Counterfeit Countess (8 page)

‘dressmaker’ instead.

A footman in a flamboyant costume stood by the door. Faith suspected he only allowed her in the front way because of the man in the distinctive maroon and gold of the Graywood livery, rather than her own appearance.

She didn’t expect the lady herself to meet her. But Faith spied her at the far end of the shop, attending a lady wearing a bonnet with a monstrous ostrich feather sticking straight up. After Faith had stood there for a good five minutes, she glanced over, and her gaze stilled, as if surprised to see her standing there. Too late, Faith realised she probably looked more like a lady’s maid than a lady, and should not in that case have used the front door.

But something in her appearance or maybe her stubbornness in standing inside the front entrance where everyone would see her eventually drew the proprietress over.

Gathering her courage together and reminding herself, as she had so many times before that she wasn’t facing a firing squad, Faith maintained her position and gave the dressmaker a frosty
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smile. Cerisot had a figure much like Faith’s own, full breasts and hips with a small waist, a shape men admired but exceedingly difficult to dress elegantly. Her blonde hair was caught back in a loose style that Faith would wager her grandfather’s silver watch she’d pinned ruthlessly into place and her smile fixed and professional. Closer up, she revealed her true age in the fine lines on her face and the silver strands at her temples. Either that, or she chose to present herself thus to make her clients appear better.

“May I help you?” Cerisot glanced outside to where the crested carriage waited by the kerb, the two chestnuts stamping their hooves and snorting in the cool sunshine. Her expression relaxed an infinitesimal amount.

“You may. Thank you for asking.”

Ah, Cerisot had not expected that. Her lips twitched. Faith carried on. “I’m the Countess of Graywood. My husband is John, the sixth earl.” That would save her counting. She wondered how far the news of the previous earl’s death had travelled, but apart from a couple of raised brows the other occupants of the shop didn’t appear surprised. Two women sat together studying sketches, mother and daughter she guessed from their respective ages and their resemblance to each other. Another woman of equally high fashion accompanied the lady with the bonnet. The two maids standing by the end wall had gasped. That told Faith how to continue. Cerisot merely waited, her countenance one of patience and fortitude. “My husband came unexpectedly into the title. I was living quietly so I had no need for fashionable garb, but I shall require a new wardrobe.” Remembering what John had told her about putting on a show, she plunged in recklessly. “A set of mourning and half mourning clothes immediately and for the first part of the season. Later I will want to go back into colours.”

Cerisot’s eyes narrowed, but not with suspicion or dislike.

Rather, speculation filled the robin’s egg blue. She took in Faith’s appearance in one comprehensive glance. “I am extremely busy.”

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Faith continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “We’re planning a reception as soon as decently possible. My husband is a distant connection to the late earl. While we wish to demonstrate the respect he is due, full mourning for a long time would not be entirely appropriate.” A nod from the lady in the bonnet. Faith had gauged the reaction appropriately. To go into deepest black for six months would show a vulgar and inappropriate display.

The people in the shop were unashamedly listening, their previous occupations totally abandoned. The complete realisation of what she had done hit Faith with the force of a rifleman’s bullet and she barely stopped herself sucking in a breath of horror. “There will be other events. The unfortunate demise of their brothers will curtail the activities of Lady Louisa and Lady Charlotte, so they’ll require completely new wardrobes later in the season, or maybe next year. That depends on their mother.”

More interest from Cerisot. “I believe they frequent another seamstress.” Not a dressmaker or mantua-maker, Faith noticed.

“However they are attractive young ladies under the unbecoming yellow and pea-green.”

“If you decide you have the time to spare,” Faith said, without curling her lip, “I may endeavour to persuade their mother to allow them to change their minds. Lady Louisa has been receiving a great deal of attention from a certain young man,” she continued recklessly, “It would be a pity if she allowed this family tragedy to affect her prospects.” She had no idea who she was talking about, she just hoped Louisa had at least one suitor. It would give Cerisot the prospect of dressing a society bride, something that could enhance a dressmaker’s reputation. “Lady Graywood thinks your styles too modern and forward for her children, but I consider your designs delightful. I would trust you to help me choose what is most appropriate.” If this woman didn’t know, nobody did.

At last, Cerisot spoke. “I have a mourning dress which I can make ready for you in a day, if you wish it, my lady. However, other
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items will take some time and it may not be advisable for you to appear out in anything else. I would suggest a full consultation. If you would step this way?”

Faith followed her across the room and into a small, private room. There she contained her astonishment long enough to accept refreshment and a maid to assist her to slip out of her day clothes.

It took two hours for Cerisot to measure her, show her the mourning-dress that was daringly fashionable for such an item, and advise on others. Then Faith ordered more clothes than she’d know what to do with. However she graciously took Cerisot’s advice to restrict her choices and select classic styles until she should go out of half mourning towards the end of the season. Faith thought she might remain in half mourning at least until the summer, especially when she saw the colours and fabrics she could wear. She’d been right about the colours colours. Dark greens and blues, but not reds, apparently. Purples and lavenders, greys and white, which, Cerisot informed her, was the old colour of mourning. “Not that I would advise that your ladyship wears a great deal of pure white,” she added. “It is not your best colour.”

Something Faith knew well. A smug triumph ran through her as she examined designs. She’d achieved this for herself. Acceptance by London’s most in-demand dressmaker put her nearer to the close-knit circle John was aiming for. She would do anything to help him with that. Not, she shamefacedly admitted to herself, out of the goodness of her heart and consideration of the employees who might otherwise have no position. No, simply for him. The man who’d accepted her and held her in his arms all night. For him she’d do anything.

