Of Noble Birth (6 page)

Alexandra hesitated. She was certainly
capable of fixing the gown, but time was short. And being invited
into the same room as a titled lady was incredible enough, without
pretending to be one of Madame Fobart’s own girls. Why, every one
of them paid a hefty price to apprentice, and for a good number of
years before they made a salary as seamstress. Only the best ever
became show women, taking measurements, helping to select fabrics
and accoutrements, then passing the orders on to others who worked
behind the scenes.

Still, Mr. Calvert had presented her with an
opportunity. Perhaps it was the opportunity she’d been looking
for.

“Actually, my stepfather asked me to collect
for the skirts,” she said, holding her breath as she looked into
Mr. Calvert’s watery eyes. “Once I’ve received payment, I’m sure it
would be a small matter to fix the lady’s dress.”

His eyes narrowed, evidence that he
understood her suggestion to be the demand that it was. “Willy
usually takes care of such business.”

“I know, but he’s not well today, and
we... I
mean he... he needs the money, you
see.”

Calvert glanced over his shoulder. “I
haven’t time to deal with such issues now. After—”

“It shouldn’t take but a moment.”

He scowled. “Fine. Here.” Reaching into his
pocket, he shoved several notes toward Alexandra, obviously more
worried about the noblewoman awaiting his return than anything
else. “Here’s at least half, but you’ll receive no more until
you’ve finished with my client. You are competent, are you
not?”

“Of course.” Alexandra’s heart pounded as
she took the money from Calvert’s outstretched hand.

“I’ve sewed since I was small. But what
about my clothes?” She was sure her dress constituted nothing
better than a rag by Mr. Calvert’s standards.

“Sonya will fetch something that’s
appropriate. We’ve a girl who looks to be about your size, though
you’re quite thin. Come, we mustn’t keep Lady Anne waiting.”

Alexandra felt gratified by her small
victory over Calvert, but still she hesitated. She had never served
the rich, her mother’s world. The very thought made her jumpy. What
if her fingers shook?

Reminded of her hands, Alexandra groaned
inwardly. Her mother had been a lady, and she could act the part
easily enough. But her hands were working hands. Callused and
pinpricked, they were the most obvious sign of her low station.

Before Alexandra could voice her concern,
Calvert moved away, obviously eager to return to his influential
client. She stared at his broad back as he disappeared down the
hall toward the front of the house, then swallowed hard.

Money or not, it was too late to refuse.

* * *

Spouting directions in a high, spirited
voice, Sonya dropped a silk dress over Alexandra’s head. As Mr.
Calvert had predicted, it was a bit large. “Do ye know ‘ow ter
carry yerself?” she asked.

Alexandra nodded, but her answer didn’t stop
Sonya from offering her own advice on the matter.

“I’ve seen ‘ow they carry on.” The maid
fixed a small lace cap onto Alexandra’s head, one with long
streamers of ribbon that fell over her shoulders down to her feet.
“As ye know, the best show women are French. Monique meets with the
finest clients. She glides when she walks and smiles sweetly. Of
course, she curtseys upon enterin’ the room... but not such a
‘umble curtsey,” she corrected when Alexandra attempted the same.
“Now, ‘old still while I pin yer ‘air. Let’s see. She laces ‘er
talk with ‘m’lady’ this and that, an’ speaks nothin’ but flatterin’
words, lies mostly, but they all seem to like ‘er. At any rate,
she’s the golden calf around ‘ere, an’ even sups with Mr. Calvert
in the evenin’.” Sonya drove the last hairpin into place,
muttering, “That’s the best I can do. I’m no ladies’ maid, any more
than ye’re a real show woman.”

“It’s fine. How do I look?” Alexandra turned
on her toes so Sonya could view her from all sides.

“Beautiful. I wouldn’t ‘ave guessed it would
be so easy, but ye look as good as any show woman I’ve ever seen,
if ye are a mite underfed. Just remember, work quickly and don’t
say anythin’ unless ye ‘ave to.”

Alexandra nodded again. Physically she stood
ready for the charade, but her insides quaked. “Give me a moment to
prepare my mind,” she pleaded when Sonya hurried her to the
door.

