
Eloise glanced up as she heard the changing room door open. Lydia was on a rampage. “A hunch. But a good one.”
Chapter Two
Saturday, 16 July 1825
Just after one in the afternoon
Robert stood nearone of the doors into the Huntingdale ballroom, taking in the elaborate decorations and piles of food that had laden the U-shaped tables where the guests were slowly finding seats. The entire room smelled of cinnamon, fried meat, hot bread, and something sickly sweet that made Robert’s nose twitch. Somewhere, his own name graced one of the dozens of place cards, but he had no intention of joining the celebration.
Instead, he hovered, watching Rose circulate among the wedding breakfast guests, her gentle and warm manner making each one feel welcome and special. It was her nature, and he had seen her do it at dozens of balls, soirees, and musicales, a perfect lady of stature—unless you were a rogue bent on the ruination of young women. Then she became a venomous creature focused on destruction, and over the past seven years, she had built a network of informers—servants and tradesmen mostly—who had fed her information from the backside of Society.
And he had been a part of that. Was still a part of that, as his “Robbie Green” persona, in which he worked as a floor manager at Campion’s gambling den. His work with Bill Campion had started as a fluke one night when the hell was missing a floor manager, and Robert had stepped in to break up a fight. His association with the establishment dated back almost a decade, and he had become friends with Bill, but he was still startled when Bill made him the offer. Robert was aristocracy, no matter how much of Society he’d set aside, and gentlemen did not work, even second sons. They ran estates, headed up businesses—as his father did—or took positions in the law, the military, or the church. But they certainly did not hold jobs in Covent Garden gambling hells.
But the idea had intrigued him, and Robert had agreed to try it for a month, or until the patrons realized who he really was. He adopted a “uniform”—a dark green suit with a tartan waistcoat and a Highland bonnet—and a Cockney accent and no one seemed the wiser. He had found it enlightening and informative. He discovered how his peers truly treated those they thought beneath them, which ones were the most likely to cheat or overbid, and who had foul intentions toward women among their own ranks. This latter trail of information led him back to Rose. He’d begun sending her information, and even though she had no idea who “Robbie Green” was, their correspondence had been flirty and fun, and he’d gotten to know a side of her she kept carefully hidden from her Society acquaintances.
It had made him love her even more.
Damn it.
A firm hand landed on his arm. “You should not be watching her like that.”
Robert looked down at the woman next to him. “I’m sure I do not know what you mean.”
Emalyn Ashton, Duchess of Kennet, snapped her son with the folded fan she always carried to events like this. Her dark eyes lit with annoyance. “Do not lie to your mother.”
“I’m just pleased for the happy couple.”
“Bollocks.”
Robert fought a laugh. “I happen to think I have been very good today.”
