Chapter One

It isn’t what we say or think that defines us, but what we do.

—JANE AUSTEN, SENSE AND SENSIBILITY

London March 1817

“I can make anyfing out of anyfing, but even I can’t make a silk purse out of a bloomin’ sow’s ear!” Daisy Chance declared. “I was born in the gutter, raised in an ’orehouse and I got a gimpy leg. I don’t look like a lady or speak like a lady and I ain’t never gunna be a lady, so what’s the point of—”

Lady Beatrice cut her off. “Nonsense! You can do anything you set your mind to!”

Daisy rolled her eyes. “Maybe, but I don’t want to be a lady! I want to be a dressmaker—and not just any dressmaker. I aim to become the most fashionable modiste in London—fashion to the top nobs.”

The old lady shrugged. “No reason why you can’t be a modiste and a lady.”

Daisy stared at the old lady incredulously. “You don’t have no idea, do you? What it’s gunna take—”

“Any idea. It’s any idea.”

Daisy rolled her eyes. “Work, that’s what it takes—hard work, never-endin’ work. I’m workin’ every hour God sends as it is, and even so I’m barely managin’. There ain’t no time for me to prance around pretendin’ to be a lady!”

“You are a lady!”

Daisy snorted, and Lady Beatrice went on, “Your entire nature declares it. Inside, you are a lady, Daisy—loyal, loving, honest, sensitive to others’ needs—all we have to do is teach you to be ladylike on the outside as well!”

“Bugger that,” said the budding lady. “Apart from the fact I ain’t got time for all that, the thing is I don’t care about it. And there’s no point! All the lessons in the world ain’t goin’ to make me the kind of lady that Abby or Jane or Damaris is. They was born with lovely manners and a sweet way of speakin’—I was born in the gutter and brung up rough.”

“Brought up not brung, and they were born not was. But that is immaterial—”

“No it’s not. I’ve got a chance now—thanks to you and Abby and the girls—to make somef-something of meself.”

“Yes, a lady.”

“No, a modiste, wiv a shop of me own. I want to dress fine ladies, not ape them.”

Lady Beatrice drew herself up stiffly. “With me conducting your lessons, there is no question of aping anyone—and please do not use such a vulgar expression!”

“Yeah, well, I’m from the vulgar classes, me, and I call a spade a bloomin’ spade, but if that’s too blunt for you, I’ll say it different—I ain’t a lady and I don’t like fakery.”

“Says the girl living in my house under a false name,” the old lady said with a sweetly sanctimonious air. “And presumably planning to open her business under that same false name.”

Daisy gaped. “You can say that? You, who’s told more lies about us than anyone? Who invented her own false half sister—and made her a bastard, eh? Who claimed us as her nieces when we weren’t no such thing? Who made up the whole piece of nonsense about Venice? Who—” She broke off. The old lady was chuckling. She was proud of her lies.

Daisy said with dignity, “You know dam—perfectly well I only went along with the Chance surname for Abby and Jane’s sake—they was in danger.”

Lady Beatrice shrugged. “They were. Nevertheless, you still call yourself Daisy Chance instead of—what was your surname, anyway?”

“Smith. But that was just a surname somebody picked out of a hat. I’m a foundling, never known me mum or dad, so me real name is anyone’s guess.”

“You’re getting off the point,” Lady Beatrice said. “All the other gels will be gathering upstairs tomorrow afternoon and I want you there as well.”

“I thought they wa—were finished with all that, now the Season has started.”

The old lady waved her hand dismissively. “They require further polish. The gentle art of social intercourse—conversation, dancing and deportment—does not come naturally to all ladies, and Jane has a tendency to romp, rather than dance. So, you will come.” It was an order, but there was the faintest note of uncertainty in her voice.

Daisy pounced on it. “No, I got too much work to do now to waste any more time on social flimflam.” Daisy had found the lessons about conversation and deportment interesting enough, and she figured the curtsying might come in useful for her business, but that was enough. Besides, Lady Bea kept going on about her learning to dance, and that she downright refused to do.

