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Billie cocked her head to the side, then twisted her spine a bit each way. It was better. Yet another aspect of genteel femininity she’d had no idea how to navigate: corset wearing. Or rather, “good” corset wearing. Apparently the ones she’d been wearing were far too permissive.
“Thank you,” she said to the seamstress, then cleared her throat. “Er, merci.”
“For you, ze corset should not be too uncomfortable,” Crossy said, coming over to inspect her handiwork. “Your stomach is lovely and flat. The problem we have is your breasts.”
Billie looked up in alarm. “My —”
“Very little meat to them,” Crossy said, shaking her head sadly.
It was embarrassing enough to have one’s breasts discussed like chicken wings, but then Crossy actually grabbed her. She looked over at Lady Manston. “We need to push them up more, don’t you think?”
She then demonstrated. Billie wanted to die on the spot.
“Hmmm?” Lady Manston’s face screwed up as she considered the placement of Billie’s breasts. “Oh yes, I think you’re right. They look much better up there.”
“I’m sure it’s not necessary…” Billie began, but then she gave up. She had no power here.
Crossy said something in rapid-fire French to her assistants, and before Billie knew what was happening, she’d been unlaced and relaced, and when she looked down, her bosom was most definitely not where it had been just a few moments earlier.
“Much better,” Crossy declared.
“Goodness,” Billie murmured. If she nodded she could actually touch her chin to her chest.
“He won’t be able to resist you,” Crossy said, leaning in with a confidential wink.
“Who?”
“There’s always a who,” Crossy said with a chuckle.
Billie tried not to think of George. But she wasn’t successful. Like it or not, he was her who.
While Billie was trying not to think of George, he was trying not to think of fish. Kippers to be precise.
He’d spent the better part of the week at the War Office, trying to gain information about Edward. This had involved several meals with Lord Arbuthnot, who, before he had developed gout, had been a decorated general in His Majesty’s army. The gout was a bloody nuisance (was the first thing he’d said) but it did mean he was back on English soil, where a man could have a proper breakfast every day.
Lord Arbuthnot was apparently still making up for his years of improper breakfasts, because when George joined him for supper, the table had been laid with what was normally morning fare. Eggs three ways, bacon, toast. And kippers. Lots and lots of kippers.
All things considered, Lord Arbuthnot put away a lot of kippers.
George had met the old soldier only once before, but Arbuthnot had attended Eton with George’s father, and George with Arbuthnot’s son, and if there was a more effective connection to press in the pursuit of truth, George couldn’t imagine what it was.
“Well, I’ve been asking,” Arbuthnot said, slicing up a piece of ham with the vigor of a red-faced man who’d rather be outside, “and I can’t get much about your brother.”
“Surely someone must know where he is.”
“Connecticut Colony. That’s as precise as it gets.”
George clenched his fingers into a fist beneath the table. “He’s not supposed to be in Connecticut Colony.”
Arbuthnot chewed his food, then looked at George with a shrewd expression. “You’ve never been a soldier, have you?”
“Much to my regret.”
Arbuthnot nodded, George’s reply clearly meeting with his approval. “Soldiers are rarely where they’re supposed to be,” he said. “At least not ones like your brother.”
George pressed his lips together, working to maintain an even expression. “I’m afraid I don’t catch your meaning.”
Arbuthnot sat back, tapping his steepled fingers as he regarded George with a thoughtful, eye-narrowed gaze. “Your brother is hardly an enlisted man, Lord Kennard.”
“Surely a captain must still follow orders.”
“And go where he’s told?” Arbuthnot said. “Of course. But that doesn’t mean he ends up where he’s ‘supposed’ to be.”
George took a moment to absorb this, then said incredulously, “Are you trying to tell me that Edward is a spy?”
It was unfathomable. Espionage was a dirty business. Men like Edward wore their red coats with pride.
Arbuthnot shook his head. “No. At least I don’t think so. Damned unsavory, spying is. Your brother wouldn’t have to do it.”
He wouldn’t do it, George thought. Period.
“It’d make no sense, at any rate,” Arbuthnot said briskly. “Do you really think your brother could pass himself off as anything but a proper English gentleman? I hardly think a rebel is going to believe that the son of an earl is going to sympathize with their cause.”
Arbuthnot wiped his mouth with his napkin and reached for the kippers. “I think your brother is a scout.”
“A scout,” George repeated.
Arbuthnot nodded, then offered the dish. “More?”
George shook his head and tried not to grimace. “No, thank you.”
Arbuthnot gave a little grunt and slid the rest of the fish onto his plate. “God, I love kippers,” he sighed. “You can’t get them in the Caribbean. Not like this.”
“A scout,” George said again, trying to get the conversation back on topic. “Why do you think this?”