“Something for me?” Grace echoed, as she and her companions stared at the shopkeeper in confusion.
“Ah, so you do not know! Your dearestmamanleft a gift in my keeping before she left London the last time. A so-precious secret for the daughter she loved.”
Grace’s breath caught. “From my mother?”
“A gift?” Helen said. “What could it be?”
The seamstress gave a benign smile toward Helen, before turning her full attention to Grace. “Why, the gown for your wedding day. Tucked away for so very long, I will need to find it, and have it delivered…to where?”
The countess replied, “Raven’s Court on Curzon Street.”
“Of course.”
Helen’s expression was a mixture of mortification and worry. “A gown? Dear me. It will be hopelessly out of fashion. As a viscountess, our Grace must be at the pinnacle of style.”
Tears sprang to Grace’s eyes, and she quickly brushed them away. “My mother’s gift is far more precious to me than anything we could purchase.”
Helen gasped as though stung. “I only mean you must take care, now that you are to be a viscountess. You have your brothers to think of. And your father.”
Madame Lavoie stepped between them, her calm smile immediately quelling the growing tension. “I do so agree, my dear Lady Elliot. But I assure you, with a few simple alterations, Lady Grace shall be the epitome of fashion. Which means you will need to look to your own gown for the upcoming wedding. You must have a care or some might think you wish to outshine the bride. You know how gossipers love to prattle.”
“Endlessly,” Helen said with a nod, her golden curls bouncing.
Lady Ravenscroft walked over to a bolt of peach watered silk. “This would be perfect with your complexion, don’t you think, Helen?”
The seamstress picked up the bolt, unwound a swath of the shimmering cloth, then held it to Helen’s bodice, draping it over her shoulders. “Perfection.”
Grace, recognizing the diversion for what it was, looked at her stepmother’s reflection in the mirror. The soft peach, so different from the garish persimmon that Helen favored, accentuated the soft pink of her lips and cheeks. “It’s quite beautiful on you.”
“Is it?” Helen stared at the mirror almost in wonder. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to look around.”
Madame smiled knowingly. “Look around all you care to. But this…This is your color. Shall we start a fitting?”
Helen glanced at the watch pinned to her bodice. “Itisnear time for luncheon. We will never reach the shop we were to visit before we meet Lord Everdene anyway.”
As the seamstress led Helen to the fitting room, the countess regarded Grace with a worried aura. “You look very pale my dear, and no wonder. Would you care to sit down?”
“I think I just need a bit of fresh air.”
“Would you like me to come with you?” the countess asked.
Grace shook her head. “I need a moment alone.” She turned and fled out the door, scarce seeing the shoppers bustling about, baskets looped over arms, footmen carrying packages for their mistresses.
As she wandered through the smattering of vendors hawking their wares, she glimpsed a bench near the towering bronze cavalier. But before she could reach the seat, a high-pitched shriek split the air. A young girl stood at the base of the statue, her arms skyward.
Just above her, clinging for dear life to the raised sword arm of the bronze cavalier, was a small boy, his feet dangling midair.
CHAPTER 16
Grace’s heart raced as she hastened across the square through a maze of carriages and shoppers to reach the children, fearing the boy might break his neck at any moment. He was likely half Bennet’s age, she thought as she reached them. The red-haired girl, perhaps all of seven years, strained on tiptoe beside the statue’s tall marble base. The nosegays she was trying to sell from the box that hung by a leather strap around her narrow shoulders were spilling to the ground.
Her head craned so far back it looked as if her fragile neck might snap as she tried to reach the boy who had scrambled onto the cavalier’s shoulder and now clung to the statue’s raised arm. How he had managed to climb to such a precarious perch, Grace had no idea. But there was no way the little girl could haul him down without likely cracking one, or both of their skulls on the cobbles below. And no one in the throng of fashionably dressed people pouring up and down the street was paying them the least bit of mind.
The little girl, apparently, was more upset over her fallen nosegays than the lad’s predicament. “Now look at what you’ve done!” she said, crouching. She scooped up a handful of tinybouquets, her bright green eyes going wide at the realization of Grace’s presence. “Me brother didn’t mean nothing by climbing up there. He’s a pig-nosed, stubborn blighter who’s going to get us both in trouble,” the girl said in a lilting Irish accent.
Grace, after assuring that the ‘stubborn blighter’ had a firm grip on his perch, gave his beleaguered sister a commiserating smile.
“Brothers! I have four of them at home. What are your names?”