“An hour or two won’t hurt.”

“I can set a sleeve or finish a hem in an hour.”

“Pfft!” The old lady dismissed the sleeve and the hem. “I want you there and you shall attend.”

“Bad luck. I ain’t comin’.”

“I won’t argue with you, Daisy. You will learn what I say you must! No niece of mine will leave this house knowing less than she ought.”

Daisy glared at her. “But I ain’t your niece and we both know it.” The old lady was asking the impossible and she knew it, so why . . . .

The old lady glared back, stamping the floor with her cane. “Gels who live under my roof do as I tell them!”

“Or what?” Daisy demanded. There was a short, tense silence, and she added half incredulously, “Are you threatenin’ me? Tellin’ me to do as you say or get out o’ your house?”

The silence stretched. Daisy felt her stomach clench. Oh, gawd, her bloody temper . . . The old lady had every right to toss her back onto the streets . . .

Lady Beatrice subsided in her chair with a sigh. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, child. Of course I’m not. I might want to strangle you—and I’d be perfectly justified, stubborn wench that you are!—but you must know that I love you like a daughter—a stubborn, infuriating daughter who doesn’t know what’s good for her, mind—but then that’s quite common in daughters, I’m told by women who have ’em. And nieces are clearly just as troublesome. Some of them,” she added with a beady look.

Daisy started breathing again. Tears pricked at the back of her eyelids. She blinked them away. She never cried, but the old lady’s declaration had shocked her. She knew the old girl was fond of her—Daisy was more than fond of her too—but to say, right out loud that she loved Daisy. Like a daughter . . .

Lady Beatrice continued, “But that doesn’t mean I won’t threaten, bully, cajole, blackmail and utterly insist on your doing some things you don’t want to do.” She gave Daisy a stern look. “Because that’s what mothers and aunts do—if they have any sense.”

She raised her lorgnette and fixed a horribly enlarged eye on Daisy. “So missy, you will attend this lesson—if I have to fetch Featherby and William to carry you there, kicking and screaming.”

There was no point in continuing the argument, Daisy decided. They’d just go round and round, like two old boxers in a ring, making no progress and just getting tired. And upset. “All right, I’ll think about it,” she said in what she hoped was a convincing voice.

When the time came for the lesson, she’d lock her door. William and Featherby would hardly break it down.

The old lady graciously inclined her head. “I’m glad to see you’re talking sense at last. You’ll find these lessons invaluable.”

“I still say you can’t make a silk purse out of a—”

“Stop saying that, Daisy! If you are a sow’s ear, what, pray, as your aunt, does that make me?”

Daisy’s lips twitched as she fought a grin.

“Don’t you dare say it, you atrocious gel!” Lady Beatrice threw a fan at her and missed. And then she started to chuckle. Daisy’s own laughter exploded at the same time.

After a few minutes, Lady Beatrice lay back in her chair, wiping her eyes with a wisp of lace. “Dreadful, dreadful gel! I refuse to be the aunt of a sow’s ear!”

“Can’t choose your relatives,” Daisy said with a grin. She picked up the fan, laid it on a side table and got up to leave.

“Nonsense! I do, all the time. It’s perfectly simple to do, and a great deal more satisfactory—even when they’re impossible.” Lady Beatrice gave her a speculative look. “So, upstairs then, tomorrow afternoon at four.”

“I’ll see how me sewin’s goin’.” There might be some work she could take with her.

“Sewing, going,” said Lady Beatrice, emphasizing the g’s. “Don’t drop your g’s.”

Daisy gave her a basilisk look. “That friend of yours, Sir Oswald Merridew—he drops his g’s all the time.”

“Yes, but in an aristocratic, stylish manner.”

“Then that’s how I’ll drop mine then,” Daisy said with a grin.

Lady Beatrice threw her handkerchief at her. “Impossible gel!” But she was trying not to smile.

