Page 52

Chelmsford Mansion

Berkley Square

O livia took her time spreading marmalade on her thickly buttered toast, careful to keep her fingers at a proper, ladylike angle. His Grace, Perseus Whitcombe, Duke of Chelmsford, quietly lowered his copy of The Times he’d been hiding behind ever since she’d joined him at the breakfast table.

“Where is, um, Her Grace?” She added “Your Grace” at the last minute, causing her face to flush hot beneath her infernal lace cap. She’d been assured by her aunt, Lady Camilla, every proper lady of the ton should wear one during mornings at home.

He gave her a mischievous look. “I thought you might know.” And then he laughed. When his entire face lighted up at the small joke, she suddenly suspected what few members of the ton realized. She saw a glimpse of what made Captain El become animated at the mere mention of the duke’s name.

Olivia fairly itched to ask the tall, handsome, unflappable duke how he and the duchess had met, but she knew that would be an intrusion too far.

“And, please. Anyone hearing you address me as ‘Your Grace’ would doubt the veracity of our familial connection.” After a short pause, he added, “Uncle Percy is what my brother’s children call me.

” He hesitated another tiny moment. “And that’s how you should address me as well if we’re to pull off a charade in public that you’re truly a long, lost niece. ”

She stiffened and frowned.

“That way, we’ll have time to practice here at home before we’re out in society.”

“All right, ‘Uncle Percy.’” She relaxed a bit at his explanation and tucked into her cup of hot cocoa and plate of Cook’s perfectly golden toast.

The duke explained, “My wife comes and goes at all hours. I’m never quite sure where she is, but neither of us ever doubts the depth of our affection for each other.

” He took a deep sip of black coffee and continued.

“As you well know, much of her work centers around saving and protecting those who cannot defend themselves. I trust when I awaken to an empty bedchamber that she’s off somewhere, rescuing someone in some dark corner of the world. ”

“Are you never concerned for her safety,…Uncle Percy?”

A sober look replaced his former cheerful mien.

“She is an elusive creature, feared from the depths of the London rookeries to the velvet-hung drawing rooms of Mayfair, and all the way across the Mediterranean.” His engaging, charismatic smile returned.

“I’m just grateful I can be here to provide the comfort and shelter of my arms when she returns from her latest adventure, good or bad. ”

A fter her adopted “uncle” left for a meeting at Westminster, Olivia asked for an additional pot of hot tea to be brought to the family sitting room where she could wait for Madame Clarot to complete the fittings for her coming-out ball dress as well as an additional, extensive wardrobe to get her through the Season.

The closer the date of her coming-out loomed, the more nervous she became.

She had to quell the urge to run from the Berkley Square mansion, screaming that she was an imposter who had to return to her lodgings at Goodrum’s House of Pleasure.

Goodrum’s, where she managed a particular laundry for Mayfair’s wealthiest patrons, had come to feel like home.

The thing was, Eleanor Goodrum’s magnificent club was the only place she’d lived since she’d left the St. James Square mansion of Lady Camilla Bowles Attington Carrington Whitby.

She and her brother Dickie had been whisked from the streets of Seven Dials by Lady Camilla and her nephew, Lionel Carrington-Bowles, a surgeon to the poor of the Dials.

Dickie had supported her as well as himself over the years by peddling information.

Information for which the immensely wealthy denizens of London were willing to pay handsomely.

Olivia had done her part by taking in laundry.

When Captain El had discovered the young woman’s talent for keeping linens brightly clean and smelling of lavender, she offered her a job in Goodrum’s laundry.

Within weeks, she’d been promoted to managing the business and had begun attracting the patronage of the wealthiest families, even when they were in residence at their country estates.

They’d send their most delicate clothing to Goodrum’s by mail post carriage. Damn the cost.

And then something inexplicable had happened.

Dickie had performed a favor of apparently such enormous service to the Duchess of Chelmsford when she was the former Captain Eleanor Goodrum, that he’d exacted a promise instead of his usual fee.

He’d made her vow to ensure that Olivia would be given the opportunity to have a coming-out during the Season when she came of age.

As far as Olivia was concerned, she’d have been happy to continue on indefinitely as a laundress extraordinaire at Goodrum’s.

She’d never even considered marriage, after the terrifying childhood she’d endured.

Her expectations of the sort of life she’d one day have were minimal.

Shelter, warmth, a full belly were luxuries she and Dickie had never imagined when they were merely trying to survive on the streets of Seven Dials.

