Page 5 of The Worst Spy in London (The Luckiest With Love #2)

D amaris couldn’t hold back a smile as she stepped inside Hughes’ Millinery.

She wasn’t supposed to be out shopping without some sort of chaperone—whether it was the footman her father had hired recently or the upstairs chamber maid.

But James was moving the shelves in the pantry to Cook’s height so Cook would stop asking him to reach ingredients for her, and Fanny was taking her half day.

She’d convinced their coachman to take her to Bond Street for a couple of hours anyway.

She so rarely got out without her mother, and it was just so nice not to listen to her mother’s expectations for her.

She’d hoped to do some sketching by the Serpentine, but the weather was not fine enough for it and she didn’t have the time.

The bell above the shop dinged as she stepped inside, adjusting the infernal pink shawl she’d had in Surrey.

Rows of bonnets, turbans, and ribbons lined the shelves of the small shop.

A display table had feathers, silk flowers, and all sorts of adornments clustered in glass vases.

It was too early to be the fashionable hour for shopping, so the space wasn’t crowded.

The shop clerk, a young man with an unfortunate amount of pimples scattered across his pale face, was ringing up a patron with three other women crowded around a back shelf, murmuring to one another about the products.

Damaris spied some lovely lace gloves and wandered over to the small table laden with women’s pairs.

She stroked the delicate white lace, wishing she could buy something like that.

Her mother would say it was too fast, too bold, for someone like Damaris, and that would be the end of that conversation.

She examined more sedate gloves made of brown wool for several moments, then turned to see the ribbons.

She bumped into someone. “I beg your pardon,” she said, steadying herself and looking up at—Annette de Morand.

Her heart gave a little leap. “Oh, hello!” Her hand fluttered at her side as she resisted the urge to straighten her skirts, smooth her hair, do something to make herself appear more enticing.

Annette turned, her eyes widening as she clearly realized who she’d run into. “Miss Dunham. Good day. What are you doing here?” She smiled, revealing that little gap between her teeth and the dimple to the side.

Damaris shrugged. “Looking at bonnets.” Really, she’d had to get out of the house and away from her mother’s matchmaking ideas and her father’s silent frustration that still lingered from her jilting earlier this year.

Damaris had gotten over the insult almost immediately, but her father never let anything go. “And you?”

Annette glanced down at a large, white box in her hand. “Picking up sample products from Mr. Hughes. We sometimes display them, paired with our own work.”

“That’s clever.” Damaris inwardly winced. What an inane thing to say.

A beat of silence passed between them. Annette turned to go, but Damaris wasn’t ready to say goodbye yet.

“How’s your work? Is it terribly busy right now?” Another silly question. She bit the inside of her cheek. Why couldn’t she be interesting and pretty and oh lord , she would do anything to have a friend as special as Annette.

Annette turned back to her with a little laugh. “It is. We’re always quite busy throughout the Season, of course. But my mother is happy, and I enjoy seeing the creations we all sew together.”

Damaris didn’t understand fashion at all, but she could appreciate a pretty frock when she saw one. “I’d love to learn more about the process. If—if you don’t mind, I mean. When the Season calms down.”

Annette’s eyes sparkled, and Damaris felt an odd tug in her chest. She hadn’t thought she was envious of Annette’s beauty. But what else could this sensation be?

“Of course. I’d love to show you,” the young woman gushed. She glanced down. “Oh, you’re wearing your shawl.”

Damaris tried to hold back a grimace. “Yes.”

Annette stilled. “What’s the matter with it?”

She huffed a self conscious laugh. “Nothing. It’s just…

I took it with me to Surrey, to meet with the man who was supposed to become my betrothed.

I’m still not exactly sure how, but it went missing for a while and then the village publican’s wife gave it back to me.

It just brings back awkward memories I’d rather forget.

My mother picked this out for me today, otherwise I wouldn’t have worn it. ”

A strange look passed across Annette’s face. “I sewed that for you. One of the seamstresses was out ill, so I was the one who finished adding the fringe and then sewed the embroidery along the hem.”

“Oh!” Damaris’s body went hot, then cold. She flushed. “It’s beautiful craftsmanship. Forgive me.”

Annette shook her head. “Never mind. I understand how clothing can soak up memories.”

“Well,” Damaris said after a pause as she hunted for the right words. “I’m glad you told me. For now I will think of you when I see this shawl, and that changes everything.”

Annette smiled.

They spoke for several more minutes. Damaris relaxed and enjoyed the conversation, finding herself captivated by Annette’s intelligence and unique perspective.

Annette finally looked out the mullioned window. “I…I should be going.” She gestured to the box in her arms. “I should set these out.”

“Oh.” Damaris fought a blush. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to keep you for so long.” Foolish chit.

But Annette shook her head, her dark curls bouncing around her face. “I enjoyed our time.” She paused, biting her lower lip, then said, “I always enjoy our conversations. You should come by the shop more often. Or…perhaps we could meet at Gunther’s for ices sometime?”

“That would be lovely!” Damaris exclaimed, then glanced around the room, cheeks heating from the volume of her voice.

No one was glaring at her, so perhaps no one noticed.

“I would love that,” she continued in a much softer voice.

