50 Ways to Ruin a Rake (14 page)

“But they still need to be trained,” the duchess said. “And she does have a fine hand.”

“Every thief does.”

Eleanor clearly agreed as she said, “Listen to the girl. You're running a business, not a charity house.” She spoke in an undertone, the words obviously meant for Melinda and no one else. But Eleanor's voice had a way of carrying, and everyone turned to look at them—Eleanor and Melinda—where they stood witness to what was clearly a private debate.

“I-I beg your pardon,” stammered Melinda. “Perhaps Eleanor and I should look at the pattern books in the front parlor.”

“Unless you enjoy blood sport,” returned Bernard in a dry voice.

“Bernard!” the duchess cried. “Stop being crude! And don't threaten Tabitha. She's worth her weight in gold, and I'd be loathe to lose her.”

“Thank you, Your Grace—”

“And I would be sad to see you go over something this trivial. This woman sets a fine stitch. If she cuts as well as she sews, then—”

“Er, that's my job,” said the man who'd said he wasn't a whore. “I cut, she sews. We'll make a fine team.”

“No!” cried Tabitha.

Beside her, Eleanor heartily agreed as she whispered, “Don't. Just…don't.” Again, Eleanor's words were overheard. Lady Redhill shot them a glare over her shoulder, emphasizing to Melinda that they should not be here. So she took Eleanor's arm and began backing away.

Fortunately, Eleanor did not fight her. But once out of the room, she wasted no time in expressing her opinion. “Good God, how could Wendy be so stupid?”

“To hire a woman who needs the work? And who would be good at it?”

Eleanor huffed out a breath. “I thought you were beginning to understand, but apparently, I was wrong.”

Melinda didn't bother to respond. She knew that Eleanor would enlighten her soon enough. It took only a few more seconds for the woman to speak.

“Society is about appearances. It is all for show. That's why we're making you into the Cricket Princess.”

“Yes, I know, but what does that have to do with them?”

“People flock to this shop because they can then say that a countess and a duchess stitched their gowns. It makes them feel special and allows this shop to charge exorbitant prices.”

Melinda frowned. “Perhaps they come because Lady Redhill designs beautiful clothing.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes. “Of course she does, as do a hundred other designers throughout London. They come here because she is a countess, and Wendy is a duchess. People want them, not a whore.”

“But it is clothing.”

“It is about status. There is nothing elevating about wearing a dress stitched by a whore. Or a thief.”

Mellie thought about that, rapidly stacking up everything she had heard about London society. In the end, she made no comment. Instead, she picked up a pattern book and perused the sketches. But Eleanor, apparently, couldn't leave it like that.

“You think I'm wrong.”

“No,” Melinda responded honestly. “I fear you may be right.”

“You do?” Clearly she'd shocked Eleanor.

“I do,” she said. “But that doesn't mean I think it's right. In fact…” she said as her gaze fell upon Lady Redhill's sketchbook. The woman had set it here before rushing into the backroom. Grabbing the pencil, Mellie found a blank page and quickly wrote down an address as well as some detailed instructions. But before she did more, she looked at Eleanor.

“Do you find the duchess to be a smart woman?”

Eleanor frowned. “Of course I do. It is the only reason I bear any hope for my family name. Her problem is stubbornness, not idiocy.”

Mellie waved that aside. “What about her brother? Do you know anything of him? Can he judge a man or woman accurately?”

Eleanor took longer to decide on that, and Mellie was impatient by the time she finally spoke. “I have little knowledge of Bernard personally, but in the months that I have been guiding Their Graces, he has managed to quietly and consistently bring in money to the title.” Then she dipped her chin. “I'm not supposed to know that, and we should not be discussing money, but—”

“So you have no understanding of his character then?”

“On the contrary. I said he
quietly
brought in money. Which means he is likely not only smart, but discerning. Anything else would be noisy.”

Obviously, a grave sin. But that was enough of a reference for her. So she tore off the sheet and headed for the workroom. She wasn't surprised when Eleanor followed. The woman might be discreet, but she was still nosy.

Apparently, Tabitha had lost the argument. She stood mutinously by as the two newcomers were shown about the room. But everyone paused as Melinda entered. She crossed directly to Bernard, who stood with his arms crossed in the doorway, his eyes on the furious Tabitha. But when she approached him, his expression shifted to bland neutrality that others might mistake as ox-like placidity.