When she left the shop with several packages and a promise that she would ensure that she delivered the rest as soon as possible, she had the milliner to visit. Cerisot recommended the right one. Faith guessed they probably had a little business arrangement, but she didn’t object to enterprises of that nature, merely the wearying
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choice of this feather or that, this braid or that. By this time she had tired of the constant concentration on her appearance. But the visits made her visible. People would talk about her when they met tonight. They would establish their existence when they entered society in a couple of weeks’ time and society would be on its way to accepting them. If she took care.

Back at the house, she gained more information when she joined Lady Graywood for tea. Being a person of refinement, her ladyship served nothing other than bread and butter with tea, but Faith preferred small cakes and scones. Not that she had them today.

Instead, conversation in which Lady Graywood painstakingly instructed her on her duties followed, interspersed with some extremely shrewd questions. It began innocuously enough, with enquiries about her childhood and upbringing, most of which she’d told the dowager before, but maybe the lady hadn’t been listening then. After all she was only an afterthought, someone her ladyship could safely patronise.

To shield herself, she started to ask questions in return. Since they had closed the house to visitors, this being a mourning period, Faith had confidence they would not meet with any interruptions.

But she did not wish her ladyship to become an enemy. Making enemies needlessly never worked out well.

To her relief, John came in after an increasingly uncomfortable twenty minutes. Just as Faith realised that the time they’d spent lovemaking and sleeping might have better been employed creating a story that they both could answer to with confidence. The interruption and the consequent order of fresh tea gave the discussion a different turn, and John explained he’d arranged to have the books delivered to the house. An estate as large as the one he commanded would always have a legal case or two pending. “I need to review everything,” he said.

Lady Graywood demurred, her hand delineating a graceful arc.

“Surely not, Graywood. Roker has had the business of the estate in
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hand since the Restoration. I doubt there are any irregularities.”

“I desire to understand the business of the earldom completely.

When the steward has recovered from his chill, I want interviews with him as well, although I feel they might be more rigorous. And I desire my wife to meet my own man of business. I have an appointment at his offices tomorrow.”

“Can you not summon him here? That would be more convenient, would it not?” Lady Graywood’s expression said it all.

She strongly disapproved of the Earl of Graywood attending his lessers in that way. “Of course, in your previous life you would have need to take such tasks on yourself. I can see no such requirement now.” Lady Graywood leaned back, as much as she could in her tight stays, with a satisfied smile, as though she had successfully concluded the matter.

“I see it,” John said. If the dowager had known him better, she’d have given in when she saw the light of battle in his eyes. Faith had seen that expression before, in different circumstances. “I control my investments myself. I intend to continue to do so.” He turned his full attention to the dowager and she met his gaze, but stiffened even more than usual. She’d needed some reserve to stand up to that regiment-commander stare. It said much for her character that she managed to do so.

“It is, of course, not my concern,” she said, “Merely that some people will find the practice a trifle-odd.”

“Some people may go hang,” he said bluntly, then swung his attention to Faith.

She braced herself but she saw only kindness and polite interest.

“Would you care to accompany me? The offices are on the docks, so a trifle inaccessible for a woman of sensibility but accompanied by your husband it would be unexceptional.”

Why would he want her? Faith had no idea, but she liked the notion. “Yes please.”

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He gave her a sweet smile. “I prefer my wife to know who she may call on in the event of my demise. Mr. Pickering is definitely someone you should know.”

He kept saying that word, ‘wife.’ She felt uncomfortable when he said it, especially when he used the word with such ease. “I don’t want to think about that,” she said without considering her remark, because his use of the other word had unnerved her. It revealed too much. She’d always yearned for him, dreamed of him, but when she finally achieved her aim, it had been so much more than she’d imagined.

The corner of his mouth moved but she did not mistake the hunger that entered his gaze. “Thank you. None of us wish to think about it, but in that eventuality, it must be considered, and it would be better if you knew the key people.”

“I don’t think my son mentioned a Pickering.” Concerned at the quaver in her ladyship’s voice, Faith turned her attention back to her, but as usual, the lady showed no emotion.

“Pickering is my agent,” he said. “He is a sound man. I intend to ask him to examine the shipping concerns of the earldom and compile a report for me.”

The dowager showed no response, only a shrug. “You will, I’m sure, excuse me from such considerations.” She shot Faith a glare.

“It’s not a woman’s affair.” She seemed most insistent on that point.

Had her husband instilled it in her?

“Indeed,” she said immediately, and then saw a way she could mollify the countess without upsetting her. “But if my husband wishes me to meet the gentleman, then I am obliged to comply.”

The responding nod was of the infinitesimal variety. “You are right. A shame, because I was planning to introduce you to my dressmaker, who will call tomorrow.”

“I called on Cerisot,” she said, “And she wishes to supply me with some mourning gowns. I didn’t want to put your woman to the trouble.”

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The air froze as the dowager took a deep breath, swelling her formidable bosom and the light of anger sparkled in her eyes.

“Cerisot and Dalkeith have been at odds this last five years. It is doubtful they will serve the same establishment. I have patronised Dalkeith for that time, but I fear she’ll take umbrage if Cerisot sets foot across this threshold.” She leaned forward, as if to impart confidential information. Faith resisted the urge to lean further back in her seat. “Most of society considers Cerisot a little too daring, too dashing. She serves the racier set. It isn’t something the Countess of Graywood must encourage.”

“By the racier set,” Faith said coldly, “Do you mean the likes of Lady Caroline Lamb, or the demimonde?” She’d wager she saw nobody of that nature in the shop that morning.

“The former,” her ladyship said coldly.

“While her behaviour might be seen as regrettable, her ton is impeccable,” Faith pointed out. “If I ask her she might consent to accept you as clients. But we should make it clear to both women that what they do outside this house is their concern.” A notion struck her. “Or we may foster the rivalry. It would certainly bring us to the forefront of society.”