Page 4 of The Worst Spy in London (The Luckiest With Love #2)

A nnette sighed and rolled her neck, massaging her temples as she did so. The alley behind her mother’s shop was clean, but the scent of old rubbish and even a bit of piss—at the entry of the alley, near the haberdashery of course—filled her nostrils.

It had been a long, long day. Thankfully it was the fashionable hour now, around five o’clock in the afternoon, and most of their customers were now promenading down Rotten Row.

The front room girl was closing up, rewinding spools of ribbons and lace that had spilled everywhere and straightening the fashion plates back into their proper baskets.

The seamstresses gathered in the workroom, bent over their laps with a needle and thread.

Annette’s mother allowed them to use nearly double the number of candles that many other seamstresses limited, and Annette was grateful for it.

Although she hadn’t stayed late to stitch last minute orders in a very long time—it was wonderful to be the daughter of a wildly successful modiste rather than an employee—there had been days in the far past that she’d worked beside her mother, nearly going cross-eyed while stitching lace onto a cuff or hem.

A noise came from the entrance of the alley, like a boot scraped against stone.

Annette’s eyes snapped open and she peered into the shadowed alley. “Hello?” It wasn’t one of the shopboys at the haberdashery or the cigar shop. The millinery, too, had no one outside its faded green door.

Out of the shade, a tall, lean figure emerged.

His shoulders were narrow, and he strolled toward her with his hands in his trouser pockets.

A cap slouched over his forehead. Annette squinted, trying to make out the man’s features.

He seemed young-ish. His lengthy strides ate up the distance until he paused only a few feet from her.

Annette tensed, reaching behind her to grab the latch on the modiste back door. “What do you want?”

The young man snorted, then replied in French. “Is that any way to speak to your cousin?”

Annette gaped at him, her hand falling off the latch in her shock. “Excuse me?”

He frowned at her. “Do you not speak French?”

Indignant at the scolding tone, Annette switched to French, though she lowered her voice and glanced around to make sure they were alone. “Who are you? What do you want?”

The young man stroked his budding mustache. “I am Philippe Gerard de Morand. Our fathers were brothers.”

Annette’s eyes widened. “No, everyone died.”

Philipe pursed his lips. “ Almost everyone. Our fathers were executed, but a servant saved me and my older sister. We’ve survived by hiding from the citizens and watching as Napoleon grows to power.”

Annette was not convinced, but she nodded all the same.

“I don’t know what you’re doing in London now, especially with a war between our two countries.

But I can call my mother to meet you. She will want to know that some family survived.

Are you moving to England?” She paused. “Or…are you fighting for Bonaparte?”

Disgust rippled across his shadowed face, making his lips curl into a sneer. “That Corsican bastard? Never.” He straightened. “We are related to the Bourbons, cousin, and we will never bow to that peasant.”

I see. Annette blinked at the force of his reaction.

Her mother hated Bonaparte and anyone who represented the New Regime. But when Bonaparte had declared himself the emperor? Annette had never seen such rage and disgust cross her mother’s face. It was six years ago, and Annette would never forget it.

“That hypocrite!” she’d seethed as she read the broadsheet. “That bastard. Capitalizing on the revolution, just to become a general and then declare himself the emperor? He is not a Bourbon. He will never be my king.”

It seemed like Cousin Philippe felt the same way. If he was actually her cousin.

“I slipped across the Channel in a smuggler’s boat.” He grimaced. “The trip from the coast to London was even worse. These English.”

Irritation flared. “Why are you here, in a back alley, in the middle of a war, talking to a cousin you’ve never met?”

He wants something from me. Annette didn’t trust it.

No one just took a jaunt across the Channel in the middle of war for an amusing diversion.

She eyed him. She didn’t know if he really was her cousin.

And that impassioned little speech about Bonaparte, though it would endear him to the British side of the fight, felt a little too radical, too political for just a family reunion.

“Listen.” He took a step closer, dropping his voice.

Nearly colorless blue eyes peered at her, and a narrow, sharp chin bobbed above his cravat.

“You’re a modiste. I’ve seen wealthy ladies streaming in and out of the shop all day long, talking about a ball.

It is to be a grand occasion, oui? With many ambassadors and foreign diplomats. ”

“Maybe,” Annette hedged. Was he speaking of the Duchess of Westbrook’s ball?

His eyes gleamed. “The broadsheets say that the Russian diplomat and his entourage will attend the ball. Do you know if it is so?”

“I am unsure,” Annette said honestly.

He huffed. “Can you find out? Surely you hear all sorts of things from the ladies who frequent your shop. Not only lords’ wives, but other women who are from politically active families.”

Annette stared at him. “I don’t know you. I’m not even sure if you truly are my cousin.”