“I have a solution,” she said to the room in general. “But it's not ideal.” Tabitha looked up eagerly, but Bernard spoke, his voice rich in its low rumble.

“No solution needed. These two are settled here.”

“Yes, I can see that,” she said with her eyes on Tabitha. “But in case these two would like another option, I could find them employment in the country. My father's house needs a new maid who is handy with stitching. And my uncle owns a mill that could use a man with sharp cutting skills and brawny shoulders.” This man did not actually have broad shoulders, but with steady food he would probably grow stronger. “I have written down instructions on what to say to my father and uncle. They're in different counties—”

“Leave London?” the man asked, his gaze going to Bernard.

“Different counties? How far apart would we be?” asked the woman.

Bernard simply raised his hand for them to be silent. “That's a generous offer, Miss…”

“Miss Smithson. And I'm counting on you to vouch for their honesty.”

“Oh, I do. I most certainly do,” he said, his gaze cutting hard to Tabitha. “But these two are needed here at my sister's shop.”

Melinda knew better than to argue. She could see the determination in Bernard's eye. And though Tabitha sputtered and complained, Melinda saw the duchess study her brother in a long silence. And when Tabitha finally ceased with her litany of objections, it was the duchess whose voice slipped soft and quiet through the room.

“What aren't you telling me, Bernard?”

“Nothing, sister. Only what you already know.”

“Which is?”

“That I swore to your husband that no harm would come to you or yours from the…the other businesses.”

The duchess rolled her eyes. “He's overprotective.”

“No, Wendy, he's not. And these two are here to make good on my promise.”

“But—”

And finally, his expression broke. Finally, the man who had looked nearly ox-like in his calm, suddenly threw out a snort of frustration before running a hand through his badly shorn brown curls. “Damn it, Wendy, when will you trust me? Haven't I earned that these last months?”

The duchess reared back, her eyes wide with shock. “Of course I trust you. I've always—”

“Then these two stay here. They're honest workers, and they are best as a team.”

Tabitha drew breath to argue, but at a glare from the duchess, she wisely shut her lips. Meanwhile, Bernard wasn't done. He turned to Melinda, who had thought she was no more important than the nearest chair, but suddenly, he was touching her hand as he tugged the foolscap from her.

“There are others though, Miss Smithson. Others who would be happy for the work.”

She nodded slowly, wondering at just what kind of protection the duchess needed. And what this unlikely pair could do should the worst happen. But it wasn't her business except to offer good work to another pair, perhaps.

“It's hard work, and as I said—”

“I'll see that you get two good souls, Miss Smithson. They won't turn on you, I swear.”

Tabitha still couldn't keep silent. “And how would you know that, Mr. Drew? How can you be so sure—”

“Because they know better than to turn on me.” The words were spoken simply enough. There wasn't even an underlying ugliness to the tone. A straightforward sentence, but it nonetheless sent chills through Mellie's body. Despite his placid appearance, there was cold steel beneath Bernard's words, and everyone heard it, including Tabitha.

Then suddenly, he was all smiles as he bowed to Mellie. “I grateful for the directions, Miss Smithson. Now if you'll excuse me ladies, I haven't yet slept this night, and I'd like to seek my bed.”

“Haven't slept?” said his sister. “But it's nearly noon.”

“Even so.” With another bow to the room in general, Bernard disappeared into the alley. For such a large man, he moved quickly. And quietly too. There hadn't even been a sound to his footfalls as the workroom door clicked shut behind him.

And all was silent.

Except for Lady Eleanor. “If I may make a suggestion?” she said to the room at large.

Melinda all but groaned. Eleanor's opinion wasn't needed in this taut situation, but no one had the wherewithal to silence her.

“If you must employ these two, then I suggest you give them simple names and call them…well, call them Miss Smithson's friends from the country. At least that way, you have a hope of keeping their, um, previous occupations secret.”

To which the man replied, “There's nothing complicated about our names. I'm Charles, and that's Mary.” Everyone waited a moment, and eventually, he gave a charming smile. “Jones. Charles and Mary Jones.”

False names, perhaps, but it hardly mattered.

“Excellent,” Eleanor said, as if she were in charade. “Mr. and Mrs. Jones.”

“No, no,” the man corrected. “Brother and sister.”

