Chapter Two
Two days later, Amanda closed her inkwell and cleaned her pen at six o’clock. She carefully stacked the pages she had copied on one side of her desk, put some bills into a ledger, then picked up the ledger and went in search of Lady Farnsworth.
She found her in her apartment, at her own desk, penning something while wearing a deep frown. It looked to be another letter. Amanda noticed the salutation addressed the Duke of Wellington.
It no longer surprised her that Lady Farnsworth had male friends of the highest repute. Some had even paid calls in the five months since Amanda arrived. They would sit in the drawing room and discuss politics and other sophisticated topics. These gentlemen appeared to weigh her opinions seriously.
Sometimes Amanda sat in the drawing room with them. Lady Farnsworth said it was for her education, and indeed Amanda’s world had expanded as a result. She suspected the true reason for her presence was so Lady Farnsworth had another pair of ears hearing what was said, and another person with whom she could confirm her own memory of the conversation.
“Ah, you have the ledger. Are the accounts all in order?”
“The grocer made a mistake again. I have corrected that on the bill. All of the dispersals are noted in the ledger.”
Lady Farnsworth accepted the book and set it aside. She would hand Amanda the money to pay the merchants when she chose, but Amanda had realized after taking over this duty that the lady never really seemed to check the accounts first. Lady Farnsworth trusted that all would be done correctly.
And it was. Which was not to say that Amanda had not seen at once that if she were the person to be dishonest, the means to skim off five shillings or so every week lay within reach.
“I have noticed the grocer often makes those mistakes, my lady. Perhaps we should use another shop.”
“Hanson is only careless, I am sure.”
“He is careless on every bill, in a clever way.”
Lady Farnsworth’s dark eyes turned on her. “You are rather suspicious, Miss Waverly.”
“I would not be suspicious if every mistake were not to his advantage. He should strive to be careless on your behalf on occasion, if he is going to be careless at all.”
“You are sweet to be concerned, but with your keen eyes, no grocer will take advantage.”
“I think I will suggest that he find a pair of keen eyes to help him too.”
“You might do that. Possibly the poor man is only overworked and tired.”
What a good-hearted, optimistic woman. “I will be leaving now, if you have no further need for me.”
Lady Farnsworth set down her pen. “Before you go, I want you to know that you should dress better tomorrow. We will go back to Bedford Square and you will be introduced to the patroness of the journal. She is a lady of the highest distinction. I do not want you looking like a poor mouse.”
“What does such a lady want with me? She does know about me, doesn’t she?” It would be like Lady Farnsworth to assume that if she enjoyed her secretary’s company, everyone would, when in fact no one in her circle would care to make that secretary’s acquaintance.
“She is aware of your employment. She finds it interesting that I took on a woman. You are something of a curiosity, my dear.” She looked down at her letter. “I will need to redo this completely. I am afraid that once again I kept changing my mind as to the wording and now I question its emphasis. I will mull it over and finish it tomorrow night.”
“You intend to write tomorrow night, then.” Amanda could not believe her good fortune that Lady Farnsworth had opened a door to this subject. She had debated how to do so herself. “I thought you might be attending that big ball. I thought everyone who mattered was going. It is even all the talk in the shops.”
“Lady Hamilton’s ball? Good heavens, no. I can’t abide masked balls. What silliness. Not to mention all kinds of people sneak in. Even Cyprians attend. The gentlemen think that makes for wonderful fun, but I can do without eating supper beside a whore, thank you very much.”
“Maybe the journal’s patroness will attend and tell you about it, if you see her often.”
“Ah, you regret I will have no stories for you.” She cocked her head and thought. “I am quite sure that lady will not go. Tomorrow you will see why. I will collect gossip elsewhere if it amuses you, however.” She picked up her pen. “Now be off with you and take care. I worry about you out alone in town, Miss Waverly. Better if you lived here, as I offered, but I accept your reluctance to become too dependent on an employer.”
Amanda left the house to walk home. On the way, she made a little detour and entered Hanson’s Grocery. A shop favored by the elite of Mayfair, the establishment traded on its long pedigree as surely as it did in sacks of coffee, flour, and salt. The current Mr. Hanson had inherited the store and clientele from his father.
Amanda pretended to consider the wares for sale until the other patrons finished their business and left the store. Mr. Hanson then turned his attention to her. A tall, thin man with a shock of red hair, he had no trouble looking down his nose at her once he took in her simple garments. His red eyebrows rose enough to indicate he thought she had mistakenly wandered into the wrong establishment.
