“I can sew you a ballgown by Thursday,” added Artemisia. “If we can afford a little material.”
“Only if you worked all hours God sent. No.”
But a small hand clenched hers. “I want to help.”
Evelyn squeezed back, knowing her own stitches were more crooked than the accounts in Filgrave’s ledgers. And it was no weakness to accept help. “Then, thank you. Thank you, both.”
“A perfect plan.” Matilda smiled but it failed to reach her eyes, and Evelyn had noticed that her friend’s manner for the past hour or so had been one of false cheer.
“Matilda, dearest, you seem a smidgeon…dejected today. Are you well? Has the Clod-skull been bothering you?”
She sat with a plonk between them and removed her glasses, purple shadows haunting her eyes. “Whilst snooping, I also discovered contracts relating to my impending marriage.”
“What marriage?”
“Precisely.”
“Oh, Matilda.” And Evelyn placed an arm around her friend’s tense shoulders. “Is your groom…acceptable?”
Matilda wrinkled her nose. “No, far from it. The Earl of Sidlow is thrice my age, smells of wet dog and boiled cauliflower, and furthermore is under the impression that Shakespeare is some sort of medieval hand weapon.”
They gazed at one another in silent sympathy, for what words could ease. Perchance if Evelyn’s deception proved a success, Matilda could join them in the country, a cottage of refuge and hope for them all.
Her friend’s lips firmed and shoulders uncurled. “But I have a plan whilst Lord Astwood is at his debauchery in the country.”
Artemisia’s brow scrunched in confusion. “I thought he was hunting defenceless animals.”
A wry smile crossed Evelyn’s face. “I believe that is what Matilda said.”
Chapter 6
Cinderella shall go to the ball…and bring back lobster.
Casper glared at the gilt clock on the mantelpiece as he paced in his emerald silk robe.
Yet to return, his brother had claimed to be passing the day at the Circulating Library – and if you believed that, you’d believe anything – but they were all expected to make a grand entrance at the Plymtree affair on the strike of ten. From previous experience, he knew Ernest could not possibly acquire his artless coiffure in less than an hour.
In contrast, it had taken Casper no more than one quarter of an hour to bathe, shave and now await his dressing, although he did admit that a footman and two valets had played their part.
Neither did Casper particularly wish to attend this event but he’d agreed on the promise of a vote for his working condition’s proposal; a mangled child’s leg couldn’t sway Lord Plymtree but a ducal presence at his wife’s tiresome ball sent him careering for the quill.
Shrugging off the robe, he stayed close to the lit fire as his principal valet approached with fine linen and what appeared to be one half-mile of pristine cravat material folded over his arm.
The clock chimed, a chubby cherub cavorting in a circle to the tune, and Casper scowled as Parsons smothered him in shirt. He detested being late. If all was arranged to an exact time, more could be achieved within one’s schedule.
Change was highly disagreeable.
“Striped stockings, Your Grace?”
The scowl became a grimace. Parsons, a foxy-faced fellow, worked like water upon a stone, constantly dripping the latest fashions into Casper’s ears. “I am not wearing striped bloody stockings. No one does.”
His valet coughed delicately. “Lord Byron does.”
“Byron has departed for the Continent where striped stockings belong…and should stay.”
Parsons sniffed as though an offensive odour had permeated the room. “Plain then, Your Grace?”
“No,” he bellowed. “French lace with–” He threw his head back and inhaled. “Plain, yes. And my burgundy waistcoat with silver thread, matching jacket and the black breeches. Thank you, Parsons.”
