“Set it down, then,” Nancy said, as if this sort of thing happened every day.
Wilks set the box on her desk, then backed away. He was, she noticed, very careful to keep his expression neutral.
Nancy eyed the package. Madame Sylvestre was not the sort of modiste who sent gifts to customers, even wealthy ones. Nor did Nancy make a habit of buying from her—her dresses were infamous for being too expensive, too fashionable, and a little too French for Nancy’s taste.
She slid the box open. The tissue paper inside was immaculate, folded as if by a surgeon. Within, a dress—a deep green brocade, with silver embroidery curling up the bodice and along thesleeves. Nancy ran her fingers over the fabric, feeling the weight of it, the subtle shiver of something exquisite and, frankly, unnecessary.
Edith, watching from the chair, let out a very small sound—a sound that might almost be described as admiration.
“It is lovely,” said Miss Mercer.
Nancy glanced up. “It is also a complete mystery. I did not order it.”
“Perhaps the Duke wished to surprise you?” Edith suggested.
Nancy snorted. “The Duke? He has less interest in fashion than in the price of pigs’ trotters at Smithfield.”
Edith did not dispute this. Instead, she rose from her chair and came around to the desk, peering at the dress.
“It would suit you, Your Grace. The color is very fine.”
Nancy shook her head, still smiling. “I cannot imagine what occasion would require such a dress.”
“Perhaps a ball,” Edith said, almost wistfully. “There is a winter ball at Lord Hamton’s house.”
Nancy had forgotten. “I doubt the Duke will wish to attend.”
“I am sure he would be delighted,” Edith said.
Nancy looked at her, searching for irony. She found none.
“You may go,” she said, “but send in the Duke if you see him. I should like a word.”
Edith curtsied. As she turned to leave, Nancy caught a glimmer—no, not that word—a moment where Edith’s eyes darted back to the dress, lingered, then snapped forward. It was nothing, but it sent a pulse of cold along Nancy’s spine.
When the door closed, she draped the dress over the back of a chair and sat staring at it.It is just a dress. Even if he did order it, it is only a gift. It does not mean anything.
Still, her hands shook a little.
She was about to call for tea when a shadow darkened the doorway. Oscar, arms crossed, leaned against the frame. His eyes moved from Nancy to the dress, then back again.
“Is it to your liking?” he asked.
Nancy kept her features smooth. “If you mean the dress, it is splendid. If you mean the interruption, you could have simply sent a note.”
Oscar smiled, slow and deliberate. “I thought you would prefer a surprise.”
“I was not aware you had so much interest in fashion,” Nancy said, rising to her feet. The dress fell into her arms, heavy and deliciously cool.
“I don’t,” Oscar replied. “But I am told that green is the only color that can stand up to you.”
Nancy could not help it—she laughed, then immediately composed herself. “You have become a poet, Duke. Shall I be flattered?”
“It would be a start,” he said.
She held up the dress. “What is this for, really?”
Oscar stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. “You will need something to wear to the ball next Thursday.”
