Page 2 of The Worst Spy in London (The Luckiest With Love #2)

M arie-Jeanne Annette Louise de Morand, daughter of the deceased Baron de Beauvilliers, groaned as she peeked through the heavy velvet curtain separating the back workspace from her mother’s staging front room.

So many customers today. And they were all so needy . An exclusive ball was approaching, and suddenly every woman and her daughter needed a new gown. The ball was in three days, and many of the women were here for final fittings.

Maman’s hired seamstresses had stayed in the shop late, stitching for hours, to get everything done on time. Annette had nearly gone cross-eyed from the lace she’d basted onto a bodice, and even Maman was trying not to yawn.

Sometimes the popularity of the shop being authentically French seemed like a curse. A Bond Street shop was the pinnacle of any business owner’s dreams, and while it kept Annette and Maman not only secure but also wealthy, it also caused a lot of stress.

Ladies fluttered around the front room, gossiping with one another, leafing through fashion plates and comparing their latest fripperies. Annette noted two countesses, the daughter of a marquess, and the wives of several extremely wealthy bankers.

“I heard the Russian ambassador and his wife are coming to the ball,” one woman told another as she held up different bolts of sheer fawn brown chiffon to the sunlight streaming through the wide window.

“My husband, Lord Eldridge,” another woman replied, “knows the ambassador from their school days. I expect there will be several ambassadors there—Spanish and Portuguese as well.”

Several women cooed over new knotted lace that Annette had placed on display that morning. “Since the Duchess of Westbrook is hosting the ball, it will be a crush. Lilian, do you really wish to be seen in that jonquil trim? It makes you look sallow.”

“Pardon me, miss.”

Annette moved away from the curtain, letting the seamstress through with a box of prepared frocks.

She watched the girl pass through the curtain and sighed with relief that she was free to take a break because Maman had hired several young women for the Season.

Years ago, when Maman had first opened her shop in Cheapside, it was only the two of them able to sew and fulfill orders. How times had changed.

Annette yawned, then peeked through the curtain again.

One of the countesses looked down her nose at the seamstress. “Take those boxes outside to my footman. Why would I hold them?”

“Lady Cecelia,” another woman said to a girl barely out of the schoolroom. “What luck this shall be your first ball! The Duchess always hosts the most glorious events, and if ambassadors attend, it shall be quite the multicultural event.”

The bell above the door jingled, and two women—a mother and a daughter—stepped inside. The wide brims on their bonnets shielded their faces until the young woman glanced at the fashion plates strewn across the front counter.

Annette’s heart thudded in her chest, and it seemed like all the air was sucked out of the room.

It was her.

It had been nearly three weeks since Annette had seen her, and finally she’d returned.

Annette forced herself to breathe again as she soaked up every detail she could of Miss Damaris Dunham.

The young woman was tall and slender. So slender Annette could make out the points of her collarbone and wrists. Annette’s eyes narrowed. Had Damaris lost weight? She scarcely had any to lose. Had she been ill?

Annette worried her bottom lip, unable to bear the thought of Damaris in a sickbed.

Damaris wore a pale yellow frock that did nothing to help her complexion. Her bonnet, trimmed with ribbon-lace and a deep purple bow, framed light brown hair, large, expressive gray eyes, and the cutest nose Annette had ever seen.

“Excuse me,” Mrs. Dunham called, raising a hand to get one of the seamstress’s attention. “We’re here for our order. For the final fitting. We’re attending the Westbrook ball, you see.” She glanced around the room, as if waiting to see the reaction.

Annette hid a smile. The Dunhams had been customers with her Maman since they’d moved their shop to Bond Street.

She knew the Dunhams were well off, but Mr. Dunham was a solicitor.

He was in trade, just like Annette’s mother.

This was the most prestigious event the Dunhams had likely ever been invited to.

“Yes, madam.” The seamstress at the counter moved toward the curtain, and when her back was turned she sighed and rubbed her eyes.

“I’ll help this one,” Annette jumped in. “Why don’t you take five minutes?”

The young woman hesitated. “Are you certain?”

“Of course.” Annette smiled. “Take a few minutes. Hide in the back, behind the new shipment of Egyptian cotton. I’ll get their order.”

The seamstress’s shoulders slumped. “Thank you. I think I got four hours of sleep last night and the night before that.” Then her eyes widened. “I’m not complaining though! I’m very grateful to Madame Morand for this position.”

Annette set a hand on the girl’s arm. “You’re not complaining.

It’s just a very busy week. I don’t carry tales to my mother, anyway.

” She nudged her. “After a few minutes, you can fit Mrs. Dunham. I’ll take Miss Dunham at the farthest station.

