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What if it was true, that Cecil was indeed set to inherit fifty percent of Purcell and Sons, and he risked all to side with his cousin? But she was for all intents and purposes a duchess, was she not? Felicity was so stubborn, though—leave it to her to buck convention, refuse the duke and thus embark on a life cast out from society, to become even more powerless than she already was.
Should he write to her, warn her there was a dastardly plan afoot? That would be a bold move. He could send a letter saying to hold fast, written in code! He gasped, and Rollo and Father laughed, both likely thinking they had shocked him with their cleverness. But he could be clever! To send word but disguised so his father wouldn’t devise its meaning when he read it before sending it on its way? He might tell Felicity to keep the faith until he knew more. And thenshemight reply and tell him in confidence how she planned to proceed, whether she was to be elevated in her station, and thus settle his mind as to the gamble he was taking.
He wrung his hands in earnest. If only he knew what to do.
Seven
Felicity stood before the cheval mirror, slightly discomfited. This was the same dress she’d worn to the ball, and yet it had been transformed in ways that were flattering, if not at all the done thing. The neckline had been lowered and expanded so it sat on the edges of her shoulders. This adjustment meant her sleeves now rested on her upper arms without pinching them; the addition of a gentle ruffle rippled to meet the tops of her gloves. Most scandalous of all was the long sash now attached just above her hips: when she wound it around and around, it drew attention to her bosom above it and her hips below it in a way that made her feel wanton and exposed.
It also made her waist look…small. She swayed in front of the mirror, to and fro, watched the skirt billow around her toes, her shoulders catch the light and gleam, the shadow of her cleavage shift, mysterious. But that waistline! She couldn’t take her eyes off it. It seemed ridiculous that she would not have noticed that she had one at all, much less how it created such stark contrast to the curve of her bosom and her hip.
She swirled in a circle. Would the duke’s eyes take on an extra sparkle when he beheld her? Would he rise out of his chair like a besotted gentleman, eyes on her and her alone, dazzled by her elegance? She stepped back from the glass and curtseyed as one ought to one of his rank, down on her back heel, all the way down to the floor, a challenging posture she assayed ably thanks to her fitness due to horse riding. She rose as smoothly as she descended and regarded herself in the mirror, a thing she had more often than not gone out of her way to avoid. Should she wear Jemima’s designs? It made less difference than ever to her reputation, and if she was this confident in a refigured gown of her own, then would not a Coleman original lend her even greater countenance?
Mary rushed in and came to a stuttering stop. “Ohhhhhh, Your Grace! You’ll shine everyone else down, down all the way to China.”
“I feel rather overdressed,” Felicity said.
“Oh, no, ma’am, the duke does always be dressing for dinner like Prinny himself was coming to join him.” Mary took a turn around Felicity. “Now, I’d thought the sash might be that bit too long, but it is perfect.”
“Did you make these alterations, Mary? They are quite seamless.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what that means,” Mary replied, blushing. “But I did a wee bit of nipping here and tucking there. That ruffle on the sleeve, it’s like a wee cloud blowing by in the summer sky.” She reached out and tweaked it, just so, and bobbed a belated curtsy.
“You have a rare gift.” Felicity regarded the little maid; how could she help to nurture such a talent? She’d never had to think of such a thing before, but she knew, in her heart, that it was the correct thing to do. “My dear friend, Lady Jemima Coleman, is a talented fashion artist. I must be sure to effect an introduction at some stage.”
“Thank you, Your Grace, I don’t know what to say, and me ma would be the first to say that is as rare as a blue moon.” She checked the nearest windows were shut and fussed with the curtains. “And talking of, there’s the moon, almost all the way back in the sky,” she said, pointing out the waxing moon through the windowpane. “Only ten more days to the Feast of Lupercalia, Your Grace, it’s very exciting.”
“The feast of…that sounds rather pagan. Is it common to these parts?” While they had nothing the like in sleepy Edenbridge, many country folk held to the old ways.
Mary turned a bright red and worried her bottom lip with her large front teeth. Her nose twitched in agitation. “It is common to, eh, here, so it is. If I do say so, Your Grace, you are all the crack, and that neckline is doing wonders for your bosoms.”
Felicity turned back to the glass to regard said bosoms. “It is,” she said. “It is not quite the style that is popular.”
“Oh, my lady, it is yourself who’ll be setting the fashion, make no mistake.”
“This feast, Mary—”
“May I fetch that letter down to Mr. Bates for you?” The little maid nipped over to the mantelpiece.
“Oh, thank you, but I am sure I can carry that myself.” Mary’s tireless activity made Felicity feel rather giddy.
A discreet knock sounded.
“That’ll be a footman to show you down.”
“I am happy to follow you—” But Mary had run to the door and flung it open.
The footman standing at attention on the threshold was not in the usual run of specimen fulfilling that role. Small and thin rather than large and muscular, he looked to be sinewy and fleet, and for some reason, Felicity decided he also looked…shiny. His bald head glistened, and his protuberant eyes were pale and bright. He bowed with fluid grace.
“Good evening, Your Gr—” He cut himself off at Felicity’s upraised palm. “If you will follow me, I am to escort you to Mr. Coburn, the butler of Lowell Hall. He would have come to collect you himself, but he is suffering from a condition brought on by him not being a spring chicken any longer.” He flashed a smile, his pointy teeth gleaming.
“How may I address you?”
“I am Shaddock, Your—ma’am.”
He bowed as she passed him in the doorway and hurried to precede her down the hall. The corridor sported oaken paneling the like to be found in a medieval manor, and everything that decorated it, from the side tables to the runner to the paintings on the wall, spoke of age and wealth. As they made their way down one staircase to another, Felicity noticed that an inordinate number of the paintings featured wildlife. She paused before a wide canvas that appeared to represent the Bible story of Noah, except the animals were neither ascending nor descending the ark but instead were gathered before it as though posing for the artist.
“This way, miss—ma’am,” Shaddock gestured down the stairs and seemed to have broken out into a light sweat.