Daisy picked up the handkerchief and gave it back to her as she left. As she closed the door, the words stubborn wench floated after her.

*   *   *

Daisy tromped up the stairs, feeling shaken. Her bloomin’ temper—she’d practically dared Lady Bea to chuck her out on the streets, and then where would she be? Back where she’d started, that’s where—homeless and friendless and with barely two pennies to rub together.

Oh, Abby or Damaris would take her in, she knew that, but she’d never been anyone’s charity case, and she wasn’t going to start now.

Besides, she loved Lady Bea and didn’t like upsetting her. Even if the old lady did have this crazy notion of turning Daisy into a lady.

The trouble was, Daisy was so tired. She woke each morning in the wee small hours, tossing the same problems over and over like a butter churn in her head—the work she had to get through, the promises she’d made, the money she didn’t have . . .

She’d given up on trying to get back to sleep. Instead she’d started getting up in the dark, giving thanks that Lady Bea’s house was fitted with the wonder of gas lighting.

Better to work than worry.

But now here she was, snapping at the slightest provocation, losing her temper with the people she cared most about.

You must know that I love you like a daughter . . .

A lump came to her throat. No one had ever loved her like a daughter.

Nobody had ever loved Daisy at all—not until she’d met Abby and Damaris and Jane—not really. Oh, there had been declarations in her past, but they’d proved to be false. Men were liars and cheats—at least they were to a girl on her own with nothing to offer except herself.

And she’d thought Mrs. B. had cared about her like a daughter, but when the time came . . . Nah, Daisy had learned her lesson young: In this life, you were on your own.

But even when things had gotten so desperate with Abby and Jane, they hadn’t dumped Damaris and Daisy—which would have been the practical thing to do, them not being related at all. Instead they’d vowed to stick even closer together and become as sisters.

Daisy still hadn’t gotten over the wonder of that.

And then they’d moved in with Lady Beatrice—an earl’s daughter, a real, proper blue-blooded toff, no matter what state she was in at the time—and she’d claimed them as her nieces.

Lady Beatrice was the best thing that had happened to any of them.

Still, the old lady had a maggot in her brain. A blind man could tell Daisy would never make any kind of fine lady, even if she wanted to—which she bloomin’ well didn’t! But would the old girl listen?

Daisy had no illusions about herself. She was a little Cockney guttersnipe with a gimpy leg and a foul mouth—though she was working on the swearing and her grammar. But she loved beautiful clothes and—praise be!—she was good at making them.

She was going to be somebody, and she was going to do it all herself: Daisy Chance, Dressmaker to the Toffs, with a shop and a business all her own. That was her dream, and she was so hungry for it she could almost taste it.

She reached her workroom. When she first came to live with Lady Bea, it had been her bedchamber—the first time in her life she’d had a room all to herself—but gradually her sewing had taken it over and they’d pushed her bed into Jane’s room and replaced it with a big, old table.

It was a large, spacious room, and on a clear day it was flooded with natural light. Light was precious for a seamstress. Now there were clothes and fabrics and bits of braid and lace draped everywhere.

Daisy loved stepping into this room—her cave of gorgeousness. Visible evidence of her dream coming true. This was what mattered. This was her future, not some mad idea of turning her into a bad imitation of a lady.

Daisy threaded her needle and picked up the dress she was working on. She had a long list of things to do. The Season had already started, but her work had only intensified. Two more ball gowns to finish off, luckily they weren’t as fiddly as the one she’d made for Jane’s first ball; and then three more morning dresses—gawd, but the gentry were big on visiting—and a new pelisse to cut out.

Jane’s shepherdess costume for the masquerade next week hung by the door. Daisy had altered an old dress of Lady Bea’s and it had come up a treat. Perfect for a wear-it-once costume. Saved her a heap of time.

But . . . so many orders, so many promises she’d made.

Oh, Lady Bea had lent Daisy Polly and Ginny, her maids, to sew for her every afternoon. And Jane, Abby and Damaris knew about Daisy’s dream and did whatever they could to help.