“I am Amanda Waverly, Mr. Hanson. I have served Lady Farnsworth these past five months as secretary. You probably do not remember that it is I who bring you her payments.”
He gave a slight nod, and his eyebrows lowered.
“I also maintain her accounts. I thought that I should tell you that whoever is in turn keeping your accounts needs close watching. Every bill my lady receives shows subtle alterations that I have to correct.”
“Indeed? Lady Farnsworth is a much-esteemed patron. I am distraught this has happened.” He did not look distraught in the least. A little annoyed, but not upset.
“It is not carelessness. It is deliberate. A one becomes a seven. A nine becomes a zero. Someone not checking carefully probably would not notice. In short, sir, the person sending out those bills has the mind of a thief, and that can lead to scandal, ruin, and destruction for an establishment such as yours.”
Red blotched his cheeks.
“I thought you should know. It would be a shame if that for which your family labored so hard was all lost due to an employee giving in to temptation.”
His deep frown caused those eyebrows to merge. “How good of you to take the trouble. I will look into it and see that it ends.”
“That is wise. Not every patron is as optimistic about human nature as my mistress is. If it is happening with others too, one of them might well swear down information against you. That would be most unfortunate.” She leveled a bland but direct gaze at him.
Now he did appear distraught. “I will see that the lady’s account is always correct in the future. I will check it myself.”
“How good of you. Good day to you now.” She left, satisfied that Mr. Hanson would reform. Should Lady Farnsworth ever employ someone else on her accounts, no one would take advantage of her good nature.
* * *
Two hours later, in the room that she let on Girard Street, Amanda surveyed the garments laid out on her narrow bed. She dumped out the contents of her shopping basket on the coverlet too.
These were the fanciest dresses given to her by Lady Farnsworth, so they were all of that lady’s antiquated style. Normally, Lady Farnsworth’s maid, Felice, should receive these castoffs, but Felice was of an age when she had no use for frippery as she called it, and was too proud to sell used garments to the dealers who specialized in such things.
Amanda always accepted the castoffs gratefully and labored for hours remaking the dresses as best she could into something more current by raising waists and cutting yards out of skirts. Some, however, would never be adaptable. Those were the ones now spread on her bed.
The setting sun illuminated them in all their unfashionable glory. It flowed through the small, southern-facing window set high in the wall of her cellar chamber. This had once been part of the kitchen of a family home before some owner broke the whole building into tiny hovels in which dozens of people crammed themselves.
She had discovered unexpected benefits to living in this cellar on Girard Street. Down here, the noise of those families eluded her. The former kitchen’s big hearth warmed her when she indulged in fuel, and plastered walls further held off the damp. A chamber abutting hers held the building’s only tub, used by everyone in the house. She could hear someone in there now, slamming the garden door while carrying in water from the old well in back. Living in the cellar meant she could use that tub at her convenience.
She could afford a bit better, but she saw little point in spending the coin for it. One space with a bed and a hearth suited her well enough, and she could save her wages for other things. One day, she might even fulfill her dream of traveling to America . . . a place where no one would ever learn about her past.
Of course, that would only happen after she completed the tasks currently required for her mother’s sake, and managed to avoid imprisonment as she did so. She was determined that this would be the last demand. The plan she had concocted for this one could, if it went even slightly wrong, cost her more than the price of a bad conscience and a few supplies. This dangerous game could not continue.
Nothing would be gained by dwelling on potential mishaps now. Her bold mission required bravado. Tentative thinking or counting the costs would only lead to failure.
She sang to herself while she placed the most expensive purchase among the garments, a white mask that she had bought at a warehouse. It covered most of her face, even reaching down the cheeks so only her eyes, nose, mouth, and chin showed. Now she must decide which gown it would complement the best.
She considered a combination that might pass for a member of France’s ancient regime. More embellishments would be required, however, and she did not have time to strip them off other garments and sew them on. She decided that if she removed the overskirt and tacked bits of lace at the end of the sleeves, the pink dress alone might do for a simple shepherdess.
“Amanda, I hear you singing in there. Can I come in?”
Katherine’s voice, muffled by the wall between her home and the bath chamber next door, jolted her out of her thoughts.
“Do you want to warm your bathwater?”
“If I could.”
“Bring it in.”
Katherine lived on the top floor. The air in her chamber might be better, but Amanda did not envy her having to climb all those stairs several times a day.