The two couldn't look less alike. Whereas she had dark hair and an olive cast to her skin, he was sandy-haired, somewhat tall, and sported freckles. They were definitely not brother and sister.

“Very well,” the duchess said slowly. “Brother and sister from the country. Friends of Miss Smithson.”

Eleanor nodded briskly. “Melinda, pray acquaint them with some details of your home life in case someone asks. Lady Redhill, I believe you mentioned some green silk that needs to be discussed? Duchess, if you wouldn't mind speaking with your head seamstress, I'd appreciate it. Though I agree with her sentiment, it appears we have been overruled. In which case, the only alternative is to press on without a frown. Can't have the wrinkles, you know.” Then she took a deep breath as she looked about the room. “Really,” she drawled, “it's a good thing I'm of a flexible mind-set. Otherwise, I believe I should have gone mad when Radley first ascended to the title.”

And the startling thing was that absolutely everyone agreed with everything she said. Well, everything until she began pointing at some decidedly
not
green fabrics.

“Are you sure we can't add just a touch of Russian ornamentation?”

Ruin him in small ways with a nickname, a token, or an intimate promise.

Trevor was not a man who wrote well. He had friends who were great orators, others who could craft a sentence like a sculptor shapes marble. When he had promised to write Mellie daily, he had imagined himself sending missives filled with reassurances and clever anecdotes. Simple stories to buoy her spirit and make her smile.

He envisioned her smiling a lot when she read his letters. It was one of his favorite fantasies. Well, one of his non-salacious fantasies.

But when it came to actually creating these gems of written correspondence, he failed utterly. They contained statements like: “I went to the tailor today. He says I am a fit man.” Short, simple sentences less eloquent than his tailor bill. Clearly, she'd engaged herself to a dullard.

At least he had accomplished something. In the two weeks that he had been prevented from seeing Mellie, he had sent the announcement of their engagement to the papers. It had been published the next day with more eloquence than he could manage. At which point he had been flooded with invitations and visits from friends all wanting to know about his mysterious love affair.

He'd promised Eleanor to keep his answers short, giving only the barest details, all in anticipation of tonight's first ball where Mellie would be “revealed” to the world at large. Or at least to the
ton
. Lady Redhill had been prevailed upon to give the ball. And as she was also the woman who designed Mellie's clothes, everyone anticipated a grand theme. Or at least a spectacle.

What Mellie thought of this was a complete mystery to him, for as bad as he was at writing, she was arguably worse. She told him in equally simple sentences about this fitting or that visit to the milliner. She spoke in numbers more than words, as if life were some sort of mathematical formula.

“We had three trips today. I bought four hats and a pair of new walking boots. The cost is the equivalent of two downstairs maids for a year. Or a month's worth of my father's chemicals. I cannot think this is necessary, but Eleanor told me twenty-two times this morning that it is.”

There was only one missive from her that raised her above her normal level of accounting. In desperation for something to write to her, he had asked about her choices in dress. Her answer had been vague. She had indeed said that she enjoyed the process, which surprised him as much as it appeared to surprise her.

And then he was subjected to two pages of detailed notes on the chemical treatment of fabrics. Apparently, she and the duchess had found a common interest in the creation of cloth. Mellie had recorded a small portion of their discourse, and he had to dredge up all he remembered of various chemicals and cotton to follow her missive. In the end, he had encouraged her to record her thoughts for the next time she spoke with her uncle about their mill. And then he had asked her about her new boots. Thankfully, her comments on footwear were easier to understand: she disliked footwear that pinched. Fortunately, dancing slippers did not have this problem.

Good God, would they ever be able to convince anyone that they were in love? If their letters were proof of anything, it was that the two of them were the most unloving couple in London. And given the level of animosity between couples in the
ton
, that was a bleak assessment indeed.

Or so he thought until he presented himself at the ducal mansion at precisely five of the clock. They were to have a light meal before the ball began at seven. But when he arrived, no one was about. Not even Seelye. Apparently, the man had been recruited to help supervise the extra staff hired for the Redhill ball. A mottled-skinned maid too young to be anything but an apprentice opened the door. She'd shown him into the main parlor, forgot to take his hand and gloves, and then ducked away without saying a word.

