Twisting, she tucked a curl behind her ear. The mirror was tarnished and a crack ran through the middle, misaligning her hips, but she could see her reflection well enough.
“You look beautiful, Evie.” Her sister sighed from the small table, hand on chin and flicking through an 1806 edition ofLa Belle Assemblée. “But I wish I knew the latest styles. This states your gown should be ‘unsoiled by any stain’ and as such be ‘taken for the robes of a nymph’. Do you feel nymphish?”
They both stared at the peculiar splotch on the hem, which neither of them had been able to remove or indeed discern its source, but considering she’d bought the silk from a crone near Filgrave’s house, perhaps it was best not to speculate. And by chance, a touch of shabbiness to the hem had becomede rigueurof late.
“Not a nymph, no, but I feel…” She felt like a woman for once, wearing something pretty as opposed to functional.
Artemisia’s perfect stitches had constructed a dress that flattered and embellished, its bodice low with flawless folds of material that swished when she walked. Flora had brought around her bits ’n bobs box and they’d tacked and sewed strands of ribbon till their fingers had bled. This dress would still be considered unadorned by society’s judgement, but excessive gewgaws did not suit her figure.
“I feel rather like Cinderella.” Evelyn gazed to her pallid sister – the true Cinders left home with only smoking ashes. “Don’t open the door to a soul till Flora gets here.”
“I’ll be fine,” Artemisia insisted and swatted Cleopatra’s paw with the magazine as she attempted to lap from the glass of murky ale.
The cat pounced, shredding the cover ofLa Belle Assemblée.
“Oh, Cleopatra. No! Go chase some rats.”
Having gathered the scraps of magazine, Artemisia sighed anew and added them to the fire. It briefly flared, whimpered and then smouldered once more, but Cleopatra, clearly content at the outcome, prowled to the hearth, circled five times and curled up to sleep.
“Are you sure?” fretted Evelyn. “I can–”
“Stop fussing! Enjoy the ball. Dupe the duke. Tell me all about it tomorrow. Every detail.”
“And have you supper?”
“Yes. Potato pie.”
“Have we pastry?”
“No, I’ve topped it with potatoes.”
Evelyn cupped her sister’s chin. “Oh, Artemisia, you will never recover on such Lenten fare. I’ll sneak some supper home in my dress.”
“Where exactly?”
They gazed at the tight bodice. “I’ll stuff a lobster in my reticule.”
Hugging in laughter, Evelyn heard the bellow of her hackney driver from the street below, a rogue she’d bartered a ride with for their last two cracked goblets and a quarter bottle of gin that Flora had…found.
“Go, go,” shooed Artemisia. “Go waltz with a duke. And if you could manage to stow some potted goose in your stocking, that would be appreciated.”
Chapter 7
The Pride of Lions.
“Marriage is purely for the begetment of an heir and further accruement of land, not disordered emotion or inconvenient desires.”
“Ballocks,” replied Ernest, straightening his glasses. “And what was wrong with Lady Lightwick, anyhow?”
Casper scowled at the Roman statue of Juno posing in a corridor of the Plymtrees’ mansion – a fake – and strode towards the arched door at the far end on a mission to hunt down some decent brandy as the swill served in the ballroom had been watered down.
Absolute disgrace.
He paused and twisted. Ernest appeared to have set himself the task of finding Casper a wife this night, no doubt to wriggle out of being heir, and had thus far introduced him to five beautiful ladies; however… “Ernest, not only was Lady Lightwick your second mistress last year but she has an additional lover in Soho and regularly tups her footmen.”
“Really? What a woman. But I’ve plenty of other candidates I can introduce you t–”
“And why are you following me? Aren’t you habitually to be found in the shrubbery at this hour of the night? Or at the very least dancing.”