Her door opened and Katherine lurched in, carrying two buckets of water. Her red curls bounced to the rhythm of her awkward gait. “It should be against the law to never have enough fuel in a bathhouse. Does he expect us to use cold water from the well?” She set the buckets down on the hearthstone. Amanda went over and threw some fuel on the low fire.
“What is this here?” Katherine asked. She stood between two chalk marks on the bare wooden floor.
“I was thinking of buying a trunk that I saw in Mr. Carew’s shop, and wondered if it would fit.” Oh, how easily she lied. That skill had returned fast. She hoped all the others did too.
“It is huge. You can’t put it here. It will be in the way.”
“I suppose so. I will have to think of something else.”
Katherine lost interest in the chalk marks and walked to the bed. She eyed the dresses. “Fine things you own. Who would guess?”
“They are old-fashioned castoffs from my mistress, but for my purpose they suit me. I have to make some changes, however. I want to remove this overskirt.” She picked up her shears.
“You can’t just cut that off. It will look horrible with bits of the overskirt sticking out from the seam.”
“I should take it to a dressmaker but do not have the money. Perhaps I can hide the mess with this cording on this other one.”
Katherine held the skirt to the window’s light. She turned it inside out and examined it. “It should not be too hard to remove it properly, if you’ve the thread to sew the underskirt back to the bodice.”
“I’ve the thread, but doubt I possess the skill. That is no common seam.”
“Didn’t they teach you how to sew in that fine school you went to?”
“They taught us the needle skills expected of ladies. This is more substantial.”
“I can do this for you. I apprenticed for a couple of years with a dressmaker.” She shrugged. “Before James lured me to my fall, that is. Now I lay down ale and fight off drunken patrons, but make far more for my time than I ever would stitching rich ladies’ dresses in bad light.”
Amanda had not known about the apprenticeship, but she knew all about lying seducers like James. She and Katherine had that in common. It had formed a fast bond between them.
“If you could help, I would kiss your feet. I cannot pay you much—”
“You always let me warm my water here, don’t you? Of course I will help you. I am hurt you didn’t ask.” Katherine smoothed the dress’s bodice. “You won’t have the right stays for this. Needs a proper corset. What you have probably won’t be long enough, or firm enough in front. You show me what you do have, and I’ll see what can be done.” She continued examining the dress. “Not for me to ask, but why would you want such an old-fashioned thing?”
“I am going to attend that masked ball everyone is talking about.”
Katherine’s blue eyes grew wide. “You are a bold one! Not likely you will get in.”
“I will manage. Anyway, it can’t hurt to try.”
“How embarrassing if you are turned away, though. Why go to all this trouble for that insult?”
“I’d rather see it for myself than rely on bits of gossip from those who did not. I’ll also have a night of music and good food if my plan succeeds. Maybe the king will be there. Won’t that be a joke—for Amanda Waverly to be in the presence of royalty?”
“Maybe some rich lord will ask you to dance. If that happens, you be careful. This dress will show a lot of bosom and we know what that does to men.”
“I may allow one kiss, just to see if they do it differently. You would never forgive me if I didn’t find out.”
Katherine laughed. “Oh, I want to know, but I’m thinking it will be the same slobber and thrust.”
“I will sneak a cake out for you in my reticule.”
“I suppose some lamb and a good bottle of wine won’t fit, huh?”
“Perhaps I can hide some in this skirt, it is so big.”
Katherine began snipping the thread on the seam. “You’ve more courage than sense, but good luck to you. I will expect to hear every detail if I sew this dress.”
A half hour later, they had taken the dress apart. Katherine hauled her buckets back to her bath but promised to return later and help before going to the tavern. She offered to finish whatever needed doing during the day tomorrow.
Amanda ticked off the chores to be accomplished before tomorrow night. Of course she would gain entry. She would attach herself to a large group and slip through without trouble. That was the easy part.
After she gained entry would be when she would need some luck. She was counting on Lord Harold to be in attendance, or this would be all for naught.
And then she was counting on being clever enough to seduce him—at least up to a point.
* * *
Gabriel kept surveying the crush at the ball, but in doing so he never let Harry out of his sight. If given the chance, his brother would bolt.
At least the mask obscured Harry’s unhappiness. He even chatted with some guests. He was braving it out as arranged, but Gabriel could tell that thoughts of Emilia distracted his brother. Harry kept sending longing gazes in her direction.