He flashed a very charming smile. “Come now, cuz. Surely you see a family resemblance? Our noses and our hair?”

“What do you want exactly?” Annette asked, growing impatient.

“The Corsican dog’s alliance with Russia is growing thin. It needs to be snapped completely.”

Annette frowned. “So you can weaken Napoleon?”

He nodded triumphantly.

“So you can, what, put a Bourbon back on the throne?”

He nodded again, so certain he was speaking with family and an ally.

Annette sighed. “Is this some clandestine military operation, or did you just decide you needed to act for the glory of France?”

He glared at her. “I do need to act for the glory of France. Many of us feel this way, and I have the support of many back home.”

Annette looked at him for a moment, weighing him. “I cannot help you,” she finally said. “I am a seamstress. I only sew lace on gowns, and our customers do not gossip about politics.” She turned to go.

“I’ll meet your mother for supper,” he said smoothly, stepping so close he loomed over her as best he could. “Tell me your direction and I will be there at eight tonight to meet your mother and prove myself.”

“I’ll speak with my mother first,” she said. “Good day.” Then she opened the door and slipped through before he could stop her.

She locked the door behind her and listened as Philippe pounded on the other side.

“Let me in! We’re not finished talking.” His voice was muffled by the door, but Annette could hear his frustration.

“Yes, we are.” Annette turned and walked away.

That evening, Annette watched her mother across their small dining room table. Their butler placed the next dish on the table and stepped back against the wall. He was their only manservant, but Annette’s mother enjoyed the formality that came with wealth and higher status.

It was a far cry from Annette’s first memories in Cheapside, where her mother had pawned her jewelry to pay for a weekly laundress and charwoman.

Now, with a shop on Bond Street that catered to the wealthiest members of the ton , the Morands could afford a large townhouse in Soho.

It wasn’t as fashionable a district as it used to be, with music halls and theaters creeping in at the edges, but it was still near Mayfair, and there was still a strong French presence among the neighborhood.

Annette took a spoonful of soup, then broached the topic. “Maman.”

Maman looked up. “Oui?”

“I met a man in the alley today.”

Maman’s brow creased in confusion. Annette stifled a laugh.

Her mother knew that Annette had never been interested in boys and likely never would marry.

Maman hadn’t pried more than that, but she’d also encouraged Annette to remain single so she could be a wealthy and independent woman once Maman passed on her inheritance.

Marrying would tie her inheritance back to the whims of a man.

“He says he is Philippe de Morand,” Annette added.

Maman’s eyebrows smoothed and her mouth opened in surprise. “Interesting.”

“He claimed to be my first cousin. Is that true, Maman? I thought you said everyone perished under the guillotine.”

Maman nodded thoughtfully, taking a sip of wine. “I had thought so. If Michel’s children survived, I didn’t hear of it.”

Annette shrugged. “He said a servant saved him.”

“The boy’s name was Philippe,” Maman agreed slowly. “But why is he here? Is he defecting from Bonaparte? I do not understand.”

“I don’t understand, either,” Annette admitted. “He wanted to come to our home tonight and have supper with us. But I wanted to speak with you first.”

Maman’s eyes narrowed. “What did the boy say?”

“Something about he’d always support the Bourbons’ right to the throne?” Annette swirled her spoon in her soup.

Maman nodded in approval. “That’s right. A true Morand, then.”

Annette tried to remember the rest. “He wanted to know gossip about our clients. What they say to each other during fittings, especially information about the Westbrook ball.”

“That I do not like,” Maman stated firmly. “Modistes keep their customers’ secrets. It is how we stay in business, by garnering their trust. Running our tongues for no good reason will hurt the business.”

Annette fidgeted in her seat. “I didn’t agree to it. He didn’t tell me where he’s staying though, so if he wants to speak with us he must be the one who finds us.”

Maman sighed. “Boys.” She cleared her throat and gestured delicately to the butler to remove their dishes. “The girls are sewing until midnight to get some of the dresses fitted for tomorrow. I expected Mr. Hughes at the millinery to drop off his display today but it never arrived.”

Annette rolled her eyes. Mr. Hughes owned and operated the millinery nearby, and he and her mother had set up a system of displaying samples of their products in one another’s shops to drum up more business.

It was an effective method—when Mr. Hughes remembered to send his ribbons and bonnets.

“Do you need me to go tomorrow and pick up his hatboxes?”

“Yes, my little cabbage, that would be lovely. Thank you.” Maman yawned, her long, slender fingers covering her mouth. “I’ll be relieved when this ball is over.” She eased her chair back and rose.

Annette chuckled as she stood from the table. “You’re just excited about the prospect of a duchess noticing your gowns. You want this ball to send a flood of new customers to our front door.”

Maman’s lips quirked, for she was too proper to grin. “Perhaps, my little cabbage. Perhaps.”