And then he'd stood there in the parlor, fidgeting with his hat brim while worrying about the coming hours. Would Mellie be up to the task? Was he up to the task? Or would everyone see that they were complete frauds the very first moment they were seen together? What if Eleanor had exhausted her? What if—

“Good evening, Mr. Anaedsley. I see that your tailor was correct. You are indeed a very fit man.”

He spun around at the sound her voice. It was richer than he remembered. Her vowels were smooth, her expression even more so. She stood there at the entrance to the parlor looking like…like…

He blinked.

“What are you wearing?”

“Don't you like it?” she asked, a tremor of worry in her voice. She raised her arms and spun slowly before him. “The duchess was adamant that this was the perfect thing to wear. Eleanor thinks it will become all the rage. And Helaine—that's Lady Redhill—said it was her greatest design. Do you think…I mean…is it too much?”

He stared, completely at a loss for words. She was wearing feathers. She was wearing a lot of feathers. As in, from birds. He was sure there was fabric beneath the plumage, but he couldn't see it. Which meant she looked as if a stiff breeze would leave her completely naked. Worse, the feathers were of a smallish sort so they seemed to hug her body. It would be suggestive enough if she had a waifish appearance, but Mellie was sturdier than that. She was
curvier
than that. In truth, her body was more of the lush, Rubenesque variety. Full breasts, neat waist, and the kind of hips that made a man think of grabbing hold and thrusting like a beast in heat.

Good God, he wanted to pull off every one of those feathers with his teeth before he—

“There's a cloak for travel,” she said, “and it's hard to sit down without crushing things.” Then she flashed him a shy smile. “But it's fun. Or at least…I thought so.” Her voice trailed away on a mournful note, and he rushed to reassure her.

“No, no,” he said, his voice coming out thick with lust. “I mean, it's…”
Suggestive. Indecent. Licentious.
“I…um…”

She dropped her arms and stared at the floor. “I know it's awful,” she said.

“Er…what?”

“Crickets don't have feathers. I told them that, but they kept saying that no one would care. And it's mostly brown and green feathers.”

Yes, that was certainly true. Not that he'd noticed. He was too busy thinking of ways he could accidentally brush across her breasts. Would the feathers break? Fall off? What would be revealed beneath?

“Tabitha suggested we use real cricket wings, but I thought that was too much. Feathers are bad enough. I didn't want to wear real wings.”

“I can certainly understand that.”

“Trevor?”

“I think you are going to be quite the sensation tonight,” he said in all honesty. “I think the men will flock to you, and I am very grateful to have already announced our engagement. That gives me an excuse to stand by your side and keep the blighters away.”

“But not all of them right?” she pressed. “I still have to marry one.”

Like hell—oh, right. Their ruse. Of course. Suddenly, finding her a husband didn't seem like so daunting a task. Except he had the most desperate urge to hide her upstairs and never let her out. He didn't want any other man to see the treasure he'd found in her. And the idea of handing her over to one of the lust-addled men she'd meet tonight made him physically ill. It didn't matter that he was one of the lust-addled in question. He simply did not like the idea of anyone else seeing her as such a…a…

“Bloody hell, you're a beauty. Worse, you're to be a sensation as well.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “This is going to be damned difficult.”

“What?” she said, her word more of a quiet gasp. “You don't think they'll want me?”

He looked at her horrified expression and cursed himself for an idiot. Then before she could run, he took her hands and squeezed her fingers. She hadn't yet put on her gloves, so he could touch her skin to skin, and he once again marveled at how soft she was. How dewy fresh and innocent she seemed, even in that scandalous dress.

“Didn't you hear me, Mellie? I said you're beautiful. I wanted to find you a quiet man of science. But it'll be damned hard for such a person to get to your side now. Darling, you will be surrounded ten deep in men.”

She flushed, the pink of her cheek nicely accented by the dark green and black feathers. “But we're engaged, Trevor. The men won't flock to me. I'm already taken.”

She didn't understand the
ton
. “The decent men will respect that, Mellie. It's the indecent ones that I'm worried about it.”

“Oh.”

Oh indeed. He looked at her, seeing the anxiety in her expression though she tried to hide it under a nearly placid expression. How had he ever thought her uninteresting? He found every nuance in her expression fascinating. And right now, he saw a myriad of emotions in her eyes. Or perhaps that was merely a reflection of the jumping, contradictory feelings inside his brain. Either way, there was only one way to stop such destructive thinking. A simple thing, but he had been aching for two weeks now to do it.