” She turned and grabbed Damaris Dunham’s ballgown off the rack.

The off-white silk taffeta caught on her damp hands.

Draping it over her shoulder, she poked her head out and pasted on a cool, professional smile that hid the wild beating of her heart.

“Miss Dunham? Would you come with me?”

The young woman stood, her face serious.

Annette always wondered why it was so serious. Well, her mother had canceled a trousseau for her early this year. Maybe she was heartbroken over the failed betrothal.

Annette gritted her teeth at the hook of jealousy tugging at her innards. The betrothal is over, she reminded herself. Until the next one.

Damaris, unaware of the unsettling feelings making Annette’s life a misery, glided through the curtain that Annette held back for her, then made for one of the alcoves with stools and heavy curtains.

“The back one,” Annette murmured, watching the graceful line of Damaris’s dress flow as she walked.

Once Damaris stood on the stool and Annette pulled the curtain shut, Annette realized her mistake.

She was going to have to help Damaris dress and undress.

She gulped. She didn’t know if she could handle it.

Although Annette had preferred the female form and the female mind since…

forever, really, she could do her job without any sort of prurient interest in her clients.

Besides, most clients only stripped to their chemise and corset. But this was Damaris Dunham.

Annette couldn’t back out now. Everyone was too busy.

I can be proper, she told herself. I will only look where I’m supposed to. She hung the gown on a rack and went to undo the tapes and buttons that made up Damaris’s walking skirt.

Damaris sighed, facing the looking glass on the wall, and rolled her neck.

“Fatigued?” Annette asked, breaking the horribly tense silence. Her eyes met Damaris’s in the reflection.

Damaris smiled. “Is it so apparent?”

Annette shook her head, looking back at the tape she untied. “I suppose you’re busy with the Season going.”

Damaris huffed a laugh. “We’re both the daughters of tradesmen.

Do you want to know the true reason we were invited to a duchess’s ball?

My father began a contract with the duke to be his solicitor.

And the duchess wants this ball to be a crush.

My role is to be a wallflower. My mother’s too, though she pretends it is not so. ”

You could never be a wallflower. Annette slipped the gown and petticoat off Damaris, who stepped out carefully. She ignored the smoothness of Damaris’s skin and the mole just above her elbow. She certainly didn’t notice the dimple behind Damaris’s left knee.

“You wouldn’t be a wallflower if you ever went to a private ball like that,” Damaris said, as if reading Annette’s mind.

Startled, Annette looked up.

Damris stood in just her corset, chemise, and stockings.

Her slight curves made Annette think of a swan, and those thin ankles were shapely enough to get anyone’s attention.

She flushed, a rosy hue spreading across her delicate bosom and up her long neck.

Her eyelashes fluttered. “I–I’m sorry, that was likely improper, wasn’t it?

It’s just—” Her hand waved in the air, as if trying to conjure the words.

“With a bosom and figure like yours, you’d never lack for dance partners. ”

Now Annette was the one blushing, She snatched up the silk ballgown to hide her nerves. She had an ample figure. Her body type was the exact opposite of Damaris’s, actually. Damaris had noticed her bosom? In a friendly, fellow girl way? Or in a romantic way?

“Here you go,” she said, holding the gown open for Damaris to step into.

They fell silent, the rasp of silk against cotton and whalebone filling the small changing room. The air was hot. Annette tried not to watch Damaris’s graceful hands as she slid the gown over her. Annette tried not to be disappointed when Damaris’s skin disappeared from view.

Someone coughed on the other side of the curtain.

“Yes?” Annette called, beginning to fasten the tapes.

“Excuse me, Miss Morand, but there’s someone out back. Says he needs to speak with you urgently.” One of the seamstress’s breathy voice slipped through the crack.

Damaris’s eyes flew to Annette’s in the mirror.

Annette frowned. “Did he say who it was?” she called back.

“Just that he’s family.”

Family? Annette didn’t have any family. Only she and Maman left France in a smuggler’s boat under the cover of night during the Reign of Terror. She’d been five, and Maman had held her tight the entire crossing. Everyone else had died, including Annette’s father.

“Tell him it’s not a good time,” Annette called back. “I’m with a customer.”

“Yes, miss.” Her footsteps faded.

Annette focused again on Damaris’s ballgown.

With any luck, this gown would help Damaris catch some suitors.

She hated the idea, but she drew back and picked up pins and draped one of her measuring tapes around her neck.

“Very good,” she said. “Turn and I’ll start with the cuffs.

” She pushed all thoughts of Damaris’s warm skin and the strange message aside and honed in on her sewing.