But Abby and Damaris were married ladies now, and Jane had made her come-out and was promised, if not officially betrothed, and it was her job now to attend as many social occasions as she could and establish herself as a member of the ton. All the girls had other responsibilities. And it was them wearing Daisy-made clothes to fancy society events that was the reason she had so many orders now, so she wasn’t going to complain.

Daisy sewed every minute God sent—and more. But it still wasn’t enough.

She’d tried putting her prices up, quoting ridiculous prices, just to put people off and slow things down a bit, but it only made some ladies more determined than ever to have one of Daisy’s creations.

Rich people were mad. But that madness was going to make Daisy rich and famous.

Eventually.

If only she could make the clothes quicker. But how? She was barely scraping by as it was—she paid Polly and Ginny a bit whenever she could—on top of what Lady Bea paid them—but there was no extra money to employ anyone else.

Getting fabric was no problem—Max and Freddy, her brothers-in-law, owned a silk importing business—but things like lace and fancy bits and bobs cost money, and tradesmen wouldn’t hand over the goods unless she paid.

And toffs might be rich, but they took forever to pay.

Round and around her thoughts went, turning the same problems over and over in her mind, and as always, the only solution Daisy could come up with was to work harder. And longer. And faster.

Her needle flew.

*   *   *

Some time later, a knock sounded on Daisy’s door. She looked up and saw Lady Beatrice’s butler, Featherby standing in the doorway.

“What?” She glowered suspiciously at him. “If you’ve come to drag me off—”

He looked faintly shocked. “I have no intention of dragging you anywhere, Miss Daisy. I just wanted a quiet word. May I come in?”

She sighed. “Come in then, Mr. F.—and don’t call me Miss Daisy. Not when we’re alone. I ain’t forgotten—if everyone else in this bloomin’ house has—how we all met—me, Abby, Jane, Damaris, and you and William.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Featherby said smoothly, shutting the door behind him. “I thought maybe you had.”

She stared at him. “Whaddya mean? Of course I remember.” She patted the seat beside her in invitation. “We was in the attic of that half-wrecked place that was going to be knocked down, and you and William was livin’ downstairs.”

Featherby seated himself with a reminiscent sigh. “All of us living on the brink of disaster.”

“Yeah, but—”

“William was an ageing, broken-down prizefighter, getting pounded to mincemeat for a few shillings, and I was a disgraced former butler, dismissed without a character for drunkenness.”

“Drunkenness?” Daisy gave him a surprised look. “But I’ve never seen you touch even a drop.”

“Not now, I don’t. But it was pure luck”—he smiled—“chance, if you will—that you girls needed our help that day. And that Lady Beatrice took William and myself in, as well as you girls.” He gave her a long, steady look. “We’re secure now—or as secure as any servant with an elderly employer can be—and we have no intention of risking our position.”

Daisy narrowed her eyes. “Are you sayin’ I’m threatening your security?”

“No, not at all,” Featherby said smoothly. “But—and I say this on the strength of our previous acquaintanceship, and not as a butler—or not only as a butler—do as the old lady wants, Daisy.”

“But it’s stupid—”

“Do it anyway. It matters to her that she teach you all the things a lady needs to know.”

Daisy rolled her eyes. How many more times did she have to say it. “But I ain’t never gunna—”

“Do it anyway,” Featherby repeated. “Because you love her. Because she loves you.”

Daisy was silent a moment. Lots of talk of love flying around this morning. She wasn’t used to it. Had no idea how to handle it.

She frowned, considering his words. She did love the old lady, she did. But . . . She gestured to the piles of garments in various stages of construction. “Look at all this, Featherby. I ain’t got time to waste ladifying meself for no good reason.”

“Make the time.”

“And how does me work get done, eh?”

Featherby shrugged. “Find another way. You’re talented and clever and resourceful. And you’re young. You have your whole future ahead of you, Daisy.” He lowered his voice for emphasis. “Lady Beatrice doesn’t. She’s old. And whatever her reason, this is what she wants for you.”