He stepped forward and kissed her. He did it badly. On some level he knew that. A girl such as Mellie should be approached with reverence and care. She was green in the ways of the body, and yet he had none of his usual skill with her.

He simply kissed her because she was there, and they both seemed to want it. She didn't seem surprised. Her mouth parted on a sigh, and she stepped into his embrace in the same motion that he used to pull her tight.

The feathers were smooth, letting his hands glide sweetly down her back to her bottom. But her lips were silkier, her taste more delightful, and best of all was the sound she made as he thrust inside. No cricket chirp, but a soft, delighted sigh. He would make it a moan, he swore. A needful cry when he thrust into her, and then a keening moan as she came around him. It would happen. He needed it to happen, so he deepened the kiss and allowed his hips to thrust shallowly against her.

Easy now, deeper later, until—

“None of that now! You'll crush the feathers.”

He leaped back, or at least he meant to. All he did was jolt backward a bit while keeping one hand firmly planted on Mellie's hip. She, on the other hand, jumped like a startled colt. And even though she didn't move far from him, he could feel the anxiety rippling in the muscles beneath his hand.

Meanwhile, the duchess stood in the doorway looking like a living flame in a gown of orange red silk. Her arms were folded, but her eyes were dancing with laughter.

“I'm not one to stop an engaged couple's fun, but Mr. Anaedsley, that dress took forever to stitch. I'll not have you crushing it before Melinda's big moment.”

She was right. Trevor knew it, and so he slowly withdrew his hand. Especially since they weren't truly an engaged couple, and what he had been planning to do wasn't considered gentlemanly, even if they had been ready for the altar. Some things were meant for a marriage bed, but damn…

“She's too beautiful, duchess. This gown is too…too…” Damn it, now was not the time to lose his words! “She cannot be so beautiful,” he repeated, knowing how ridiculous his words sounded. “She's a wealthy woman. When she looks like this…” He shook his head. “I won't be able to keep her safe.”

“Which is why you have friends, Mr. Anaedsley. And even if you didn't, Miss Smithson has become very dear to me. No one will harm her.”

“Certainly not,” inserted Eleanor as she stepped into the parlor. “She's my charge. Everyone will treat her with the utmost respect or risk my displeasure.”

He shot a look at his childhood friend. Did she truly believe her dislike would have any impact on a randy man? Apparently, she did, so he said nothing. Fortunately, the duke chose that moment to appear in the doorway a half step behind Eleanor. Trevor met his calm expression with a desperate one of his own. Only to have the man burst into laughter.

“In love with a beautiful woman? Nervous whenever she appears in public?” the man taunted. “It's a trial we lucky few must learn to bear.” He said the words to Trevor, but his eyes were on his wife. She visibly preened as his gaze took in her body. The two flowed toward one another, as if gravity simply pulled them close. They were about to kiss when Eleanor snorted.

“Good heavens, must you do that everywhere? We've no time for it especially since Trevor is behind schedule.”

Trevor frowned at her. “I was here at five of the clock. Exactly as you said. It was you—”

“Not that, you dolt. You are behind time with Miss Smithson.”

“What?” He looked at Mellie who seemed equally baffled.

Then Eleanor held up Mellie's green gloves, which she'd brought into the room. “For an engaged woman, her hand is distinctly bare.”

Now he remembered. It wasn't that he'd forgotten exactly, but he hadn't wanted to do this with an audience. “Eleanor—”

“Hurry up, Trevor. It's not as if this is a
significant
gesture.”

No, it wasn't. Because this was not a real engagement. Still, the matter required delicacy. Especially since…

“It's all right,” Mellie said, her voice soft, but so easily riveting his attention. “If you haven't got one with you—”

“Don't be silly,” he said at the exact same moment that the two other women in the room made their opinion known.

The duchess snorted. “Of course it's significant.”

“Don't be embarrassing,” Eleanor said as she tugged her own gloves further up her arms.

Trevor did his best to ignore them as he captured Mellie's hand. He tried to draw her apart from the others, but she didn't move beyond allowing him to raise her arm.

“Mellie, look at me please,” he said.

Her gaze leapt to his, and he watched the color deepen in her cheeks.

“You should be wearing the signet ring of the Duke of Timby,” he said. “All the Timby brides wear it for their first presentation. Usually for the whole of the engagement, before it goes back to my grandfather.”