“Yes. I could probably get away on Thursdays most easily. And I can go early in the afternoon to avoid the crowds.”

Annette nodded as she backed toward the door. “After the ball, let’s set a time to do so.”

Damaris’s parents would not be pleased with this developing friendship.

They wanted Damaris to attend balls and meet young women in the aristocracy, or at least wealthy bankers and industrialists.

Heiresses, ideally. Annette was very well off—just like Damaris, actually—but she served the ton, just like Damaris’s father did. This connection would not be useful.

I shan’t tell them. Damaris clenched her jaw with the thought, then relaxed because Annette was still there, still in front of her, still smiling. “Let me get the door for you.”

They stepped outside together, and Damaris walked beside Annette the short distance to her mother’s shop. More of the ton was out now, beginning to stroll the streets and peer at window displays.

Damaris was attuned to Annette’s movement, even her breathing, at this moment in ways she’d never been with anyone else.

She’d heard other girls sigh over their beaus, but Damaris had never had even the barest flicker of interest in a man.

She’d originally thought the other girls were being dramatic in their adolescence, but strangely, the sentiment seemed to only grow stronger with age.

But now…all she could think about was the rise and fall of Annette’s bosom and the way her skirt shifted against her legs. What did her skin look like, under all that clothing? That…that wasn’t something one felt for a friend, was it?

A footman carrying a mound of packages walked past, jostling Damaris’s arm.

“Oof!” She frowned at the man’s retreating back. Then someone caught her attention. A man dressed in a nondescript brown coat and cream linen shirt and stockings followed them, only a step or two behind. Her heart rate sped up.

Bond Street was supposed to be very safe, but ruffians could be anywhere. His hair was touseled and the growing mustache made him look like a pirate.

“Cousin,” he called, reaching out for Annette.

Damaris glared at him, ready to bat his hand away with her reticule.

Annette halted so quickly that Damaris tripped on her own skirt trying to match the pause. “Philippe?” She turned, a wary look in her brown eyes. “What do you want?”

He smiled, closing the distance until he practically loomed over the women. “To continue our conversation. You asked your mother, did you not?” He had the faintest accent, so slight that Damaris couldn’t quite place it. He smelled…odd.

She glanced down and saw a smudge of something dark along his cuffs.

Beside her, Annette sighed. “This is not the time. Please go away.”

He clapped a hand to his heart. “You wound me, cousin.”

Cousin? Damaris finally put the pieces together. He was French. What on earth was a Frenchman doing here? It didn’t seem like he had immigrated long ago, either. That sharp, smoky scent on him made her nose wrinkle. Over the smoky scent wafted…rotten eggs?

Annette kept walking, and Damaris followed her. Suddenly they reached the cheerful sunshine door of the Morand modiste shop.

Damaris glanced back and forth between the cousin and Annette, not sure what was happening. It was distinctly uncomfortable to find oneself in the middle of a family spat. And he was still following them.

“Well this has been lovely,” Annette chirped, pointedly ignoring her cousin. Her eyes latched onto Damaris’s, and they softened. “I mean what I said about Gunther’s.”

Damaris’s chest expanded, and her smile took over her whole face.

“And I as well.” She could just envision it now: ice rendezvous turning to deep friendship, Damaris letting Annette experiment with new frocks, using Damaris as a model, perhaps attending a few public musicales together, if Damaris could convince her parents to allow it.

She’d not had a bosom friend in years. Not since finishing school in Bath five years ago, and that girl had already married—a baron’s fifth son, no less!

—with two children. So they weren’t as close as they used to be.

Hopefully Annette would be in her life for a long, long time.

Annette shut the door in Philippe’s face.

Disgruntled, he turned.

Damaris was already heading toward where her coach should be waiting on her.

“Pardon me, miss.” His English was very good.

But what is he doing in London? Her mind conjured up all sorts of nefarious ideas. Is he a spy?

Philippe leaned closer to Damaris—too close—and the stench of rotten eggs washed over her.

Damaris discreetly placed her fingers below her nose to filter the smell. It was like he’d rolled in them.

“You’re my cousin’s friend?”

Damaris nodded warily.

“Can you pass a message along for me?” His wide, pale blue eyes turned soft and beseeching. “Please, miss? She is my only living cousin. My family has been searching for her for years. But she is suspicious, and all I want is a chance to have a meal with her and my aunt.”

Damaris did not want to wade into family drama.

“Just a message, that’s all,” he pleaded.

Damaris sighed. “Oh, very well. But that is all I shall do for you,” she warned. It would give the perfect excuse to see Annette again instead of waiting until a new dress fitting.

“Tell her to please meet with me. I’m renting a room above the bookshop Monosyllable on Holywell Street. I’ll be there all day tomorrow, but I’m running out of time. It’s urgent that I speak with her. Do you understand?”

Damaris blushed at the mention of Holywell street.

She didn’t know for sure what was so scandalous, but she was reasonably certain men went there for vulgar drawings.

And she’d never heard of a bookshop called Monosyllable.

It was clever, though. “Yes.” She nodded.

“I will endeavor to pass along your message.” It gave her a perfect excuse to see Annette again.

He relaxed. “Thank you. Tell her it’s very important. I’m trying to get a job and I need her information to know where to look.” He doffed his cap. “Good day, miss.”