“That would only make it ‘arder for ye. Come
on”—she motioned—”I’m sure Lady Anne is not used to waitin’.”

When Sonya ushered her into the vast
rectangular drawing room where Mr. Calvert sat with his guest,
Alexandra couldn’t stop herself from staring. The furnishings were
luxurious. Despite her nerves and her self-consciousness, she
admired all she saw. Large gilded mirrors alternated with panels of
richly textured green wallpaper; and a thick burgundy, green, and
beige rug stretched across the floor. Three elaborate chandeliers
hung from the ceiling, their cut glass twinkling overhead, and
heavy, burgundy-colored draperies with gold tassels encased the
windows.

Alexandra’s heels tapped on the shiny wood
floor, then sank into the deep pile of the rug as she walked toward
the far wall, where a fire burned brightly and two women sat
opposite Mr. Calvert. Engrossed in conversation as they sipped tea,
they did not bother to look up until Mr. Calvert’s eyes darted in
her direction.

“My lady, let me introduce Miss Alexandra,”
he said, finally drawing their attention to her. “She is our new
show woman and will mend your gown so you can be on your way. You
must be eager to reach your mother. Scotland is so far, after
all.”

Alexandra’s stomach fluttered, and she
wished she had eaten. Nourishment of some kind might have steadied
her nerves.

Stopping several feet in front of the small
group, she curtseyed as the women glanced at her before continuing
their conversation with Mr. Calvert.

“Yes, poor Mother has been ill over a year
and does not seem to improve,” Lady Anne complained while Alexandra
studied her face. She was a beautiful woman, with coloring not much
different than Alexandra’s own. Blond hair, coiled into two buns
dripping with ringlets above each ear, framed an oval face that
held wide green eyes, high cheekbones, full lips, and an upturned
nose. The maid was rather plain and looked at least ten years
older, closer to thirty than twenty.

“I’m sorry to hear such distressing news,”
Calvert said. “Alexandra will be quick about her work then. She’s
an excellent seamstress. We just brought her from Londontown where
she apprenticed at Lady Sutherby’s.” He turned his small eyes upon
Alexandra, looking as if he believed his own mistruth.

The falsity of Calvert’s words made
Alexandra want to duck her head, but she quickly realized that such
poor acting on her part would surely give them away. With an
effort, she forced her shoulders back and her head up.

Lady Anne’s brow rose slightly as she turned
to Alexandra.

Calvert nodded. “Well, I’ll leave you ladies
to your business.” Though the words poured easily from his mouth,
Alexandra understood the pointed smile that rested on his face.
Do
it now and make it fast,
he
urged.

Alexandra was grateful that her speech, at
least, indicated her own good breeding. “It shouldn’t take but a
few moments,” she promised.

Calvert gave Lady Anne and her maid a
sweeping bow before leaving the room, then Alexandra eyed the torn
gown with a discerning eye. An elegant day dress made of blue
barege, it had a high, plain body that buttoned up the front to the
throat. Full bishop sleeves ended in a deep cuff at the wrist, and
the skirt had several flounces, each bordered with quilled
ribbons.

“My lady, if you will stand before the
mirror, I’ll have a look at the problem,” Alexandra said.

“The tear is here.” Lady Anne indicated a
spot that looked as though she’d caught her skirt on a nail or some
such. “I was tempted to wait until I reached my mother’s, but this
gown was a gift from her. I’m afraid if I don’t have it fixed right
away, the damage will become irreparable.”

“I see.” Alexandra bent to examine the
offending flounce. “This shouldn’t be too difficult to mend. When
I’m finished you won’t even know it was there.”

After helping the duke’s daughter to remove
her dress, Alexandra carried it from the room in search of a
needle. She did not yet know where she was to find the color of
thread she needed, but with twenty seamstresses staying under the
same roof, sewing supplies could not be far off.

“How is everything?” Calvert asked. He had
been hovering near the portal and nearly pounced on her when she
emerged.

“So far, all is well. I need some blue
thread and a needle, however, and I have no idea where to find
them.”

“I’ll show ye.” Sonya appeared from nowhere,
it seemed, and led her upstairs to a large, well-equipped room.