Yet here she was, living in a duke’s mansion, waiting for an exclusive modiste to clothe her from head to toe in preparation for an adventure she wasn’t even sure she welcomed.

At a light tap of the door, she said, “Come,” and their Graces’ head footman entered with an elegant white rectangle imprinted with black flowery script on a silver tray. When Olivia took the card, John Footman intoned, “Madame Clarot and her assistant await.”

“Please have them meet me in the small drawing room.” After John snicked shut the heavy door behind him, she gathered her warm, woolen shawl around her and headed toward the wide staircase leading to the formal level below.

W hen Olivia joined the modiste and her assistant, the two women were patiently waiting, measuring tapes draped around their shoulders and pincushions attached to their wrists.

A fragile-looking, thin white muslin dress lay carefully spread out across a blue silk settee.

The dress had elongated puffed sleeves from shoulder to elbow that tapered to fitted, silver-embroidered fabric that would encase her arms from elbow to wrist. A quilted border trimmed the hem, and tiny pearls followed a path about two inches above the border.

More silver embroidery accented the bodice.

When she entered the drawing room, both women sucked in a shocked breath.

“What’s wrong?” she demanded, wondering what social transgression she might have committed.

She knew the two women were aware of her previous vocation of laundress to the wealthiest members of the ton.

Madame Clarot had in fact called upon her many times to fix disastrous stains and rips in some of the ton members’ finest clothing.

By tacit agreement, and no doubt generous bribes as well as threats from the duchess, the two women had been sworn to silence on the matter of Olivia’s former calling.

The two women had worked with her on numerous occasions in the past, so their current shock at her appearance could have nothing to do with what they already knew about her past.

Madame Annalise Clarot hastily covered for their shocked silence. “Good morning, mademoiselle.” A younger apprentice had been sent to take Olivia’s measurements several days earlier preparatory to the rapid construction of the dress designed for her come-out ball.

Madame and her partner Marie were meeting Olivia to finish off measurements and fabric choices for her extensive wardrobe for the Season.

“ Pardonne-moi ,” Annalise continued, “but your eyes…your eyes… c’est magnifique .

” Annalise turned quickly to Marie, and the two exchanged an odd, knowing look.

“Now we know which colors to choose for the rest of your wardrobe for the season.”

“One encounters such striking, deep blue eyes but rarely,” Marie added, before the two women exchanged a second look full of meaning.

Olivia could swear something was off from the way the modistes were reacting, but she was too nervous about getting her wardrobe right to waste time interrogating them.

“How much will this wardrobe cost?” Olivia believed in coming to the point as quickly as possible. She refused to weave around the May pole in her dealings with tradesmen.

“How much does perfection cost? What is the right match with a paragon of a gentleman worth?” Madame Clarot threw her hands wide in what Olivia was certain was meant to be an exaggerated French gesture.

Olivia frowned before giving the two women a strained eye roll. “I don’t want to be a burden on His Grace.”

Marie twisted her mouth into a self-deprecating moue and feigned ignorance. “Her Grace said no matter the cost of the wardrobe, she’ll never be able to repay you for making her laundry such a success.”

“Oui,” Annalise added. “Everyone in London wants to know how you get linens so white whilst still keeping that mysterious lavender fragrance.” She added, “One of our clients in Surrey swears that just opening a box from your laundry makes her whole house smell like spring breezes, even in the depths of winter.”

Olivia groaned inwardly. What were these two women up to? She could swear their entire conversation was designed to keep her from asking too many questions about their earlier demonstration of shock when she’d first entered the room.

And then all the talk about her laundry, actually El’s laundry at Goodrum’s, sent a sharp twinge of guilt straight to her gut. She worried about all of her regular customers. Were the men and women she’d so carefully trained over the last year truly ready to carry on her high standards?

Of course, she also worried about the most precious bundle of laundry she received and personally watched over each week: the clothes of her old friend and recent “Peeler” hire, Will Beckford. She seethed whenever she thought of his new job of which he was inordinately proud.

The Peelers had to work seven days a week as well as remain on call day and night. And…they were expected to wear their uniforms at all times in public, even when not working. As such, managing his laundry was damnably difficult. She’d taken over that onerous part of his chosen profession.

Olivia had personally purchased a spare uniform for her old partner in crime.

When she’d gone to Moore & Co. on Old Bond Street to obtain a second pair of white trousers for Will, she’d been appalled at the price which the newly formed police force officers had to take on as personal expense if they desired an additional set of trousers to maintain cleanliness, beyond what they were issued by Sir Robert Peel.

In addition, they were allowed only five days off a year, which included all holidays.