“Did she send you up here to talk me into—?”

Featherby looked slightly affronted. “No, she has no idea. I sought you out as a friend, not as a butler.”

Daisy believed him. She nodded, mollified.

Featherby waited a moment, then continued, “Lady Beatrice is the reason none of us is still living in a rundown slum, living from hand to mouth. She’s the reason you have this rosy future you’re working so hard for.”

There was a long silence. “You’re sayin’ I owe her.”

Featherby made a noncommittal gesture. “It’s your decision.”

Daisy heaved a sigh. “I know.” She hesitated, rubbing a finger back and forth along the seam of her skirt, then muttered. “But I feel like such a fool, Mr. Featherby, clumpin’ around practicing curtseys wiv me gammy leg, let alone trying to dance.”

“I know,” he said gently. A faint smile crossed his normally impassive features. “You should have heard William the first time he put on footman’s livery.”

Daisy looked up. “He didn’t like it?”

Featherby’s smile widened. “He loathed it. Swore he wasn’t going to go around all trussed up like a Christmas goose.”

Daisy laughed. Big, rough-hewn William wasn’t the smoothest of footmen.

“But he grew accustomed to it, and he found a way to make the role his own,” Featherby finished. “And so will you, Daisy. You can do anything you put your mind to.”

Proving, Daisy thought, that he’d heard the whole argument between her and Lady Bea. Still, Featherby wasn’t given to saying things he didn’t mean. “You reckon so?”

“I know so. So, will you attend the lesson tomorrow?”

Daisy sighed. “You know I will. You’ve made me feel that big.” She made a gesture with thumb and finger.

Featherby gave her an approving smile. “My dear, never think that I intended to diminish you in any way. You—all of you girls—have the biggest hearts in the world.” He hesitated, then added in a voice that was slightly husky, “Lady Beatrice and your sisters are not the only ones who love you, you know. I never did have children . . .”

Daisy blinked and a lump formed in her throat. Featherby was such a perfect butler that it was easy to forget he was a man with his own private thoughts and feelings. She opened her mouth to say something, but he cleared his throat and surged to his feet, and suddenly he was no longer the kindly friend who’d just deprived her of the power of speech, but a very dignified butler whose face never expressed emotion of any kind.

He moved towards the door.

“Mr. Featherby.”

He stopped and glanced back at her, one brow raised.

“Do you like bein’ a butler?” She’d never wondered that before, had taken it for granted. But now she was curious.

For a second she thought he wasn’t going to answer, but then he said, “Remember the situation when we first joined Lady Beatrice, the mess she was in, the disarray, the dirt, the chaos and discomfort?”

Daisy nodded. She did indeed.

The place was a pigsty and Lady Beatrice bedridden and helpless.

“Now, because of me, this household runs like the most perfect clockwork, seamlessly and invisibly.” Then Featherby grinned, positively grinned. “Do I like being a butler, Daisy?” He swept her a bow that combined grace, dignity and a fair degree of triumph. “I love it! I am to butlerdom what you are to dressmaking—simply the best there is. In fact—though I hesitate to boast—I am regularly offered large . . . shall we say, inducements—I shall not call them bribes—to enter the employment of other ladies and gentlemen.” He wrinkled his nose fastidiously.

Daisy’s eyes widened. “What? You mean people are tryin’ to steal you from Lady Bea? You’re not tempted, are you?”

Featherby drew himself up proudly. “Not for one instant. William and I will never leave Lady Beatrice. Never! Not while I have breath in my body.”

Daisy nodded. She felt like that too about the old lady.

“I’m glad we’ve reached an understanding, miss.”

Daisy shrugged. She’d take her sewing with her to the lessons; she could sew as well as listen. “I ain’t going to dance, though,” she called after him just as the door was closing. “You won’t get me on any blood—er, bloomin’ dance floor!”