Alexandra found thread in a rainbow of
colors and chose the one that best matched Lady Anne’s dress. Then
the doorbell sounded, and Sonya left to answer it.

It took only a few minutes for Alexandra to
stitch the tear. But when she left the sewing room and reached the
landing, she stopped short. Her stepfather’s voice echoed through
the hall below; Willy wasn’t more than ten feet away.

Panic raised the hair on Alexandra’s arms.
She had a good inkling what Willy would do if he found her here and
learned she had already collected some of the money for the skirts.
She had experienced such retribution before.

Sonya told him Mr. Calvert would be with him
shortly and ushered him into a room straight off the bottom of the
stair as Alexandra’s thoughts flew in a thousand different
directions. In a matter of minutes—as soon as Calvert saw her
stepfather—Willy would learn the truth. She had to hide!

No, she had to escape! If Willy caught her
now, she’d never make the train. Worse, she’d probably be unable to
leave the house for several days. She’d miss Aunt Pauline for sure,
and lose the opportunity to be free of her stepfather.

Feeling the weight of the money already in
her pouch, Alexandra hesitated a mere fraction of a second before
racing back the way she had come. She quickly donned Lady Anne’s
dress, praying that Willy would never recognize her so elegantly
garbed, and snatched a bonnet of blue satin and dangling black lace
from the workbench of some unknown milliner.

Ducking her head so the lace that cascaded
down her back would fall about her face, she crept to the top of
the stairs. Calvert was nowhere to be seen, but Willy hovered near
the entrance to the room where Sonya had asked him to wait.

How could he have such terrible timing?
Alexandra wondered, writhing in the misery of her own bad luck. She
had been so close!

Her fingers curled into the palms of her
hands as she started down the stairs. It was now or never. She had
to escape before Calvert appeared.

Willy glanced up, his attention drawn by the
swish of her skirts. His gaze passed over Alexandra like a cold
breeze, but she steeled her nerves against it. Keeping her chin
tucked resolutely into her chest, she allowed him a clear view only
of the black tulle of her cap.

He cleared his throat as Alexandra brushed
past, so close she could have reached out and touched him. The fear
that seized her at that moment nearly caused her to collapse in a
puddle at his feet. She knew he probably expected her to glance up,
but she kept her face averted, forcing one foot to step in front of
the other as she moved purposefully toward the front door.

The sound of heels clicking on the floor
behind her alerted Alexandra to Calvert’s approach. His voice
confirmed his identity when he called out in confusion.

“My lady! Where are you going? Pray, give me
a moment to bid you farewell.”

Alexandra didn’t so much as pause. The front
door was now only a few feet away and she fled through it, nearly
tripping on the hem of Lady Anne’s gown as she ran down the porch
steps.

The footmen waiting with the Kimbolten coach
out front jumped to attention. One even moved to open the door
before realizing Alexandra was not his mistress.

But before he could speak, five
gruff-looking men dressed in sailor’s garb rushed the liveried
servants, seeming to come from nowhere, as if the shrubs in the
yard had suddenly grown arms and legs.

The footmen were knocked senseless with a
few bone-crunching blows, and the next thing Alexandra knew,
someone was forcing a bag over her head.

She tried to scream, but managed only a
squeak unworthy of a mouse as a strong hand coiled around her neck,
nearly cutting off her air. Flailing in panic, she began, despite
her heavy skirts, to kick at everything and anything she could
reach. She hit what felt like a sturdy shin here, perhaps a knee
there, but the recipient of her blows seemed impervious.
He—Alexandra could tell it was most definitely a he—didn’t so much
as grunt or stumble, only pulled her hard against a solid
chest.

“Tie her up and make it quick,” he muttered,
letting go of her neck.

Once the bag was in place, he crushed her
face into the hollow beneath his shoulder. Alexandra caught the
scent of leather, horses, and soap through the cloth. Then she
heard a strange whimper rise in her own throat as her hands were
twisted painfully behind her back and bound with a thick, tarry
rope.

“And her feet?”

“Not now.”

Whoever held her hefted her easily over a
broad shoulder. Then a deep, resonant voice, dripping with
resentment, whispered, “Hello, dear sister. So we meet at
last.”