The two of them had danced early on. It must have taken all the courage Harry could muster to pretend that he did not mind too much that his dear friend would be no more than a friend in the future. He had acquitted himself well enough, to Gabriel’s mind.
Unfortunately, Harry’s preoccupation with his misery meant he did not take much notice of the woman making every effort to attract his attention.
Possibly a pretty woman. One could not tell with that mask that covered most of her face. The mask drew one’s gaze to her red lips. Painted, perhaps, but provocative. She had a nice form, too, emphasized by the gown’s long, fitted bodice and deep décolleté.
“You should stop watching him.” Eric Marshall, Duke of Brentworth, offered the advice after he sidled over and followed the direction of Gabriel’s gaze. “He is not a boy and you should not treat him like one.”
“With any other sort of brother, I would not care how he comported himself. However, you know how Harry is.”
“He is not a man about town, to be sure, but he is his own man all the same. He is not sophisticated in matters of the heart either, but that only comes from experience.”
“It does not appear he is going to learn much from this experience. There is a woman trying her best to offer the only kind of solace that will help and he hardly notices her. She may as well be invisible.”
Brentworth turned his attention on Harry too. Surely the tallest man in the ballroom, his advantage in height meant he probably saw even more than Gabriel himself.
Gabriel noted that Brentworth had done him one better in the costume he wore, meaning that he wore none at all. Not even a mask such as Gabriel himself had donned to be polite. Several men refused to dress as knights or Romans or some other fools and only wore masks, but Brentworth had gone a step further.
“Do you know her, Langford? Did you put her up to this? Taking your brother to a brothel when he was eighteen can be excused, but further interference—”
“I do not know who she is. Nor is there anything familiar about her.” Normally he knew all the women at balls. At ones like this, however, some people attended who were not invited.
“She is persistent. Wherever he turns, there she is.”
Just then, Harry turned to walk toward the musicians and indeed there she was, in his way. This time, she succeeded engaging him in conversation.
Brentworth shrugged. “I’d say she is a Cyprian.”
“For all her forwardness, she is not acting like one. Perhaps she is an unhappy wife looking for adventure. Or even a shop girl hoping for a rich lover.”
Gabriel got a sense of determination behind that white mask, while the young woman leaned in to lure Harry. Dark curls piled high on her head and cascaded in thick ringlets on one side. A frilly white cap perched on her crown, and more frills framed the rounded tops of breasts visible with that décolleté. Give her a staff and she would appear a porcelain shepherdess come to life.
“I suppose they will find common ground without us.” Brentworth stepped around so he blocked the view. “Impressive speech last week, Langford. I regret that I was called out of town and unable to express my admiration before this. Rarely is a lord’s first speech worth hearing. Who knew you possessed such oratorical skills?”
“I did win that award at school.”
“Ah, yes. What high expectations everyone had then, that finally a Duke of Langford would speak well, and hopefully often. What possessed you to fulfill that hope now, after years of indifferent silence?”
Brentworth, who exercised his power with discretion, good effect, and well-regarded speeches, could be damned superior at times.
“I had something to say, so I said it. The impulse overcame me.”
“I am not such a fool as to believe you are that skilled. You can admit to me that the essay by Lady Farnsworth in that ladies’ journal last autumn embarrassed you into taking up your duties more seriously. No one has missed how you have attended sessions this past year far more often than ever in the past.”
He’d be damned if he admitted to anyone that the damned essay had found its mark. Insulting enough that eccentric Lady Farnsworth had all but named him in her scold. Worse that she’d titled her essay Slothful Decadence Among the Nobility. Hellishly bad luck that the essay appeared in the same issue of the journal that contained all the details about a huge scandal, which meant that the journal had enjoyed an unusually high level of circulation and reading. It had been published almost a year ago, but still men needled him about it, especially when they were drunk.
“As I have told you before, Lady Farnsworth’s essay has never been of interest to me except that I sometimes wonder to which duke she referred.”
“Whatever the reason, it is good to have you at sessions even if when you finally speak you sound a bit radical.”
“Radical? Is that what is being said?”
“A few say it. The rest merely wait to see.”
“What asses. Radical, hell.”
Brentworth shifted just enough for Gabriel to spy his brother, still engaged with that woman. Harry’s face had turned red. The vixen must be getting very bold indeed.
Harry turned his head and his gaze connected with Gabriel’s across the ballroom. The message sent by Harry could not be mistaken.
Save me.